Neapolis Festival

Over the two days, the organizers of Neapolis Festival - the only festival in Southern Italy that, over nine years of existence, has always maintained more than decent standards - decided to take some risks. Packed into two evenings and three stages were rising young names from the Italian indie scene, sought-after names from the international indie scene, and some big classics. The stew is made digestible by lineups planned down to the minute. Lineups that will inevitably end up disappointing someone, regardless. Like Afterhours, who didn't feel like playing outside the arena at the same time as Kraftwerk, and justified their withdrawal by bringing up bogus contracts and broken promises. Meanwhile Kasabian graciously accepted the thankless situation of having to play, due to various accumulated delays, in front of fewer than a thousand spectators at two in the morning. And this on the very day of the unexpected string of attacks in the heart of the City.

July 7th

A Toys Orchestra are playing on home turf, or almost. They're from Salerno and, with their second work "Cuckoo Boohoo", have by now established themselves as one of the most closely followed names on the Italian indie scene. With their lo-fi approach somewhere between Calexico and Grandaddy, experimental touches reminiscent of Blonde Redhead, and excellent melodic openings recalling Sparklehorse, they manage to immediately win over the small crowd present with the schizophrenia of "Panic attack #1" and Ilaria's fairy-tale, bewitching voice on the dreamy "Locomotive". The other voice, Enzo, with a more Beatles-esque and melodious timbre, leads the suburban melancholy of "Peter Pan sindrome", arranged with commendable originality, between keyboards and futuristic effects. Of a rather different tone is the bouncy post-grunge irony of "Modern Lucky Man". These guys will be famous.

It's then the turn of Battles, a quartet founded by John Stanier, the glorious drummer of Helmet and Tomahawk, who managed to put out three EPs and an LP in under twelve months. Theirs is a post-rock whose experimentation is pushed to the extreme of deconstructing the song form, with instrumental suites driven by leader John's unstoppable drumming (not by chance, the drum kit - with a cymbal that grabs everyone's attention because it's mounted at an implausible height...), over a groove-carpet of funky-dub and a keyboard as peculiarly acidic as a Hammond organ. Worth noting are the deranged "Dance" and the Zappa-esque (in intent) "B + T". The problem is the monotony that inevitably emerges from the limitations of the keyboard-and-voice setup. With a good singer, they'd be a band worth following much more closely.

On the cover of the recent compilation by Canada's Nomeansno you can read "How fucken old are NoMeansNo? Give it up grandads!", in a spirit of self-deprecation. And it's genuinely impossible not to smile watching this trio of somewhat weathered, more than just graying, fifty-somethings thrash about like twenty-year-olds in their post-punk laced with hardcore, funk and garage. Great energy combined with great technique. But even they run out of ideas and originality after half an hour.

Piano Magic have, for ten years now, been producing excellent work while remaining undeservedly confined to the underground. Their recent Disaffected is one of the finest records of the first six months of 2005. Glen Johnson's voice has a very magnetic, expressive timbre that can't help but recall Gore's. But the risk of coming across as just another illegitimate offspring of Depeche Mode is avoided thanks to melodic ideas that sit somewhere between shoegaze and Bark Psychosis. Very evocative, nocturnal atmospheres, from the twilight-hued (never more fitting given the time of night) "You Can Hear The Music", with its sudden, thrilling final explosions fading evanescently into the night, to "Night Of The Hunter" - of an overwhelming beauty. "Love & Music", on the other hand, is a less gloomy dream-pop that seduces instantly, even those who've never heard of the band before. They close in classic post-rock tradition, with feedback and endless stretches. Truly gripping.

One would want to stop and savor the blow, but there's no rest. It's time to rush straight to the arena, where Resina's set - the project best known for the electronic mind behind 99 Posse, Marco Messina, and his manipulations between trip and psychedelia - is about to wind down.

Because after that, it's their turn. Kraftwerk. The true heroes of the night. Ralf Hütter, Florian Schneider (the diehards), Henning Schmitz and Fritz Hilpert. The Düsseldorf quartet who upended the music scene of the '70s, reinventing pop with the rigidity, minimalism, precision and repetitiveness of electronic language. The reflection of a society in which man, even back then, was already unwittingly beginning to lose his individuality in a human experience reduced to the level of a machine's experience. And what better opener than "The Man Machine"? Introduced by the unsettling robotic voice that made them unique and inimitable, as the shadows of the four androids appear one after another on the curtain. The curtain opens. The arena is packed by now. And it's pandemonium. Black suits and ties. Stations matched to their outfits, revealing only the glow of their computer monitors. The rest of the equipment remains a mystery. Behind them, a giant screen with visual tricks that break apart, interlock and cross the song titles. It's only the beginning of a long audio-visual hypnosis. The set follows the running order of the live album Minimum Maximum, released not long ago, which tries to gather the key moments of their long career. The more dance-oriented, melodic, polished touches, from the cybernetic "Planet Of Visions" through the three reprises of "Tour De France" to the vintage, decadent "The Model", with the visuals scrolling on the screen always essential and emotionally striking. As in the pulsing electronics of "Vitamin", where the lyrics alternate with an obsessive projection of pills and tablets, and in "Numbers", where it's instead digits and figures that represent the unit to be broken down and decomposed. Naturally not to be missed is the long-awaited motorway ride of Autobahn. ⟦Q1⟧, which many twist into singing FunFunFun. But that's fine too, because while some react in a daze, others dance and thrash about like they wouldn't even in the worst club in Posillipo...

The theme of travel keeps recurring, in the futurism of the evocative train journey of Trans Europe Express, from the Champs Élysées in Paris to the late-night bars of Vienna, all the way to their native Düsseldorf, complete with improbable encounters with Iggy Pop and David Bowie. "Radioactivity" is the most unsettling moment, with its evocative, inquisitorial robotic voice.

The sound, needless to say, is utterly flawless, maintaining excellent standards of clarity and intensity throughout. When the curtain reopens for "The Robots", the skeletal mannequins come on stage, while the long final stretch is all danceable, on the emblematic "Music non stop". The oxymoron of electronic coldness rendered warm and alive.

Lcd Soundsystem have unleashed one of the most enjoyable records of the current international scene. Their cocktail of acid-house, post-punk perversions and chaotic urban contaminations in the style of Liars leaves its mark. They shrewdly wait for the end of Kraftwerk's encore before taking the stage. Drum machine, an enviably varied percussion kit, and, in a breathless sequence, every track from their dazzling debut album. Even the most drowsy and dazed (by Kraftwerk) can't stay still. From the oppressive hypnosis of "Beat Connection" to the club-ready "Tribulations", it's one continuous jolt. The hardiest and most seasoned fans kick up a confused but utterly committed pogo during the frantic "Movement" and "Give It Up". Impossible to skip is the potential TV-jingle hit "Daft Punk Is Playing At My House". For the skeptics out there, James Murphy proves to be a singer worthy of the name. A vibrant voice, delivered in a psychedelic-soul key. He carries the show with charisma all the way to the dead-end tunnel of "Yeah".

But it's not over yet. The last band to take the Metropolitan Stage, Kasabian. After the endless soundcheck led by the most heckled backliner of the night, due more to his age than to any English reserve ("Get back to NoMeansNo! Grandpa! Go retire!"). Due to some technical problems they're forced to cut four songs from the setlist. They still manage to close out this first day's endless marathon on a high note. The show opens with the interlude "Pinch Roller", which leads into the murky "I.D.", where the spotlight belongs to Chris Edwards's powerful bass, definitely the least flashy of the group's good-looking members. Forever suspended between Primal Scream, brit-rock and their own electronic ideas, the vocals alternate between Tom Meighan's more pop, adolescent timbre and the angrier, more assertive one of guitarist and songwriter Sergio Pizzorno (clearly of Italian descent, and author of all the songs). The sense of déjà vu is obvious in the unintentional cover of Radiohead's "Just" that is "Cutt off", or in the interlude lifted from "Three Imaginary Boys" within the enveloping rhythm of "Processed Beats". The night's real TV-jingle hit, "L.S.F.", is recognized by everyone. I decide it's not all just MTV, plagiarism and hype. There's no question that, for a debut act, they've written songs with genuinely effective melodies. Just think of the irresistible "Reason Is Treason" and "Club Foot".

It should also be added that at least they, Englishmen from Leicester, remembered to remember. The seemingly carefree postmodern beat of "Test Transmission" is dedicated to London. But the show must go on.

July 8th

Hood are another band arriving at Neapolis with ten years of career behind them, though still practically unknowns, and, above all, a really great recently-released album, "Outside Closer". Expansive, spacious, ethereal atmospheres. They closely recall the most experimental Radiohead and Air. Despite several technical hitches and a time slot not exactly suited to vibrations of this kind, they hold their own. The modesty of the red-haired Adams brothers, Chris and Richard, leaves its mark too, and can only be repaid with applause of encouragement and approval. With a strong melodic vein, they dig up old tracks while introducing new ones, among which the irresistible "The Lost You" stands out above all.

For Marlene Kuntz, the situation isn't exactly ideal. Playing part of the set overlapping with Tom McRae and the other half overlapping with Tori Amos... And, as if that weren't enough, some people are already starting to grab the best spots in the arena for the grand finale. But they couldn't care less. Right on schedule, with no tricks or strategic delays, they take the stage. Another display of humility for anyone still harboring doubts about Cristiano and co.'s attitude. The new lineup, with Gianni Maroccolo on bass and Rob Ellis on keyboards, is by now tightly knit, and after the usual opening with "Bellezza", they hit the accelerator with the irrepressible "Canzone di domani", greeted with the same ovation as the other two tracks pulled from the first part of the show off "Catartica", the violent "1°2°3°" and the inevitable "Festa mesta", now slowed down into an almost new wave rhythm that nonetheless fails to rein in the crowd's usual all-out pogo. Cristiano and Riccardo torture their guitars like back in the days when it was common knowledge they could only make noise. There's a touch of nostalgia in the air. Special mention also goes to "Primo maggio" and "A fior di pelle", which might make some listeners turn up their noses on record, but live they're electric. The new, evocative "Amen" and "Il solitario" open the second, more restrained part of the show. Rob Ellis's contribution proves increasingly decisive in the arrangements, the vocals are on point, and the rhythm section doesn't miss a beat. The classics "Nuotando nell'aria" and "Ineluttabile" show a rediscovered intensity and emotional charge. But the best moment is yet to come. "E poi il buio" (a track particularly suited to this time of day) and "Schiele, lei, me" (without bass and drums). The ten most thrilling minutes of the whole show. Cristiano, theatrical to the point of leaving you breathless, screams, gestures, despairs. Maybe Nick Cave really did keep his promise to come watch them after his soundcheck, hidden away somewhere, and he's giving it his all to put on a stellar performance in the eyes of his self-declared idol.

But the crowd wants to jump again. And they arrive more overwhelming than ever: "Cenere" first, then "Sonica", driving home this ambivalence at the heart of Marlene Kuntz. "L'inganno" closes out the night set. Due to time constraints, there's no encore. A special appearance by Warren Ellis (Cave's violinist, who contributed to "Senza Peso") was expected, but Cristiano's inspired, terrific form quickly wipes away any disappointment. Found again.

Tori Amos seems to want to do everything in a hurry. From the moment she makes her entrance, almost humble and intimidated, running onto the stage. Her outfit is more suited to a garden party than a concert. She performs without any collaborators. Just her. Her stool between piano and organ. As expected, the set opens with "Original Sinsuality", one of the (few) standout tracks from her latest album, "The Beekeeper". But her unmistakable timbre, shaped by austere lighting effects, immediately creates a magical atmosphere. The volume is a bit low, and many are more focused on finding the best spots for what's to come, but she, impassive and thoroughly professional, seems oblivious to it all. Luckily, "Crucify" arrives. Then "Sweet The Sting" and "Amber Waves". Enchanting. The evening is enriched by a little gem: a whispered remake of Prince's "Purple Rain". As soon as she sings out the famous chorus, everyone applauds. She stares at us. She probably grasps the situation and tries to wrap up the evening in the best possible way. Dreamy renditions of "Cars And Guitars", "Spring Haze" and "Barons Of Suburbia" follow. There's barely time for one last round of applause before she quickly slips away, making room for the hero of the evening.

The arena is already buzzing with excitement as the three semi-villains who accompany Nick Cave in his solo shows take the stage: Warren Ellis (leader of Dirty Three) on violin, Jim Sclavunos (ex-Sonic Youth and Cramps) on drums, and Martyn P. Casey on bass. When the Prince of Darkness makes his entrance amid the furious intro of "West Country Girl", reworked in a diabolical key, the excitement turns into frenzied enthusiasm mixed with awe. Because being just a few metres away from another towering figure of the last twenty years of music - despite a certain distance created by the excessive gap between the lower pit and the stage - is an almost mystical experience.

"Abattoir Blues" calms the agitation, but a constant back-and-forth of moods is clearly on the cards. He unleashes his bluesman qualities in full force. And his distinctive, almost baritone timbre shines on the thriller "Red Right Hand", where sudden noise jolts, driven by sharp blows on his piano keys, hit like hallucinatory flashes. Jolts that then settle back down, returning the rhythm to its nocturnal torpor. Still seated and, seemingly, calm, he offers a desperate "Wonderful Life", which explodes in its finale amid the slashing blows of the elusive violin. A storm is expected, but instead one of the most romantic and relaxed moments arrives: "Babe, You Turn Me On", dedicated to his wife Susie. Because it's worth remembering that his life of excess and dissolution between London and Berlin is now just an old, cautionary memory. Cave is by now a faithful husband, with a wife and children, on a personal, deeply sincere mystical path, anything but calculated or artificial. His introspective turn began with "The Good Son", from which he pulls the lyrical "The Ship Song" and "The Weeping Song", where the absence of Blixa Bargeld's counter-vocals in the chorus is made up for by Ellis's narrating violin, still hunched over, back to the audience, absorbed in that instrument that seems to be a genuine extension of himself. Nick feels the distance from the crowd. Between the two masterpieces, in terms of performance and mood, from the first half of his latest album - "Messiah Ward" and "Cannibal's Hymn" - he slips in the subdued "Rock Of Gibraltar" (it's curious to see him clutching a piece of paper, reading the corrected, revised lyrics like the rawest of newcomers) and tries to get closer to the crowd. Someone manages to climb over and leap towards the stage. Security doesn't intervene at first, then rushes onto the stage to remove the persistent intruder. He responds with a sarcastic "Take it easy, brothers". This dampens the mood slightly, but it's quickly recovered with another reworking, this time of the delicate "Henry Lee", transformed into a ruthless, macabre chant. The funereal "The Mercy Seat" is met with a roar, made all the more powerful by the grief-stricken desolation of "Mercy", which introduces it. Desperate. Moving. Harrowing. It leaves you breathless. A ghostly silence falls over the arena. It seems on the verge of exploding at any moment, but instead fades away, segueing into one of his most acidic and abrasive recent compositions: "Hiding All Away", where blues meets the murkiest, most perverse noise.

On "God Is In The House", one of the most representative tracks of his mystical turn, he asks for silence. His voice seems to break into sobs in the whispered ending. "Hallelujah". More eclectic than ever in the range of his vocal tones, he once again proves himself to be one of the finest singers alive today. The truce can't last long. The tribal rhythm of the possessed Jim and Martyn ushers in the apocalyptic chaos of "Tupelo". He, lean and agile as if twenty years hadn't passed at all, thrashes about and leaps from one side of the stage to the other. A collective fury that clouds the mind.

The encore opens with "The Lyre Of Orpheus", where he asks for the crowd's help on the "Oh mama" backing vocals. Then a much slowed-down "Stagger Lee", which, truth be told, leaves a slightly bitter aftertaste. But there's consolation in the anguished closing solo, where the violin's own Hendrix continues to astonish, at points playing it as if it were a guitar. Then coordinated tolls of bass, piano and drums for one last set of chills. It's the thoroughly wicked hypnosis of "Jack The Ripper". The enveloping accompaniment of the three semi-villains, combined with the vocals, shapes a raging fire into a nightmarish atmosphere. It's the final storm before the closing calm. The collective fury turns into anesthesia. A virus that shuts down the senses. Recovering from the daze - and this isn't just a figure of speech - will take quite a while. Only those who have seen Nick Cave live at least once can truly understand.

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