Neapolis Festival

Intro

Tonight's programme is a recap, you've seen it over and over, step by step... you'll remember every part of it.

With these words begins, in 1991, Oliver Stone's controversial tribute to Jim Morrison and his Doors.

July 15th brings the second day of the Carpisa Neapolis Festival, the hugely successful Neapolitan event now in its tenth edition. Sure, it's called a festival, but the atmosphere in Fuorigrotta feels more like a guided tour through the Tate Gallery of rock and roll.

Arena Stage and Metropolitan Stage are the roomy classrooms for a refresher course spanning almost forty years of popular music history, complete with special (?) guest lecturers. A shame, though, that the organisers were so firmly convinced the paying spectator possesses the gift of ubiquity. Indeed, it's not entirely clear why they decided to schedule Robert Plant, Stooges and Santana (obvious headliners of the whole festival) on the same day, thereby penalising Mouse on Mars, who found themselves playing to a vanishingly small crowd caught between the end of Plant's set and Iggy Pop's explosive start.

When a guy pushes into the crush of the Stooges crowd he asks me: "Is this the first song? I was watching Mouse on Mars." The "song" is "T.V. Eye", and I don't know how to tell him he's missed, above all, "I Wanna Be Your Dog", "Loose" and "1969".

Tonight, unfortunately, there's no room whatsoever for interesting new acts (Liars cancel their show for an alleged bereavement), because no matter how up-to-date you might be, Iguana is simply not to be missed for anything in the world.

Tonight's set is a recap, you've seen it and seen it again step by step... you'll remember every part.

Arena Stage

9.00pm

Robert Plant & The Strange Sensation

When John Bonham dies tragically, life becomes very hard for Led Zeppelin. The first to try his luck as a solo artist is Robert Plant, who from 1982 onward strives to recapture his lost magnetism, but albums like "Pictures At Eleven" and "Principle of Moments" only get the job half done.

There's real pleasure in hearing that leonine roar and grit again, but Robert soon has to give in and settle for a middling course between tasteful pop and electronic temptations.

On the eve of 2000, however, comes a delightful and unexpected late flourish: Plant forms the Strange Sensation. On the most recent album, "Mighty Rearranger", the band is put to expert use, and surprisingly the singer comes out with, perhaps, his best record without Page, Jones and Bonham.

The album fully captures Plant's drive, caught between recent ethnic-music leanings and clear Zeppelin-esque touches, picking up the thread of "III" and giving it new life 36 years on.

Sure, the glitter, the open shirts and the skin-tight trousers are long gone, but beneath that hideous canary-yellow t-shirt, Robert has never been closer to the Zeppelin legend.

Credit goes above all to his band, and in particular to Justin Adams's extroverted lead guitar and the solid, versatile rhythm section of Billy Fuller and Clive Deamer.

There's no comparing him to his old bandmates, but Robert has certainly found the best outfit to carry his music - and the weight of those four immortal albums - around the world.

Plant comes out fired up, buoyed by the warmth of the Neapolitan crowd, and the almost metal riff of "Tin Pan Valley" floods the arena much like "Immigrant Song" once did in the '70s. The crowd's response is almost an ovation, even though few actually know the song. In truth, they're all here for one reason, and Robert knows it perfectly well.

It's no longer the torn scream it once was, but "Hey, hey mama said the way you move, gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove" literally sets Naples ablaze.

"Black Dog" is played at full throttle, and Plant doesn't skip the usual call and response - this time directly with the crowd. "What's this shit?" he asks, laughing.

"Freedom Fries" is introduced with a brief remark about Bush and Blair's politics and unfolds into an orgy of guitars and Indian drums.

As security scrambles to pull fans off the dividing staircases, Plant sips something from a black cup. Many swear it's Jack Daniel's.

The instrumentation shifts as the band gears up for the acoustic section of the show. “Going To California” and “Friends” gleam like gems in the warm night air, amid ethereal mandolins and raga-tinged inflections. Plant dusts off his “Morning Dew” before setting the charge on the percussive delirium of “Four Sticks”.

The high point of the show comes just before the end, when Robert takes the band in hand for a stunning rendition of “Gallows Pole”. The folk gem turns into a bittersweet ride over Indian melodic inlays, and the singer dares to push for the highest notes. The crowd watches open-mouthed, rapt.

During the encore, Plant opens calmly with the litany of “The Enchanter” before sending a fully standing arena into a frenzy.

The guitar kicks in with a drowsy blues line, but everyone has already recognized the words. “Whole Lotta Love” explodes in its raw, untainted riff and, for a moment, it truly feels as though no time has passed at all.

The show is over and a standing ovation greets the musicians' bows. As they head up towards the exit, a fan sporting a t-shirt tells his friend: “We've just seen the hard-rock revolution, now let's go see the punk one”.

And, sure enough, before anyone has time to forget the chords of “Whole Lotta Love”, Iggy Pop can already be heard screaming: “Looooseeee”.

Metropolitan Stage

10:30 pm

Iggy Pop & The Stooges

At 58, Robert Plant looks more like a calm, paunchy middle-aged gent than a Rock firmament star. Despite a life of excess and dissolute living, dark figures like David Bowie and Lou Reed have by now turned into relaxed retirees with nothing left but the urge to play.

One man, however, remains who still can't find the word “decline” in his mental dictionary, and that man is James Newell Osterberg Jr, better known as Iggy Pop.

Nearly sixty, the Iguana of Michigan looks as though he's stepped straight out of a movie, a cartoon, or, if you prefer, straight out of the deepest reaches of hell.

Skinny, low-slung jeans, long blond hair soaked in sweat: time seems not to have worn him down at all, except in his athletic, twisted, nervous frame. The moment he steps onto the small stage, Iggy starts leaping about in the grip of epileptic convulsions, as if to prove to everyone that it's not only cats who get nine lives.

The Asheton brothers are literally overshadowed by his animal magnetism, which practically slaps the whole surrounding area into submission. Ron (guitar) is heavyset and stares down with a vacant, almost sad look, while Scott (drums), baseball cap on his head, pounds away with his slack, worn-out body. The only one keeping pace with Iggy's frenzy is Mike Watt (bass), who throws himself heart and soul into his mighty power chords, leaping from side to side and twisting his mouth as if possessed by some demon.

The Stooges waste no time, and the show kicks off with an opening salvo that will make your wrists tremble.

Compared to the original “Funhouse” setlist, the two savage electric jolts of “Down On The Street” and “Loose” are swapped, with Iggy thrashing about like a man possessed as he leaps onto the nearest amplifier he can find.

“Hi, Neapolitans! We’re the fucking Stooges!”. It's almost unbelievable, the energy with which he shouts into his roaming microphone, while most of the crowd wonders whether it's really 2006 or 1970. His voice is still warm, powerful, cracked, filthy, rotten, and the Bo Diddley trance of “1969” hits just as hard as it did on their debut album.

When the gorgeous riff of “I Wanna Be Your Dog” kicks in, the crowd erupts and everyone starts screaming the chorus, like some sadomasochistic coven. Iggy howls into the mic and spits violently at the crowd. There's no let-up, and “TV Eye” thunders in with its sickly attack while Iggy's trousers start sliding down a few inches.

The frontman grabs the mic and speaks (oddly, without a single “fucking” thrown in) to open the only calmer moment of the show: “Sometimes you feel up and sometimes you feel down, sometimes you feel gold and sometimes you feel dirt”. And so begins the anarchic, devastated blues of “Dirt”, and a puzzled look crosses a few faces, so much so that one spectator asks: “Ma chi è questo? E' fuori di testa!”. Clearly he came here for Santana.

Almost as if in response to that compliment, Iggy waves the front rows up onto the stage. No one needs to be asked twice, and within minutes it looks like some deranged, drugged-up version of “We Are The World”.

Neapolis security (if you can call it that) really isn't happy about this, and some of them start swinging belts. Iggy helps a small dark-haired girl up and shouts: “Fascisti! Andatevene a lavorare nelle discoteche!”.

It's total delirium: some jump around like they're possessed to the driving rhythm of “Real Cool Time”, while others even try to hug and kiss him, risking a hard shove from the many security guards in the process.

It's true that Iggy Pop starts singing “No fun, my baby, no fun”, but the kids up on stage are ecstatic, even singing the nihilistic chorus along with him.

“Ok, dance is over” warns the Iguana, worried he might end up falling straight down, crushed by the adoring crowd he himself invited up. After all, this is still punk we're talking about.

The Stooges are joined by Steve McKay with his warped, suburban sax for the almost-funk romp of “Funhouse” and the scorching “1970”.

By now the crowd is thoroughly fired up, and even the new songs “Little Electric Chair” (which sounds like it was pulled straight off “Raw Power”) and “Skull Rings” are met with delirious enthusiasm.

As expected, the Stooges skip over anything from their magnificent third album, making room instead for “Little Doll” and “Not Right”, before closing with a second rendition of the anthem “I Wanna Be Your Dog”, this time with McKay's sax.

The show ends and ears are ringing like steam trains, but nobody cares, because many have just witnessed one of the most energetic and ferocious concerts they'll ever see.

Arena Stage

Midnight

Santana

For many people here at Neapolis, Santana is the real headliner of the day, and indeed the only t-shirts on sale are the ones bearing his name. There's barely time for a relaxing beer after the Stooges' scorching performance before the Mexican shaman kicks off his midnight show.

The arena is packed to capacity everywhere you look, and the atmosphere is completely different from the previous acts. Plenty of mothers and girls in skimpy tops start dancing to the intro of "Jingo", as if they were on the beaches of Rio de Janeiro.

Someone cheers on the national team's victory with the now-stale anthem by the White Stripes.

Santana's expanded band is fronted by Andy Vargas, a dead ringer for Ricky Martin in a tank top and maracas, who roams the stage urging the crowd to sing and dance non-stop.

The international hit "Smooth" gets everyone's hips moving, riding the powerful, Caribbean-flavored rhythm section of percussion and Latin sarabandes.

Going from "I Wanna Be Your Dog" to this is a shock that's hard to recover from.

The days when Carlos set Woodstock ablaze with his warm, enveloping rock are long gone by now. He's been hooked on the duet craze for years now, and these days one of his concerts isn't all that different from a salsa dance hall.

Luckily, Santana still loves his old fans and leaves plenty of room for tracks from the celebrated "Abraxas" and "Santana III".

The intro of "Batuka" morphs into "No One To Depend On", just as "Taboo" turns into "Hermes".

His guitar style is as unmistakable as ever, and when he launches into the sad, romantic "Samba Pa Ti", the crowd applauds warmly.

There's also room for the blues, with John Lee Hooker honored via a gorgeous choral version of "Boogie Chillum" (interspersed with "Let's Have A Party", not unlike what Led Zeppelin used to do).

Carlos's band sounds thoroughly seasoned, especially the thunderous drumming of Dennis Chambers, the burly, mustachioed drummer who seems to have three hands during the mile-long solo in "Soul Sacrifice".

The concert closes with "Into The Night", and after introducing the musicians in a choked voice, Santana heads off alone toward the backstage, leaving his band to finish the show.

Thunderous applause. Benny Rietveld's bass strikes up that unbearable summer football anthem once again, and as the crowd chants "po po po", the house lights come on.

The feeling is that, after watching Plant and, above all, Iggy Pop, even someone like Santana comes across as dull and lacking in energy.

"When the music's over and the lights have gone out," everyone heads for the exit with just one thing on their mind: the living, pulsing history of rock and roll.

Ride the wave of great music

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