Netmage 09

This edition of Netmage 09 was slightly subdued, or perhaps just routine, to avoid being too harsh. Still, it maintained the decent, historically consolidated level and the collaborations that by now guarantee a certain reliability, even if a touch predictable. Let's be clear: there are very few events of this caliber in Italy. So a policy that tries to combine artistic quality with a substantial audience turnout, without becoming needlessly elitist, definitely deserves support, and that's always welcome. Still, in this writer's opinion, there remains a notable divide, a substantial difference not just in languages but in approach, between the various performances; we should confess that we only attended the first two nights, missing the third to visit the huge pavilions of Artefiera, and we candidly admit that the performance that struck us most was the monstrous set from a veteran like Keiji Haino.

But let's take things in order. On the first night, in the more interesting Mangrovia section, after the macabre, amused imagery of Camilla Candida Donzella, who was in charge of dressing the entire event with her visual-art work, we start right away with a trio that shows real promise. Serene and focused in front of numerous diabolical machines, Pete Swanson, ex-Yellow Swans, appears alongside John Wiese and Liz Harris. In just over forty-five minutes the sounds merge relentlessly into a storm weaving together noise, post-industrial miasmas and electronic gusts that only they manage to control and render with real effectiveness; a furious, gusty piece orchestrated in particular by the machines of the musician behind "Soft Punk," a nerd who personally sells his own works at the merch table with a friendly expression, alongside Swanson's mean little grimaces, looking like a big guy with a Midwestern lumberjack look. All of it topped off by Harris's vintage tape machines, as she works hard to keep things as accessible as possible. A noisy symphony orchestrated by people who clearly know what they're doing.

Right after, from Cleveland, Ohio, the trio Emeralds materializes on the small stage. They too, over forty-five minutes, armed with moog, guitar and sequencer, offer us a handful of sounds with a subtle psychedelic fragrance that, frankly, we find soporific. Muffled vocals, long space-guitar flourishes and the usual keyboards make for a performance that really doesn't go anywhere. But in their defense, they're young and still cutting their teeth.

With a change of schedule we're moved to the larger Sala del Podestà, and we wait with anticipation and no small amount of curiosity for Keiji Haino's performance. The sprite from the Land of the Rising Sun makes his appearance in his usual all-black outfit. He makes things clear right away. The set begins with a long, violent vocal mantra bouncing between two microphones, a chilling, chameleonic display of sheer force; then he picks up the guitar and it's sonic delirium onstage. An exhausting, draining display from a seasoned noiser: like a small valkyrie growing ever more powerful, he hurls burning blows like flaming blades, putting our poor, battered ears through the wringer. Then he moves to the machines, using them like a berserk theremin, punctuated by drum hits recorded on the spot that form the backbone of the performance. It almost feels as if the Melvins-esque ghost of Dale Crover has materialized, someone playing drums as if it were a distant echo, with a slow, inexorable, spiritual drumming style. Here you get the distinct sense that you're witnessing a rite, a rock ceremony that crosses the boundaries of music tout-court, without falling into all-too-predictable improv-noise clichés. Over an hour and a half of a performance that sweeps away all our insecurities and reconciles us with the sacred right to have fun through experimentation, being fundamentally the work of a singular individual, one of a kind in the whole world. In short, everything else pales almost pitifully by comparison…

The second night opens with a curious, brief set staged by a pleasant discovery in the Live Media Floor section. The machines of Rotterdam-based Frenchman Pierre Bastien, filmed and projected behind him under the name Kinetic Syncopators, are about as honest and pleasant as a hazy electronic music show can get. A dignified, honest discovery.

Right after, accompanying footage from the mysterious film by Belgian director Roland Lethem, the mesmerizing "Le Vampire de la Cinémathèque," the noisers The Skaters, a Californian trio, unexpectedly take the stage. A mysterious ensemble putting weird-folk ideas into practice with a vague raga flavor, filled out by rather fascinating and alien psych-rock repetitions. A successful experiment from the trio, who in total darkness give off a subtle, unsettling charm.

After a very brief pause, the near-stars of the night make their appearance. Growing, from Olympia but recently relocated to the far more stimulating Big Apple, here in trio form with Joe Denardo, Kevin Doria, and Sadie Laska's machines, stage a fairly routine electro-rock performance, steeped in effects-laden guitars and lo-fi electronics, paired perfectly with excellent vintage-flavored footage drawn from obscure B-movies; among others, we recognize a young Michael Ontkean, already a star of the "Twin Peaks" series, but the feeling is that we're looking at a clone version of the latest Black Dice, minus their entanglement with mutant techno; ultimately, nothing exceptional or innovative. There would also have been the open project Sunburned Hand of the Man in the Mangrovia room, and indeed we spot one of its members in the crowd, but the late hour convinces us to head home, given the biting cold of the evening.

The following evening we miss, among others, the performances of Mudboy and Black Dice, the latter already seen last year in a decent act at the Covo, also in Bologna, but as they say, it's hard to catch everything.

There's certainly a bit of a bitter aftertaste, notwithstanding the peculiarities of the Bolognese festival, and it must be said that it's not entirely the fault of the electronic happening, which remains a valid proposition nonetheless. The problem is essentially one of musical exploration, which, judging by these evenings' concerts, doesn't offer anything particularly innovative, and on the other hand we register a happy confirmation that an old fox like Keiji Haino literally wipes the floor with all the new noisers of the acclaimed world scene, who perhaps lack a touch of personality. At times they seem almost sedated, in stark contrast to the neuroses and urgent needs of a musician like the Japanese artist, who serves us up a genuine, unrivalled lesson in musical class.

In short, plenty of confirmations, for better or worse...

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