Cake

“How do you afford your rock 'n' roll lifestyle?”. John McCrea, voice and soul of Cake, has developed his own personal path to rock 'n' roll: one where what matters most is taking your time, sticking to your own choices without worrying about chasing the hype of the moment; a path where the freedom of your own label beats a major-label deal, and where a direct relationship with your audience is worth more than a piece in “Rolling Stone”.

You can tell right away from how he presents himself on the Magnolia stage in Milan, braving the mosquitoes of the Idroscalo lake to the accompaniment of an ironic “Rocky”-style fanfare: beer can in hand, striped shirt and the inevitable baseball cap covering his thinning hair, he's the perfect image of the “Big Lebowski” next door. Sure, his beard has gone greyer since the days of “Fashion Nugget”. But that deeply slacker spirit, full of humour, has remained exactly the same: the very spirit that made Cake one of the sturdiest (and most underrated) pillars of American indie-rock in the Nineties.

McCrea is a humble guy, one who has no interest in putting on airs. He steps up to the microphone over the romantic notes of Vince Di Fiore's trumpet and launches into an old song by country outlaw Willie Nelson, “Sad Songs And Waltzes”. Wobbly, rusty and aching, just the way only Cake can deliver it. Then McCrea picks up his ever-present vibraslap, whose shiver of Latin percussion has always branded the Californian band's songs, and starts playing around with the best-known moments (and a few lesser-known ones too) of a repertoire now twenty years deep.

The formula is a well-oiled machine: McCrea scrapes at the strings of his acoustic guitar, setting the cue for a rhythm section with a pulsing groove, over which Xan McCurdy grafts his electric forays and Vince Di Fiore his mariachi flourishes. And the crowd's response is always warm, whether it's the festive mood of recent tracks like “Mustache Man (Wasted)” or the melancholy of old classics like “Frank Sinatra”.

Tracks from the latest “Showroom Of Compassion” dominate the middle part of the evening: McCrea introduces “Federal Funding” with a jab at the American healthcare system and jokes about life on the road over the rolling gait of “Bound Away” (“I'm trying to come home, but I'm here with the band”). His lazy, dusty voice draws out every word as if chatting with friends, wrapped in the dance of coloured reflections from the mirrorball hanging over the stage. Then again, only his regular-guy smile could capture the heart's sense of inadequacy with the nostalgic simplicity of “Mexico”: “I was high, but she was the sky”.

But more than anything, McCrea manages to build a rapport with the crowd that goes well beyond the usual ritual “Ciao Milan”. He isn't afraid to remind everyone how good it feels to sing together, leaving fake snobbish poses behind: over the notes of “Sick Of You” he splits the audience into “escapists” and “angry ones”, inviting everyone to “take a stand” and join in the two-part chorus; on “Jolene” he gets men and women competing to outsing each other; and at one point he even runs a proper quiz, with a little tree to plant and lovingly raise as the prize: playing the local Gerry Scotti of the evening, McCrea only calls on the most disciplined fans (for the record, the question was about the sculptor behind the “middle finger” statue placed in front of the stock exchange in Piazza Affari... anyone know the answer?), and makes the blonde winner swear to plant the tree and send him a photo afterwards. Because Cake don't want mere spectators, but real fellow travellers.

In keeping with the philosophy of savouring things slowly, the band takes a break between the show's two sets. When they return, it's to string together all their best-loved songs, from the funky strut of “Never There” to a sarcastic “Italian Leather Sofa”, whose jazzy flourishes draw an enthusiastic response from the crowd.

Cake don't skip the famously well-known cover of "I Will Survive" (the one that launched the band's career), but what really sweeps everyone into the final chorus is the irresistible bassline with which Gabriel Nelson announces "Short Skirt / Long Jacket": and everyone ends up channeling their inner Chuck Bartowski, within the walls of our daily "Buy More", dreaming of a girl with "a mind like a diamond" and "nails that shine like justice". Heading home with the urge for more shows where even indie bands still know how to make people smile and sing along with the same modesty and irony.

(Photo by Andrea Leone)

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