Veils

And so it was that the spell keeping us apart from the Veils was finally broken.

We couldn't even begin to count how many times, over ten years of Italian tours, we missed them by a hair's breadth — sometimes because of travel mishaps on this writer's part, sometimes because of dates that seemed almost ridiculously convenient but were announced and then cancelled, much to our dismay. We would have wanted to see them in 2004, when the name was genuinely hot, with over-the-top praise in the music press and it seemed we were in the presence of a band with all the right generational credentials. It wasn't true, of course, a lie built up skilfully but without any real malice. Because the talent, in the end, wasn't a mirage. Raw as you like, with the androgynous face of a Finn Andrews still far ahead of any notion of maturity. A promise to be tested, as we waited to see which direction he'd choose, and in what spirit. We would have wanted to see them when the sophomore came out and critics didn't hide a certain bewilderment, turning their backs on the band with the same rashness with which they'd once celebrated them. The band overhauled through a string of departures, the look overhauled too with that wide-brimmed hat never to be abandoned again, a new honesty in their approach that, against the grain, we liked quite a lot. Then, as is only natural, these guys too dropped off our radar, only to reappear last year with a still very good fourth record that went largely unnoticed.

The opportunity for this belated first encounter with them came courtesy of a tiny provincial festival, Fuoriluogo, organized on a shoestring but with great intelligence among the hills of Monferrato in San Damiano d'Asti. Forty kilometres, a perfectly manageable distance under the "no more excuses" rule, and a free event to boot: ideal conditions in practice, though this time the weather seems determined to get in the way. There isn't a specialist weather site that doesn't forecast a full-blown storm for that evening in southern Piedmont. The fact that the national football team's World Cup debut falls right after the gig doesn't help our resolve, but in the end we decide to risk it, come what may. On the way there we drive through a pitch-black, menacing weather front, but once we arrive we're unexpectedly greeted by clear skies, along with the news that as a starter we'll get to see the very Italian Green Like July in an almost home-turf set (Alessandria isn't exactly far away). After a stroll through the town's pleasant centre and some moderate indulgence at the generously stocked refreshment area set up by the local tourist board, we're ready to begin, one eye fixed on the stage and the other still nervously checking the sky.

The performance by the Piedmont band is the kind that makes peace with you and calmly dissolves any tension. Andrea Poggio, the frontman, leads a sharp outfit and knows it. He risks coming across as pretentious with that top-of-the-class swagger, when he announces that "Movin To The City" could well appeal to the Veils themselves, or that "Agatha Of Sicily" is a "really beautiful" song, but in the end it's just one register among many and we find it hard not to warm to him: plenty of irony and a few flashes of disingenuous self-deprecation season a musically excellent set that swings between Americana and pristine jangle-pop, cleverly keeping the boundaries blurred. The best tracks from "Four-Legged Fortune" and "Build A Fire" crop up repeatedly as the atmosphere gradually turns more informal and relaxed, and the sound noticeably improves after a slightly muffled start. Not bad for an outfit who went to study with Mike Mogis in Omaha, yet are still looking for the recognition they deserve back home despite the general approval of the specialist press: the big leap forward would seem to be within reach, though there's no guarantee it will actually happen — quite the opposite, in fact. In any case, theirs was a thoroughly enjoyable live set, perhaps the best we've seen them play in these years touring around Italy, and a rather apt choice, not just for the setting but also as a pairing with that evening's headliners.

And here come the Veils, after a quick stage reset. We'd already spotted a few soundcheck photos online, back when we were anxiously checking what weather conditions awaited us, and everything is confirmed except for the sunglasses, which have now sensibly been put back in their cases. The lineup is the one from the most recent album, with keyboardist Uberto Rapisardi — a professional model before he was a musician — triggering an involuntary flashback to a young Evan Dando on the cover of this or that magazine. It doesn't take us long, however, to realize that the crowd's attention — a decent turnout, all things considered — will be trained squarely on Andrews at centre stage (though this writer makes sure not to overlook the striking bassist Sophia Burn and her aggressive attack), and on the understated elegance of his presentation: white shirt, dark trousers, loafers with no socks, and that inevitable hat. Finn is the very picture of a gentle soul, and when he speaks he certainly doesn't contradict the label. Live, though, he tends to come alive and practically drags his band along with him, into territory far more straightforwardly rock than the studio records would suggest. What really strikes us is the cleanness of a sound that's full and looming yet crystal clear, never drowning the melodic ideas in noise even as it stays fiery and muscular, without a single dip or wobble.

The spotlight, needless to say, falls on the songs from "Time Stays, We Go", whose live rendition transcends that western-tinged aftertaste and opens up into something broader and more surprising, with "Sign Of Your Love" and "Through The Deep, Dark Wood" among the standouts. Andrews's voice takes us by surprise. It's clear, unmistakable, just as it is on record, and it won't falter once all night. Not that the singer doesn't put it to the test — quite the opposite. The second most plundered record of the night is "Nux Vomica", the album that had people crying betrayal, and which is also the most vibrant and jagged of the Veils' career. As many as five tracks are pulled from it, the best ones for once too, with a touch of allowable excess given free rein to the frontman's rawest, most restless and nervous side, well represented by the closing howls over "Not Yet" (though the surging waves of Rapisardi's piano in the gorgeous electric squall of "Pan" are no less impressive). The title that claims the prize for most convincing performance, though, is "Birds", played at lower volume but with staggering intensity in the delivery of the thirty-something from Camden Town. He doesn't forget to greet and thank the crowd that made it to San Damiano despite the looming match, and seems to particularly enjoy the red wine (local, we imagine) that makes only a brief cameo in his glass before vanishing for good.

A little over an hour of music, in the end, but without rain (bar one fleeting spatter at the close) and with nothing to complain about, given the setlist, the tone and the sheer expressiveness of the Veils' performance. If we're honest, one small grumble does rise up inside us when we see the five musicians leave the stage. It's just a minor quibble, a whim, the one thing missing to make the gig exactly as we'd pictured it in our rosiest expectations. "Lavinia" is missing — the song that started it all, the one that was on heavy rotation when the band burst onto the scene. It's with this small itch at the back of our mind that we join the chorus calling for one more song, even though time before the national team's match is tight and we're sceptical by nature. Finn, though, doesn't let us down. He comes back out alone, now completely barefoot, and gives us, voice and guitar, a version of that song that's perhaps not for the ages, but fragile and unguarded as never before — and exactly what we want to hear before plunging into the euphoria of the sports bar and then, later, into the clear night of these hills, to see the stars again.

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