TOdays Festival 2022

That the line-up edition of TOdays had a higher-than-usual share of new acts this year was no secret to anyone. A thoroughly justified choice, given the festival's core mission, namely to "offer space to artists who otherwise wouldn't have a place in Turin" (to quote the website). At most, one could question whether some of these new additions represented a risky fit within the lineup of a festival that has built a solid reputation mainly around rock-based contamination, but that was just bar talk, a pour parler among industry insiders that couldn't help but be tested out in the field.

Today, now that the kermesse has come to a close, we can say that the vision of Gianluca Gozzi (in his seventh year as artistic director) once again managed to deliver the hoped-for results in terms of attendance, which is no small feat when talking about a boutique festival — an event that, by definition, isn't aiming for tens of thousands of paying punters, but for a smaller audience seeking a less mass-market, higher-quality experience.

We're well aware that the TOdays project isn't based solely on cold accounting, having been born with the intent of also providing a cultural response to the urban discomfort of a neighbourhood like Barriera di Milano, but having the comfort of numbers allows for discussing future editions with greater authority at the institutional table.

As OndaRock, we attended TOdays again this year as media partner, following the event through the eyes of two of our writers.

What you're about to read is a chronicle of our impressions (in order, mine and then Francesco Pandini's), obviously not always coinciding, but which we hope are enough to convey the sounds and colours that passed through Parco Sempione on Via Cigna over these three late-summer days. Get comfortable.

(Photo by Paolo Pavan)

 

Black Country, New Road

After two consecutive no-shows on the Turin scene (TOdays 2021 and Circolo della Musica), I'm waiting for the now-sextet from London, also keen to track their artistic trajectory following the recent split from Isaac Wood, lead vocalist and guitarist on the two records released so far for Ninja Tune. The band made clear from the start that without Wood they'd be performing only entirely new material, so you can imagine my curiosity.

Once you get past the feeling of watching a school end-of-year recital (this year at TOdays the recurring complaints are about the clothing and lack of stage presence of the young artists, almost always deemed unfit for such an important stage, with all those excessive shorts and caps — as if the understatement of the new generations weren't also part of how they express themselves), it's easy to find much of what I've always loved about them, namely their ability to blend the usual array of references while staying firmly anchored to an atmosphere that to me recalls the Penguin Cafè Orchestra on steroids, post-rock style.

With vocal duties split evenly between Tyler Hyde (bass), Lewis Evans (sax) and May Kershaw (keyboards), the band gains shades that stand out for a lighter touch, though never veering into superficiality. The female contingent is now, at times, expressively dominant within the band, even though numerically equal to the male one, and this does good for a project that still remains partly parked in work-in-progress limbo but has every quality needed to emerge from it with elegance.

Black Drums

The real surprise of TOdays, at least as far as I'm concerned, since I knew very little about them. The Rome-based duo, formed in 2017, lands at the former Incet late in the evening of the festival's first day with the aim of condensing Andrea Barbieri's lucid, poetic madness (at times fairly sui generis) with Claudio Brioschi's dark electronic textures, a mix that's already infectious on record, thanks to structures and atmospheres that seem to spin a tribal/electro version of the Bristol sound à la Massive Attack, but even more explosive on the small dancefloor of the former Incet, thanks to techno undercurrents that make Barbieri's lyrics even more dystopian (though penalised here in terms of volume). Two distinct but equally fascinating experiences, which also show the project's enviable underlying coherence.

Squid

Probably the set that won over the most people, from industry insiders to the sizeable crowd of aficionados ready to revive moshpit customs for the occasion. Placed at the start of the second day's programme, the five young guys from Brighton signed to Warp put on their convincing hybrid of hyperkinetic kraut-rock, oblique guitar work and hysterical vocals (courtesy of singer/drummer Ollie Judge), live even further removed from the post-punk references they're usually lumped in with. A tight set, reaching its climax in the nearly ten minutes of "Pamphlets", a genuine sonic tank pulled from their debut "Bright Green Field", which unleashes a veritable cloud of dust in front of the stage.

Arab Strap

Watching Aidan Moffat and Malcolm Middleton perform with the band as the first act on Sunday, still in daylight, gives me the same feeling as running into someone in the morning who tends to stay up late and shouldn't really be there at that hour. But the emotion is stronger, because we're talking about the band that last year (after a full sixteen years of silence) produced one of my albums of the year, that "As Days Get Dark", predictably plundered quite heavily for the setlist, starting with opener "The Turning Of Our Bones".

The live rendition of the songs loses none of the evocative power of a project that has always crystallised pathos, disillusionment and desire in the wake of an electro-post-rock that is at once rough and sensual. Moffat delivers the lyrics narrating his life each time as if it were the last, while Middleton stays to the side dispensing arpeggios of luminous beauty, at times morbidly distorted. There's also room for tracks from the past which, despite shining with greater physicality, still slot perfectly into the Scottish combo's new course. The closing "The First Big Weekend" is there to ideally close the circle. Chills.

SPECIAL MENTIONS

Molchat Doma

They take to the TOdays stage during a genuine lightning storm that makes the moment undeniably dramatic. Nothing better to stoke the dark darkwave schemes of the Belarusian trio who rose to prominence after irresistible word of mouth on social media. A notoriously derivative proposition (with the main references being Joy Division's "Closer" and Clan Of Xymox) but perfect for representing the goth contingent of the crowd present (who are also treated to a quote from the Cure's "A Forest") and, in any case, fairly effective. Especially in the rain.

DIIV

I don't always keep up with bands that fall under the shoegaze banner, but I rarely miss their shows when I get the chance, especially here at TOdays. New York's DIIV, in this sense, represent a nice variation on the theme, because, while staying within the genre's confines, they manage to offer an above-average muscular version of it. As expected, guitars take centre stage, and the wall of sound impresses for its cleanliness and cohesion, despite a slightly subdued start in terms of volume. The setlist is half given over to tracks from the latest "Deceiver" (2019), thrilling in its execution and in the vocal delivery of Zachary Cole Smith and Colin Caulfield, buried (as is fitting in these cases) beneath their own amplifiers.

Yard Act

James Smith and his mates from Leeds are one of the new sensations of 2022 and arrive here for their only Italian date (alongside Squid and Molchat Doma). Their recent post-punk-driven debut, which hadn't particularly impressed me on record, proves explosive right from the start in this setting, and Smith's incredible flow at times even manages to break free from his obvious reference point (a Mark E. with the same surname).

The tracks from “The Overload” warm up the crowd just as they should, including a kid perched on his dad’s shoulders (ear-protecting headphones on) who will end up being the most photographed person in the place, and, despite a certain overall sense of repetitiveness in the material, even get most people dancing. It wouldn’t hurt if James tried to trim down the long, manic (if likeable) anecdotes he tells in English between songs, in front of an audience that speaks another language.

Tash Sultana

I get that the Australian artist has a genuinely huge number of global streaming plays behind her, and that a lot of people came specifically to see her, but in 2022, a set built entirely around the old trick of the multi-instrumentalist sampling loops and then toggling them on and off to build an arrangement — no thanks. Beyond the performance itself, which can be interesting from a purely technical/athletic standpoint (Sultana bounces like a spring from one side of the stage to the other every time she hits a switch on the loop station), any element of surprise (if there ever was one) runs out by the third song of the night. A third song that, incidentally, sounds just like the first.

FKJ

It starts dangerously like Tash Sultana, with the multi-instrumentalist-sampling-stuff technique, then shifts into a more innocuous (but at least played with the rest of the band) jazz cocktail à-la Radio Montecarlo. Nothing personal, but this kind of entertainment sends me straight to the bar for a drink. And the final impression is that it went on for three hours.

 

Primal Scream

Awaited here in Turin like the messiah on the promise of playing the whole of “Screamadelica”, they take the stage under the banner of Bobby Gillespie's outfit, who is the 3D cover of that album made flesh. “All confirmed, then”, you'd think. But no. The setlist is the usual one, covering the entire back catalogue of the historic Glasgow band, with a slight preference for cuts from “XTRMNTR”. “Screamadelica” shows up in the form of just two songs, the unmissable “Movin’ On Up” (with the sampled backing vocals) and “Loaded” in the encore (which feels a bit like it's being played out of contractual obligation), leaving everyone with the sense of having been part of one giant mass misunderstanding.

But Gillespie seems thoroughly at ease playing the role of bluesedelic-rock master of ceremonies, wielding the maracas with a nonchalance that evokes the Jagger/Sympathy For The Devil short-circuit right from the opening “Swastika Eyes”. He also seems largely unbothered by the fact that he's wearing an outfit that says the exact opposite of what's actually happening, but there you go. Complicating matters further, especially given my past as a sound engineer, is the audio coming out of the PA system — probably the worst I've ever heard at TOdays: halfway across the lawn, the balance between the sounds seems left entirely to chance, with a single-channel electric guitar running riot, rather graceless and shrill, and a drum kit that hasn't been panned at all.

Francesco, to whom I now hand things over, was in the front rows and swears the sound there was perfect. He'll be the one giving you a review of the Primal Scream show that's kinder than this one.

(Paolo Ciro)

SO THAT WAS THE LAST BIG WEEKEND OF THE SUMMER

(a report by Francesco Pandini)

A generic brand of Seventies power-pop, as if played by some nineties band drafted in for a cameo on some afternoon dramedy. That's how this year's Todays presents itself, with the sun plastered across the faces of Eli Smart and his band, all vocal harmonies and easy melodies, brought in at the last minute by the organisers to replace the far more celebrated Geese; something that doesn't bother you as you walk up to the stage, that entertains and occasionally gets your foot tapping. A decent aperitif for what's to come, in other words: but I don't drink.

The first weighty moment arrives right after. It's a pleasure to finally get to witness a performance by Hurray For The Riff Raff, which I'd been waiting to see live at least since the release of “The Navigator”, now five years old; today, Alynda Segarra and co. focus on the recent "Life On Earth", another well-crafted work – a strange hybrid of intimate pop and stadium spirit, analogue and synthetic, propping up politically dense lyrics. After a shaky start, the show takes off in a central stretch where Segarra – guitar slung over the shoulder – shifts the center of gravity of the sound towards a songwriter-driven indie-rock, somewhere near Katie Crutchfield (the beautiful "Rhododendron"), without losing sight of detail – riffs truly in good taste, the drums charting less obvious paths. It's the ending that delivers the greatest chills, with the torch song environmentalist anthem that gives the latest album its title, and "Rosemary Tears". It's here that the verve of the performances shows how Hurray For The Riff Raff's resistance isn't just an invitation to survive, but an explicit demand for what is owed. It's theirs, and it's waiting for them.

What follows is unexpected: it's the turn of the Black Country, New Road, the most significant among the contemporary bands of twenty-somethings who still take pleasure in derailing guitars – alongside the Black Midi, at the very least. I find their “Ants From Up There” an indie-rock album that's hard to beat in 2022 for intensity of composition and strength of personality in performance: the departure of singer vocalist and guitarist Isaac Wood right after the album's release, however, has cast a dark shadow over the future of an evidently hugely talented little orchestra.

I had no idea what to expect from this show, but I certainly didn't imagine such boldness: outside Wood, every trace of Midwestern Emo and classic post-rock seems to have vanished from the ensemble's sonic palette. Instead of insisting on a washed-out version of a recent past that can no longer be replicated, Black Country, New Road, just a few months after an earthquake, bring to the stage a complete song cycle, closer to musical theatre, chamber music and even ballet, in the way that – lacking a true lead voice – every instrument seems to add a mood, a colour and a tone to a collective conversation. Throughout the whole show there's a sense of fullness, joy and discovery that makes no secret of the uncertainty over which path to take, yet throws itself headlong into the unknown armed only with an unshakeable faith in the power of the collective. It also reveals individual personalities of real value – Tyler Hyde on bass, now the project's new focal point; May Kershaw on keys, who delivers a gorgeous piece somewhere between Julia Holter and Joanna Newsom, with the rest of the band sitting and watching her, as spellbound as I was; drummer Charlie Wayne, who doesn't so much accompany as huff, comment, chuckle, whirl. A delicate, gorgeous, unclassifiable show: just as it should always be.

Unfortunately I can't say the same about theheadliners of the first night at Spazio 211, Tash Sultana. For half an hour, before moving elsewhere, I watch a display of instrumental and athletic talent, something that has more to do with gymnastics than with art. The technical skill is undeniable, the use of the loop station admirable, but something far deeper is missing: the sense of a personal, sincere artistic expression. Tash Sultana has seen and heard everything and knows how to reproduce it down to the last detail, but doesn't seem to quite know what to do with it – other than, of course, lazily swaying heads numbed by textbook reggae or driving them into headbanging with some straight-kick accelerations.

The effect, carried over from the web that revealed this artist to the world, is that of an endless tutorial that conveys no emotion whatsoever. To me, at least, let's be clear: several hundred people, happily packed together, might well argue the opposite with some force. All I can think of is an old Robert Christgau review, in which, writing about Blind Melon, he concluded: “A quarter-century down the line, that’s what bizzers call progress – chops, and MTV”; mutatis mutandis, the same point could apply to Tash Sultana: just swap those two words for “loops” and “YouTube”.

Things go better, much better, at the former Incet, the historic home of the more club-oriented wing of Todays, brought back after three years' absence, albeit in a scaled-down version. The Black Drums set – the project of Andrea Barbieri (whispers and ravings) and Claudio Brioschi (beats and clangs) – may have lasted little more than half an hour, but it's half an hour worth its weight in gold. An alien substance, pulsing drowsily like dub and keeping time to a slowed-down techno beat – one moment and you find yourself in a narcotized remix of “Firestarter” or "Closer" – over which Barbieri's words unfurl, an unsettling timbre that worms its way into your ears and then deeper still, until it lights up your synapses. It's those words, sometimes elusive but – even caught only in fragments – evocative of an entire world, that lend the whole thing a wonderfully original occult quality. So much so that, at first, you might get the impression of a simple string of doom-laden prophecies like so many others, but no: they are, perhaps, just a new form of hope for a humanity forced to live underground. A kind of invitation to learn once again how to find your way by the stars.

It's hard for me to focus on anything else after that: reluctantly, I leave behind the dj set by Adiel after a couple of tracks, which also happen to have a remarkable physical impact. There'll surely be another time, a promise I make to myself.

I hadn't seen a face contort into such grimaces while singing since the days of certain videos by Andy Partridge o Joe Jackson; I hadn't heard a drummer sing in such an animalistic way since the near-reunion of the This Heat, since Charles Hayward crumpled up “Makeshift Swahili” on a stage at the Primavera Sound – all without missing a beat, of course. Ollie Judge, fittingly at the center of the stageis the beating heart and rhythmic engine of the formidable show by the Squid opening the second day. Their “Bright Green Field” was decidedly one of the new sensations of post-punk in 2021, and the live rendition only enhances its best qualities: a certain penchant for instrumental intricacy – honorable mention for left-handed guitarist Louis Borlase – that turns the songs into labyrinths able to stretch out for minutes without losing stamina; a manifest passion for dissonance no wave and a chilling kind of funk à-la Swans. Sarcastic and twitchy, furious and precise to the millimeter, the Brighton boys draw automatic applause and set off a huge pogo, the kind Todays hadn't seen in years – those who were there will remember the chaos during “Rattlesnake” with the King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard. It was sorely needed.

Too bad Los Bitchos lower the bar on ambition and fail to live up to the vividly colorful promise of theoutfit and the kind words spent by several industry insiders on the debut album “Let The Festivities Begin!”, produced by Alex Kapranos. A singular instrumental quartet of disparate origins – England, Australia, Sweden, Uruguay – Los Bitchos play around with genres: funk, disco, pop, psychedelia, cumbia, surf, and of course rock. The lightness of the record, a breezy Jonathan Richman negligible but still enjoyable and festive, gets lost live though: the impact leans too heavily toward guitar rock and ends up squeezing the band's playful side into rigid, ill-fitting structures, when instead some elasticity and a touch of real urgency – asking these four for nervous energy seems like a stretch – would help make the show something more than the drawn-out joke it ends up resembling.

Conversely, in a rollercoaster of quality and emotion, Belarus's Molchat Doma – hyped well beyond the merits of their own output – deliver a performance of the first order. Granted, they're the copy of the copy of the copy, a historical fake synth post-punk in which Ian Curtis sings with the New Order without forgetting the Depeche Mode – and not even the irony, given that at some point they even launch into theguitar of “A Forest”. But there’s definitely something more at stake tonight: credit goes to the tightness of the sound; credit to the trio’s stage presence, which owes a lot to the metal – here’s the detail that shows Molchat Doma are younger than the music they play: they’ve taken the entire Eighties in one go, without distinction; credit, finally, to a storm that threatens to break over the crowd several times before actually doing so, with thunder and lightning framing the stage in the style of the cover of “Ride The Lightning”.

Derivative but hyper-focused, Molchat Doma prove that even without any particular originality, passion and dedication alone can stage a quality show, one capable, in places, of inducing a genuine state of ecstatic rapture.

To close, FKJ. Short for French Kiwi Juice, the stage name of Vincent Fenton, the French multi-instrumentalist is a new bubble worth hundreds of millions of streaming which I had no idea about – and if that seems like small change to you, know that it’s almost the only currency still left on the recorded-music market: if you miss bartering, I can’t blame you. Once again, definitely not my cup of tea: however, unlike Tash Sultana’s set, with whom Fenton shares nothing except the use of loopthis live show is decidedly more refined and offers a easy listening which at least boasts a vision. On a nicely set-up stage styled like a living room – complete with sofas and lampshades – the musician moves confidently between guitar, piano and sax in a sampladelia of sampled voices; backing him up are a drummer, a bassist and a flesh-and-blood string trio. The effect, as far as I could tell, is that of a low-key, dim-lit soul/funk/jazz that draws heavily on the radio of half a century ago: well played, but too polished to feel truly engaging to my ears — this material wouldn’t sound out of place in the hands of Makaya McCraven.

I can't say anything else: it's the torrential rain, tonight, that's keeping me from listening to the set in full. And maybe that's just as well, given the next day's schedule.

And here it is, the closing Sunday that any fan had been fantasizing about ever since the announcement of the line-up: Arab Strap, DIIV, Yard Act and Primal Scream – ready, as the story went, to play the masterpiece "Screamadelica" in full. Four names capable of summing up key strands of Anglophone alternative rock – dance, psychedelia, post-punk, shoegaze, slowcore – across the last four decades. A mood euphoric for a day that promised to be unforgettable – and very well introduced, among other things, by a panel by the ever-engaging Maurizio Blatto, dedicated this time to Scottish indie pop: a tasty appetizer built around Orange Juice, Jesus & Mary Chain, Belle And Sebastian e Franz Ferdinand, without of course forgetting the exploits of Gillespie and Moffat.

The return of the Arab Strap last year, after a decade and a half away from the scene, was something we all welcomed with joy. Because, even in an age when the concept of an "ending" no longer seems to exist, "As Days Get Dark" didn't carry a single gram of the self-satisfaction and routine typical of these often lukewarm comebacks; instead, its tracks revealed Aidan Moffat and Malcolm Middleton's desire to once again deliver memorable songs – and, surprise, they actually pulled it off – on a par with what they'd managed to write from "The Week Never Starts Around Here" all the way to "The Last Romance", their unexpected farewell.

On stage, the songs overflow with distorted guitars, gaining in (post-)rock impact without losing sight of the originals – like Mogwai who have finally learned how to write unforgettable songs. The lyrics do the rest: a catalogue of casual sex to laugh or cry about the morning after, alcoholic excess, abrasiveness, sarcasm and melancholy that have been Moffat's trademark since the debut single "The First Big Weekend" – a quarter of a century ago now, a distance that sends chills down your spine.

An unlikely mise, but a more than likely showman: his studiedly boozy voice is powerful, crisp, in total control; his moves ironic and nimble despite his bulk; his words, clearly enunciated despite a thick Scottish accent, of real literary worth. An intensely packed hour, whose only flaw is unfolding still in broad daylight rather than amid the shadows it rightfully deserves; and which, from the sprawling "Fucking Little Bastards" to the heart-wrenching "New Birds" via the indie-rock roar of "Here Comes Comus!", shows how Arab Strap have become classics without ever really resembling anyone else.

Never been a huge fan of DIIV, and theirs was, for me, the least-anticipated set of the day – their studio albums have rarely gotten me excited, although I do find "Deceiver" more than convincing a proof. And while it's true that preconceptions sometimes save your life, in most cases they only end up shielding you from great discoveries: as much as Zachary Cole Smith's band remains a happy anachronism, their live set at Todays showed a cohesiveness of purpose and a maturity in handling sounds and dynamics that I wouldn't have predicted – after all, despite their teenage look, these guys are all pushing forty. A dream nineties never broken, the sound of the DIIV, revisited though by people who weren't old enough back then to form a band; the alt-rock of the first (the Smashing Pumpkins of "Siamese Dream") and second tier (stuff like Drop Nineteens) and the obvious shoegaze references played by the generation that watched Deerhunter di “Microcastle” e “Halcyon Digest”explode, perhaps the last albums that managed to offer a fresh perspective on music built on layer guitar-based. A great set with great sounds, and a finale worth framing with the gorgeous "Taker" and "Blankenship"; there remains a single, very personal reservation about some melodies sketched by riffs that exhaust their melodic idea within a few brief moments when they could instead do something more with it. But that, in the end, is one of the main traits of a genre that, as DIIV show, can still be played with conviction and passion, even if well past its sell-by date. And, above all, turned into a tool for self-therapy.

Even better, and even more unpredictably for me, were Yard Act, who took the stage shortly after. They're among the most talked-about names of the year and the badge of contemporaneity hype that this year's Todays can boast, and yet their debut “The Overload” had left me indifferent: there's been no shortage lately of people digging up Fall , and the album quickly ended up gathering dust on Spotify. Instead, their live show proved me wrong and turned out to be the best of the whole festival alongside Black Country, New Road's: Sam Shjipston's guitar is razor-sharp, Ryan Needham's bass grinds out pick strokes, Jay Russell's drums unspool groove excited. But it's obviously the vocalist, the eye of the storm: a shirt several sizes too big, sunglasses, nerd and anti-capitalist little devils shaken through his hair, James Smith is one of the longest tongues I've ever seen pacing nervously up and down a stage, flow an unstoppable flow that sweeps up both the lyrics – for the next record they've promised fewer words, but in the meantime these ones are remarkable (“Rich”, “Payday”) – and the stories told between songs – hilarious is the recap of an afternoon spent at the Museum of Oriental Art, for which he asks the crowd for a warm round of applause. A performance with an energizing effect that triggers chaotic dancing: maybe they don't yet have the quantity of good songs that the Shamehave, but their live show delivers the same adrenaline rush. In ten years, probably nobody will be talking about either band's records; but everyone will remember their live shows.

All that's missing is the grand finale, but what should be the icing on the cake, a foregone triumph, turns into a bone of contention – you'll have already read about it in the genre's biggest tabloids and among the feed most outraged. The Primal Scream arrive, Bobby Gillespie is dressed as “Screamadelica” and, when everyone's expecting “Movin' On Up”, “Swastika Eyes” kicks off instead. It could be a warm-up ahead of the full replay of the album that got acid house fans swapping drugs with psychedelic rock fans, but instead the provocation continues: the setlist focuses on “XTRMNTR” and “Evil Heat“, the sound is rock'n'roll torn to shreds with out-of-control guitar and Gillespie whipping up the crowd – the lineup is just bass, drums and keyboards/electronics, and all the backing vocals are sampled.

Before the show, the background playlist offered up dancefloor classics (even the legendary "Can You Feel It" by Mr. Fingers); now the malevolent spirits of "Kick Out The Jams" hold sway – and it's no accident that a "rama lama fa fa fa" pops up toward the end: Primal Scream are the MC5 of the rave generation. The dedication to Mark Lanegan, "Deep Hit Of Morning Sun", is an inexplicably moving psychedelic hallucination – Gillespie mutters it from some undefined elsewhere in memory of a friend, but it's clear he's thinking "that could have been me".

"Movin' On Up" finally arrives and everyone sings along – it really does feel like a collective epiphany dragging everyone out of the darkness; and then it's just more rock'n'roll, ever more classic and ever filthier: "Country Girl", "Rocks", and the party is over. It takes a few minutes before the band comes back on stage to play "Loaded", the song everyone was hoping to hear and which we almost didn't even get to hear the guitar of; the classic of an era that has long ceased to exist.

We'll never know how it really went, whether it was a simple misunderstanding with the Todays organization or total disregard for an agreement already made. Personally, I don't care: it seemed to me that in that private performance of the magic of Andrew Weatherall – the true architect of “Screamadelica”, a record that seems to exist in a definitive and unrepeatable void – lay hidden Gillespie's most entertaining “I am alive, you are dead”, a punk sneer spat at the dancefloor with an acid smile and sound more ramshackle than ever. Enjoying it from five meters away, amid sweaty and wholeheartedly enthusiastic bodies, took on an entirely different flavor then: that of a collective celebration of an embraceable idea of being in the world.

"Come together as one", in other words. Even though they never actually did that one.