Piero Pelù and various artists

The Anfiteatro delle Cascine in Florence was packed. And not for a "normal" concert, but for "SOS Palestina," the musical event conceived by Piero Pelù, with all proceeds going to Médecins Sans Frontières. Just to silence those who keep repeating the mantra "artists should only sing, not speak." And instead they spoke, loud and clear: emotion, anger, testimonies, alongside those of the guests: Riccardo Noury (Amnesty International), Dario Salvetti (former Gkn worker) and Anas Khali, who recounted the story of Adnan Bursh, a Palestinian doctor arrested, deported and killed in April 2024. A story that alone would justify an entire evening.

On stage, from 8pm until half past midnight, were Eva Poles, Roy Paci, Patagarri, Ginevra Di Marco with Francesco Magnelli, Zen Circus, Tre Allegri Ragazzi Morti, Emma Nolde, Bandabardò, Fask, Afterhours and of course Piero Pelù, together with Antonio Aiazzi and Gianni Maroccolo. A roster fit for a king, one that could easily have filled an arena or a festival — and in fact a second edition is already confirmed for 20 June 2026. Everyone — artists, technicians, organisers — worked for free, to say loud and clear that what is happening in Gaza is a genocide and that art cannot stay silent. And despite the police vans lined up outside to prevent who knows what kind of unrest, inside the amphitheatre the atmosphere felt like a celebration from another era.

"We are watching live a massacre of defenceless civilians, aid workers and journalists," Pelù began. "That's why we're now loudly demanding peace, peace, peace. Peace in Palestine, Ukraine, Sudan, Congo, Myanmar, Yemen and the other 50 countries of the world." Then it was Roy Paci's turn to open the dancing — and real dancing it was, because "SOS Palestina" wasn't just an evening of reflection but also a celebration. As Manuel Agnelli put it: "You shouldn't take concerts for granted, you should enjoy them." An invitation the crowd immediately took up, holding nothing back and throwing themselves into the event with voice and energy.

Patagarri were the ones to get the evening's engine running: true to their party spirit, they turned the opening minutes into a collective call to dance, breaking the ice and pushing the crowd to let loose. Then came Ginevra Di Marco, who, with Francesco Magnelli at her side, gave the evening a more intense, luminous direction: her voice filled the air with an almost unnatural grace, striking emotional chords that few others can reach.

With Zen Circus things got more serious. Back after a break in their four-piece line-up — Appino, Ufo, Karim and Maestro Pellegrini — they fired off "Catene" and "Viva" onstage, two tight, driving tracks with lyrics that land like slaps in the face, impossible to dodge. It's almost impossible to describe a Zen Circus live show if you're not in it — if you don't join in the urge to scream along to words you know by heart, with that bitter laughter and that feeling they leave with you. Zen Circus, even today, remain exactly that: one of the last true stage bands, built for a head-on clash with the audience.

Tre Allegri Ragazzi Morti also know exactly how to pull the crowd into their world: a masked theatre made of metaphors, crooked rock'n'roll and off-beat rhythms. For thirty years now they have never stopped being that collective ritual in which the masks don't hide but liberate. Their set alternated irony and poetry with their usual disarming lightness. "Il giorno prima," "Mai come voi," "Occhi bassi" and even a surprising, almost reggae version of "Bella Ciao" sparked a collective, generational singalong. Their masked party had the flavour of an antidote: simple, direct, necessary.

Emma Nolde is by now a small miracle of Italian songwriting. Still very young, yet with a discography and live experience that could belong to an artist twice her age, she once again proved she can command the stage with natural ease. No contrived poses or rock-star attitude, just her baring her own fragility and simply being herself: intense, vulnerable, authentic. Her set featured just two songs, "Indipendente" and "Dormi," but that was enough to leave a mark. Two songs that cut through the crowd like emotional blades, drawing a few sincere tears from the audience. An intimate, suspended moment, in an evening otherwise defined by energy and amplifiers, a reminder that silence and delicacy too can carry enormous weight in a live show. If it still needed saying, Emma Nolde is not the "next big thing" of Italian songwriting: she is already, today, a solid and precious presence, a voice capable of capturing the complexity of the present with a sincerity that goes straight to the heart.

Bandabardò took the stage proving they are still very much alive and kicking, even if they have inevitably changed skin since the passing — never mourned too little — of Erriquez. To fill that irreplaceable void, the band has leaned into more electric territory, with a touch of Mano Negra that refreshes the sound without betraying its original spirit: that of a collective, anarchic, colourful celebration. Finaz's voice, charismatic and compelling, led a set that instantly turned into a sonic carnival. Timeless classics like "Vento in faccia," "Manifesto" and "Beppeanna" set the crowd off, confirming once again that Bandabardò remain one of the few Italian acts able to create, within ten seconds, a shared celebration, a communal ritual in which the line between stage and audience disappears.

Then it was the turn of Fast Animals and Slow Kids. Between songs, Aimone found time for a quip that landed more like an uncomfortable truth: "The world seems to be going backwards, judging by how many bands are playing tonight." A line that captured with surgical precision the state of Italian music: fewer and fewer bands, even fewer spaces to play in, and yet on a night like this you realise what a privilege it is to witness a choral concert of this calibre. Live, FASK chose to step away a little from the poppier tones of their recent output, bringing their original nature back to the fore: that of an electric war machine, loud, sweaty, capable of getting even the most static members of the crowd moving. The guitars go back to scratching and clawing, the rhythm section is one continuous lash, and Aimone leads the band with his usual blend of irony, sincerity and physical urgency. The set was a high-energy ride with no pauses, built to leave no room to breathe and to get everyone moving, jumping, letting the noise wash over them. To close, two songs that have taken on new weight over time: "Come reagire" and "Forse non è la felicità." If at the time they were recorded they were generational anthems, today they feel even more necessary, almost prophetic: songs that speak to a disillusioned present, where hope seems like an act of everyday resistance. A cathartic finale, one that reminded everyone why FASK are still one of the few Italian bands able to combine pure energy with words that carry real weight.

After that came Afterhours. Devastating. Absolutely no one would have expected such a jarring opener: Black Sabbath's "War Pigs." More a statement of intent than a cover, a warning to the crowd: don't come here looking for reassurance or greatest hits, but for a hard, conceptual, jagged set. After that opening blow came, one after another, "Dea," "Adrenalina," "Male di miele," "La vedova bianca," "Padania." Songs that don't caress but scratch, that speak of a nervous, unresolved Italy, one that in the 2000s found its most unflinching mirror in Agnelli and co. No fan service, no winking at the crowd, no "comfort hit": just the will to play as a single body, and to force the listener to reckon with their own darkest, most fragile side. Manuel Agnelli, in blistering form, dominated the stage with his usual mix of charisma and ferocity, driving the crowd into a pit like it was the Nineties again. His vocal lashes, combined with guitars and violins that cut through the air like blades of electric light, once again had the power to put far younger bands to shame, reminding everyone why Afterhours have been — and remain — the quintessential Italian alternative rock band. Today's line-up isn't the bloated, "arena-ready" version we've seen in recent years: this is the band from the tour celebrating twenty years of "Ballate per piccole iene," with the return of Giorgio Prette on drums, Dario Ciffo on violin and Andrea Viti on bass. A leaner, more essential outfit, one that restores to Afterhours the raw, mean edge of their origins. Less technical polish, certainly, less sheen, but an emotional impact that hits more directly, more viscerally, more "garage."

Finally, the host of the evening: Piero Pelù. On stage with his Bandidos, he warmed up the crowd with two particularly driving, muscular versions of "Io ci sarò" and "Bomba Boomerang." Songs that, on their own, are enough to set the crowd alight. But it's when Antonio Aiazzi comes in on keyboards and Gianni Maroccolo on bass that the atmosphere shifts, turning almost solemn. The story of Litfiba has always been one long cycle of farewells and returns, of sudden splits and unexpected reunions. A saga of clashes and intertwined destinies, with one constant: the Pelù-Renzulli pairing, the voice and guitar that gave a face and a sound to the Litfiba name for decades. Precisely for this reason, the scene felt almost surreal: seeing Piero share the stage with two of the band's co-founders without Ghigo Renzulli there was undeniably strange. And yet, if you polled longtime fans, the answer would probably be unanimous: in the hearts of many, it's the early Litfiba who remain, the ones behind the irresistible blend of new wave, art rock and Mediterranean sounds that made "Desaparecido," "17 Re" and "Litfiba 3" into classics, not just in Italy but beyond its borders too. Those records had the urgency of youth, the still-rough, visionary sound of a band that looked to London and Berlin while remaining viscerally tied to Florence. That's why, when the first notes of "Il vento" and "Eroi nel vento" rang out, it felt like a circle closing. It wasn't just nostalgia, but the awareness of witnessing something rare: an almost complete line-up of the band that had the courage — and the merit — to carry Italian rock into Europe, making it stand shoulder to shoulder with the great international names. A collective shiver, a fragment of living history.

(Photo by Eleonora Chiarugi)

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