Massimo Volume

When Emidio Clementi begins to "recite" the first words of "Atto definitivo", the audience at Naples' Teatro Galleria Toledo suddenly falls into a reverent silence.

Wrapped in those subdued lights, Massimo Volume tell stories (lived or otherwise) that concern all of us, in a way. Eighteen years have passed since, in a garage in Bologna, they wondered what to do next, how to put together "music in which the very idea of the song would dissolve, thanks to free-form lyrics and distorted sounds". Years that don't seem to have flown by in vain, judging by the faces tonight of those who wouldn't have missed the band's first-ever show in Naples for anything in the world — there's an unmistakable air of rapture about them.

In the dark, mouths follow the words as if in a prayer that is both deeply private and, ultimately, collective. Rimbaud, Emanuel Carnevali, the Karin of "Sul Viking Express" (the one who says, right before leaving, "sarebbe bello se conoscessi qualcuno qui"), the legendary Rigoni of "Stagioni" (who abandons me in a prison of sweetest nostalgia), and then the usual Leo, the one you'd ask, frightened, whether "is this really what we are?", without ever getting an answer, because, no use denying it, there are no adequate answers, only questions.

Over roughly an hour and a half of music, the band (which, alongside Clementi's bass, features the "veteran" Egle Sommacal on guitars, Vittoria Burattini on drums, plus newcomer Stefano Pilia on guitar) ranges across their entire career, moving between songs that seal a wonderfully happy marriage of dreamlike visions and instrumental impact (the ever-thrilling "La città morta"), crystal-clear examples of everyday poetry, where small things become metaphors for deeper essences ("Qualcosa sulla vita", complete with an improvised coda), and, further still, hypnotic descents into tunnels of icy paranoia ("Alessandro"), flares of metallic rage ("Esercito di santi"), combinations of vertigo and disquiet ("Vedute dallo spazio"), and the urgency of a stream-of-consciousness delivery that becomes, for all of us, a way to ease the tension, to imagine ourselves ever further elsewhere ("Ronald, Thomas ed io"), where "il tempo scorre lungo i bordi", before, inevitably, "cominci la polvere".

This isn't just a concert. It's much more than that, at least for me. It's a way of erasing the passage of time, a way of watching words turn into pure sonic magic. And it hardly matters that the setlist doesn't include that gem of rage and poetry, "Meglio di uno specchio" (from the masterpiece "Along the edges").

Then, with the curtain virtually down, I slip backstage, where I find Vittoria looking quite tired yet more than willing to chat for a bit. She's thrilled: she wasn't expecting such a warm crowd. Then, after Emidio — ever kind and eager to hear everyone's thoughts — it's Egle's turn, with whom I dust off memories of a hot, all-enveloping summer, in the silence of a Bologna suspended as if in limbo, while we cooked pasta with tuna and listened to records.

As he signs my copy of "Stanze", the very one he once gave me, he says, almost moved: "How much time has passed?" "Quite a lot," I tell him.

But it doesn't matter.

Tonight, time, at least for a little while, made no sense at all.

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