Over the top of the pass and not so far away Wagner and his brand of booted thunder is waiting: this morning’s storm is just a reminder of things to come. What is less predictable is that Cha Cha Cha Town will be offering up its own metallica within 12 hours. But then this is Lynchian Land, and already I am wondering if they put something in the water…
I am sitting with the Moleskine around 8.30 pm writing a movie, as you do, with the ole boys talking Nesta, Carnivarro and Adriano over coffee. From downwind comes a punk thrash of Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World…only a bit of it, this is a rehearsal, so there is a lot more une-due and drum rolls. I ask the elderly couple next to me what gives. Rock concert says Mrs Football-widow.
Opposite the Municipal offices four young men have set up in the parking space of the Orlandini ice cream and booze-u-like (beer)cafe. Yup: in the spa town of the Brambana valley there are Marshall amps, turquoise Stratocaster guitars, singing drummers and wi-fi connections. Rock and Roll is here to Spray.
“We’re abusive,” the lead singer shouts to me. “Abusivi.”
The crowd is not particularly expectant, the youngest streches out in his pram, whilst his mother orders a Machiatto coffee. The band warm up by sitting down to strudel, followed by beer, and then ham and cheese plates. They don’t look phased. Mrs Machiatto rather likes the pre-show music, jiving away like it is Prince on New Year’s Eve 1999 to a reggae version of “Everything that I Own.” After this Steve Tyler sings that apocalyptic one about saving the world and his daughter, Liv: and I don’t want to miss a thing. Abusivi seem to like this one, they sway as they snuffle, until the CD jumps and we move onto Italian chick-skiffle, KT Tunstall meets Carla Bruni – but not in a good way.
Abusivi’s lead singer gives punk baby a big grin, but the young lad seems more interested in the lights of the pharamacy opposite. Some late arrivals have monkish bald pates and nice pale blue cardigans.
The lead guitarist can riff, play chords, and smoke. But never all three at the same time. The first song is named Spirato.
Song two has a bit that goes: cook cook caroo, ay ay Cadaver. It ends with the half-line, “like a lonely song.” Next up “Speedy Gonzalez” as a Green Day purgation. But half way through the heavens open and that’s it. Bar staff rush out and help to get everything inside. Three songs: over. Suddenly reading the Corriella del Sporto is the New Rock and Roll. I head for bed, wave at the old football men, and turn on one of those terrible buddy-buddy, black-white, cop films that lose something in translation in any language.