Milano Rock City - Part 1
Good morning FolkRiders,
Once upon a time, there was rock and roll in Milan. In fact, this beginning could be applied to many other Italian cities, given that the genre is certainly not in its best shape these days. We're not in the '80s or even the '90s, when the rock/metal community boasted a presence—and, if you will, a legitimacy, albeit always in opposition to more traditional subcultures—of a completely different kind. Simply put, rock has returned to bedrooms, basements, to hours spent practicing instruments, learning, perfecting, or simply letting off steam. That rock will never go away, as it is and remains a wonderful act of individual expression, creativity, and energy, the need to find one's own sound in the world. Rock as a social phenomenon, however, has decidedly shifted its paradigms, overshadowed now more than ever by hip hop, electronica, and the more or less innovative crossovers between the two genres mentioned, as well as the ever-present mass pop, in all its forms. Because rock and roll never dies, of course. But it grows old, waiting in its most hidden caves, perhaps awaiting new times.
Nevertheless.
And yet, in Milan, with a little effort, a little memory, and a good dose of nostalgia, an ideal map of rock sanctuaries, the pillars of the scene, the reference points of an era, can be drawn.
We at Trovador have tried, basing everything on our personal experience, which for reasons of age did not live through the golden age of the 80s and 90s, but which nevertheless traveled the focal points of this cycle many and many times, in our twenties, when nothing can seem to decline and the enthusiasm of youth makes every experience gigantic.
Of course, we don't claim to exhaust all the content, mention all the groups, clubs, and personalities who have animated the Milanese scene.
Our ambition, as always, is to chart our own path through history. In this particular case, to climb aboard the EM 116 S TWANG JET , which has rock in its blood and on its chassis. And to relive the late-night rides, searching for the next semi-secret concert, the next evening with explosive music that your schoolmates don't know—and for which they even despise you a little! Most of all, perhaps, to search for someone with whom you feel you can be in tune, during a period when you're fervently working on your way of communicating with the world. And you obviously hope to receive just as much energy from it.
For simplicity and time reasons, we decided to divide this little big journey into two parts.
The first, which we'll tell you about now, starts in the northwest outskirts of our city, specifically around the San Siro stadium. Here, where perhaps more than anywhere else today we're living in the wake of the changes of a city always on the move, until the early 2010s, Friday and Saturday nights were lively with gothic, dark, glam music and the like. In Piazza Anita Garbaldi, in fact, there was the Zoe Club , just a few steps from the Baggio Cemetery. It's a Sunday afternoon in early March, the sun illuminates this neighborhood, surrounded by the area's large parks (Trenno, Cave, Boscoincittà), but our memories take us back to a Saturday night in January, when our tutelary deities were called Poison, Dokken, Cinderella, Great White , and Zoe transformed, for us, into one of the magical clubs of Los Angeles' Sunset Strip. The power of '80s hair metal! The writer played with his band that evening, after a long afternoon bike ride to get pumped up for the concert. The fluorescent yellow guitar sped along just like the bicycles of the past—and of today, of course!—developing a tight rhythmic wall, a sonic engine in an inextricable line of continuity with the desire to run, to push to the max. Always.
When music was the fuel—natural, accessible, pure—for bike racing. An idea, a concept, that we would naturally apply many years later to our EM 116 S TWANG JET , with its simple, essential lines. And always ready to get involved! To head towards the next stop, and leave behind the first memory of our ride, we take advantage of the proximity of the Cave park, heedless of our road/track setup, and we cross it between a few singletracks and a few too many dirt roads. But the EM 116 S TWANG JET resists and even relaunches, the high-profile wheels and frame absorbing the small bumps without problem, until it takes us further, in front of the San Siro stadium, which looms on our left as we skirt Piazza Axum. Our minds begin to travel back in time again. In Milan, San Siro means something different, and special, for everyone who has been there at least once, be it a derby, a concert, or a ceremony. For us at Trovador, San Siro means Bruce Springsteen . It's true, we weren't there on July 21, 1985, when he played there for the first time on an evening that has become legendary. We were there, however, on June 3, 2013, and July 3, 2016. We heard two iconic albums played in full, Born in the USA the first time, The River the second. We shouted to the world, in the crisp air still full of dreams for the future on a summer night in our mid-twenties, that we are still Born to Run . To seek our happiness on a road wide open before our eyes. A rock ritual for suburban racing drivers, back-alley romantics, inexhaustible seekers of their place, their role, their self, a ritual consummated in a stadium, yes, but essentially in a moment of pure interiority. As San Siro fades behind us, never disappearing as is only possible thanks to its magical grandeur, we remember what we felt on those nights, when we vibrated in tune with that music and those lyrics. That evening, we left the stadium behind, just as we do today, with a fresh and vivid memory, the sound of a voice that had spoken of us, for us. And we sped into the night, hoping to make it immortal.
A sharp right turn, we head towards Via Capecelatro and immediately turn onto Via Paravia. Where once Transilvania was located, later also Music Drome, when it had already diversified and expanded its offering, but for us linked to a precise, indelible image.
It was a night way back in 2007 when this writer happened to be passing by for the first time. Without going in, we were intrigued by the sight of so many dark horror fans lingering outside the venue. For us, still high school students and definitely late getting home, that evening felt like we were tapping into a new yet familiar world for the first time, through the gothic fiction stories we devoured insatiably. In person, of course, everything changes; shyness and anxiety reign inexorably in moments like that. But all it takes is a detail, an image, to make a moment etched in the sequence of time. In our case, the credit went to a boy who at the time seemed like an adult, but in retrospect, he must have been well under twenty-five. We noticed the distinctive T-shirt he was wearing, a huge white skull, with a sinister yet mocking expression, a wicked grin that, deep down, inspired sympathy rather than intimidation. For a seventeen-year-old hungry for something new, it certainly made him want to ask.
“It's the Crimson Ghost ” the boy explained, certainly very eager to show off his expertise on the “ Misfits symbol”
“Who?”
“The Misfits! They play horror punk! Come on, don't you know them?” If it were up to him, the boy would have given himself an A+ on his musicology exam!
But those words stuck in my head like a mantra: Misfits. Horror. Punk. They sounded good, they sounded louder than ever. They sounded really cool, that's all. And as we pedaled home, the hunger for discovery invigorated our legs and conquered our thoughts. A few days later, at school, we asked our typically omniscient classmate for clarification on "alternative" music, who, after a suitable dose of self-satisfaction, concluded:
“Don’t worry, I’ll make you a CD, I’ll even put the Misfits on it.” Which still play in our headphones today, with those 50s-esque voices and lyrics that seem to have come from the darkest and most forgotten horror B-movies. Tacky, over-the-top, heavy-handed, but charismatic and incredibly adrenaline-filled. In a word: perfect. Especially for a seventeen-year-old hungry for something new. And a fan of dark comics.
Today, as the EM 116 S TWANG JET moves forward agilely, there's no trace left of that evening and its world on Via Paravia. The Burned CDs—calling them that has a certain effect—belong to another geological era. So do my school days. However, the memory of a moment of discovery remains, one that still accompanies us on the road, as the scenery becomes busier and more congested towards the Cenisio/MacMahon area.
From San Siro, we passed the old FieraMilano and took Via MacMahon, searching for a side street almost invisible on any map: Via Ollearo. Many will know it as the home of Radio Popolare. For us, however, it takes on a different meaning, because it was home to Enosud , or rather, the Enosud club, where the buffet could satisfy all tastes: endless jam sessions with exotic instruments, gatherings of ukulele enthusiasts, jazz drowned in vintage red wine, fireside folk on winter nights. And lots of punk rock. At Enosud, we saw the Raindogs live for the first time. Now, to be clear, if those guys had been Californians, instead of from West Milan, we'd be talking about a whole different story. Too good, too energetic, too emotional, too full of real content. That night, they blew the place away with their melodic hardcore. The concert was so intense that on the way home, late at night, we extended our tour by a few kilometers. To listen to the songs again in our heads and perhaps fool ourselves once again into thinking that certain moments last forever. For as long as it existed, L'Enosud was a gathering place in the heart of the city, where concerts could be organized without too much preamble, almost informally, perhaps away from large numbers and big names. But that was enough for us.
We return to Via MacMahon, but almost without realizing it, we leave behind the Monumental Cemetery and Garibaldi Station. The EM 116 S TWANG JET almost seems to dance in the traffic, in one of the most vibrant, and newest, areas of the city, but soon moves away from the glittering new buildings of this mini-skyline, between Corso Como and Via Melchiorre Gioia. The destination is a small street near the Central Station, where the Rock N Roll Club now stands, once known as the Inkubo Café . Another regular haunt, whose concert hall interior has always reminded us of the legendary CBGB's in New York, a compressed powder keg of distorted guitars and pulsating drums, so many nights dedicated to the New Wave of British Heavy Metal or 2000s pop-punk . We fondly remember our college days, when we'd show up to the bar on Friday nights on our shiny new bikes, proudly sporting Metallica and Motorhead stickers on the frame. And at the bar, as always, we'd find someone to discuss this or that riff, the eternal debate over Fender vs. Gibson guitars, or why Rust in Peace is Megadeth's best album. It was like a typical Italian sports bar, except this time it's a rock bar.
We look at the EM 116 S TWANG JET , we realize that perhaps it was born on one of those evenings, sharp and light like a guitar playing burning solos, with fire and music tattooed on it. We want to test it further, to reach Piazzale Loreto we take a longer tour, going up towards Via Spoleto to rejoin Viale Monza, where you can unleash more horsepower, dare a few more bends, remember when, in a time always distant, from Via dei Transiti was the starting point of an urban "race" that saw us engaged and victorious, after a spectacular duel on the final bend, complete with an inside pass. Thinking back brings a smile, drowned in a spring Saturday afternoon that no longer exists, but which returns today to the rhythm of rock, on one of the backbones of our city. Viale Monza, Piazzale Loreto, and Viale Abruzzi form a single route, from which we choose to branch off to cut across to Piazzale Susa, and descend onto the parallel road that intersects Corso Ventidue Marzo.
Corso Ventidue Marzo in Milan once meant Rolling Stone . Where everyone has played, where every fan has one, ten, a thousand memories to share. The one we chose goes back to 2009, just before the venue closed, on an evening dedicated to Swedish power metal, perhaps a precursor to our Erasmus experience not far from Stockholm. A few days before the concert, which featured two current European powerhouses like Hammerfall and Sabaton , we had tried to recruit everyone to join us, with an enthusiasm as contagious as it was futile. So, while most of our friends decided to enjoy a more ordinary university evening, we were there under the stage, always insatiable for that recipe of energy and melody, power and narrative, technique and immediacy. If this sounds familiar, you'll certainly agree: rock, just like cycling, offers a rare combination of thought and physical exercise, of well-constructed creativity and expressive urgency, all better, of course, when practiced in company.
"Is it true it's closing?" This was the phrase we heard most often, inside and outside the venue, before and after the concert. As often happens in these situations, what we fear losing isn't just the usual point of reference, but the numerous possibilities—we might almost call them certainties—that it offers. Familiar faces, languages, and references incomprehensible to most of the people who populate our daily lives, the certainty that a cool band will come to play there sooner or later. What we lose is the microcosm in which we feel at home, in our time, with our own vocabulary.
We can't help but think about it as we direct the EM 116 S TWANG JET toward Piazza Cinque Giornate, heading straight for Piazza del Duomo. The next stop, the last of our first tour, is perhaps the most significant, the most faithful to the representation of a "safe place" we already applied for Rolling Stone.
We stop the EM 116 S TWANG JET right in front of the subway stairs. It's time to guide it into the underpass. Towards Galleria Santa Radegonda. In front of what was once the Mariposa Dischi storefront.
For us, Mariposa was the investment of our entire weekly allowance. It was the endless leafing through metal display cases where, strictly arranged by letter and musical genre, the record covers were displayed, as important as their contents. Mariposa was Dario, who behind the register had advice for everyone, who recognized the regulars and asked about their bands, who recommended the best music biographies because he'd already read them before they came out, who sold you tickets to big concerts but then told you to go see that obscure band in Parabiago or Brugherio. At Mariposa, you went to study rock 'n' roll, even though the internet already existed. At Mariposa, you studied from official rock textbooks, not from the simplified handouts for those who have to catch up before the exam.
There are moments when you realize an era has ended forever. When Mariposa closed its doors, we realized that our time as students of alternative music, as crazy and desperate students who learned more from a three-minute song than from a regular school day, had come to an end.
Standing in front of that gate today, on our most rock 'n' roll bike, isn't just the closing of a circle, dear folkriders: it's a familiar, reassuring image, one that speaks of our roots, our most intense moments, where the asphalt sings an immortal refrain, and the wheels spin in a powerful, relentless rhythmic whirlwind. And yet, wonderfully harmonious.
The link to the track is https://www.komoot.com/it-it/tour/2817918414