Absolutely jet lagged, they had to drag me out of the house kicking and screaming.
Ok, no where near that dramatic, and I had previously agreed to go to that concert, but I had not anticipated that I would be so f*up by the jet lag, nor did I anticipate that Spain would be playing a qualifying game. I would have given anything to stay in the comfort of my own home, my own sofa, and supporting my team.
I’d only heard of Vinicio once before, when my hubby was trying to sell me the gig. He played a few tunes which I hated, then moved to something else which was more my cuppa tea, so I agreed to go.
We had been to this venue a few times before, and today it was not particularly full, I even managed to get a chair, and much to my party’s amusement, I placed it right in the middle of the dance floor.
I sat with my coke, in what felt like a futile effort to stay awake.
And then a magician came out. All dressed up in red velvet, with a tall hat with feathers and all, like in the good old days, or at least the good old movies. And then the magic act smoothly melted into the first song, and the musicians appeared, and they were all wearing large black hats of all shapes and sizes, beards like pirates, and beautiful instruments like a double bass.
And then Vinicio came on stage, and the fun begun.
The concert can only be described as a rough voice that reminded you of Paolo Conte (and to quit smoking); lyrics akin to Bob Dylan; as many wardrobe changes as Madonna, but in a style more in line with Jack Sparrow’s; the sense of ridicule of Rob Smith singing “boys don’t cry” in a full teddy bear outfit, meets acid.
He started off with a song about going down to hell, with clear allusions to the fact that Italy had just managed to disqualify itself from the Worldcup, even before the quarter finals. The crowd was nearly 100% Italian, he knew that, he also knew we did not care.
For the next tune, a tiny red child size piano came out, and he sat there in his tiny stool singing a melancholic tune about lost socks and wondering about the fate of the one left behind, (not a football sock he clarified).
And then it just kept getting weirder and odder, and the music was good, but it was just in sane. This late forties full bearded man would just as easily come out in an ice age caveman suit or with a shiny silver mermaid tail. The hats would change with the tune: cowboy hat, large (as in twice the size of his head) Russian fur hat, evil goat mask.
The music was good, so good that even I was forced to leave the comfort of my chair to dance. But the joy, the fun, the humour and the theatrics just brought it to an entirely different level. Those concerts that make you want to go home and learn to play an instrument, pick up old hobbies, take life less seriously and love more seriously.
The magician would reappear to play tricks for the crowd, colorful confetti flied every time, and he would do his tricks without missing a beat. A rather large “TA DA” tattoo across his chest was used as a pun to a song, a “THE END” tattoo just above his ass was shown when he attempted to tell us the gig was over. We were having none of it. I mean, for gods sake, we were still trying to work out what the hell pirate man was doing moving his hands around in mid air and where the hell the music he was playing was coming out of.
After an almost heavy metal stint (and I HATE heavy metal), he had us begging for more: dressed with a cow boy hat, a Mexican skeleton, and Mr magician man running on stilts through the audience trying to get out of a straight jacket to the beat of a song about a piñata.