RAANDOOM Inside: Spring Attitude

Find the Intruder // Spring Attitude Festival (Day One)

It’s been a tough day. C. had to go home due to a family issue, I had an argument at work, and it’s been raining incessantly in Rome for hours: bad conditions are all there. I arrive by subway, drenched, and the crowd of apparent automatons—of which, alas, I am part—in this situation—communicates silently, engaged in the solemn funeral of their dead dreams. I feel alone.

Dov’è Liana via Spring Attitude Official Website

I’m inside; they gave me a wristband that says “full pass”, people seem happy even though it’s pouring rain. One can’t envy those who open a festival with only twenty people under the stage—or maybe they’re the ones with the most genuine audience? I’m still alone, an invisible intruder observing, inside yet still outside, inside and outside. I miss C., and as I write this, she calls to check on me. I’d like to go to Sicily to write a book I’ve been postponing for two years, but I don’t think I can manage without her. Back to the festival: it’s still raining. Can beer help me be less shy? Confidence costs €6 per dose.

The rain shows no sign of stopping, Marta Del Grandi is singing like a dream, and the atmosphere feels spiritual. I watch her; the festival has begun; she looks at me, but I'm not really here, right? She can't see me. I'm drenched, but somehow I feel less alone. Marco Castello is good, Sicilian just like me! People are having fun: the rain has stopped. RBSN is next to me with his girlfriend, I want to talk to him because I was supposed to film him and Marta during the performance, but I decided to just enjoy it instead, they were great. By the way, the interview is off; I don't want to bother them. He seems calm and interesting, and that's enough for me. I head to the bathroom; I've had too much beer for now. It's started raining again.

It seems like everyone is pretending / the festival—despite the rain—is awesome. I think everyone, in situations like this, pretends to be someone else. Or is it just me, not feeling comfortable at my first festival? Or both? We’re a population of fans and fanatics. I go for a walk; I’ve been standing still for too long, static. Marco keeps playing brilliantly. People meet, greet, cheek kisses, while I keep writing—alone. It’s getting too cold; for now, I’m heading home. Then I’ll see if I come back—am I ungrateful? Fuck off, there’s nothing waiting for me at home; I take a piss and reconsider: I’m not leaving. I’ll warm up by dancing; maybe I’ll pretend too, but who cares.

A beer and we can dance; let's go. People are starting to come in with swagger, there's energy in the air. Human cheer, happily altered. There’s a stand selling ice cream; it’s 13°C, and I want to order one just to share the loneliness we all have in common. As I write, two people who were with me on the metro walk up and start talking to the ice cream vendor; maybe they’ll order something: there’s still hope. From the stage in the distance, wonderful sounds, I think it’s Daniela Pes, though I don’t even know her. Finally, I’m discovering something new, it’s nice. I need to eat. I dance for a minute. I should have arrived later, fucking anxiety.

I search for some warmth in the crowd, but nothing, there’s none of the humanity I need—partly because of the time: at 8:30 PM every Italian is wary until they fill their stomachs, at this hour they’re used to the dinner table and their mother. Let’s not deny our nature. I move out of shame, not wanting to be seen writing, I stay on the edges. My fingers move slowly, frozen like the people around me, swaying as they pretend to be relaxed: they all have a secret.

Beer +1, Cosmo's set begins. It's amazing, the crowd is energized, I'm moving, everyone is moving. I'm thinking about leaving. Or eating. Or drinking. Unable to decide, Cosmo keeps sounding better, and since I'm not hungry yet, beer +1: 4 doses of "forget your worries" and still, my shyness refuses to leave me. I've been here for over four hours and haven’t spoken to anyone. Mea culpa (?)

Emma Nolde with her crew, shot by Raandoom at Spring Attitude

Cosmo's “unpoetic” activism (autocorrect suggests “pathetic”, which wouldn’t be entirely out of place) marks a pointless interlude at the festival, worthy of the (in)tolerance coined by P.P.P over 50 years ago: should I write this anyway?
NO TO MORALISM! NO TO APATHY! NO TO FASCISM! NO TO ANTI-FASCISM (which is the same thing).

Planes flying above Rome, and I tremble with fear, not from the cold. Fear of being myself, finally, or never again. By the fifth beer, I’m no longer a spectator but a participant: money well spent, liquid dinner. When I watch people kissing, I feel a smug happiness because, finally, I know what they’re feeling. Cosmo ends his set with a heartfelt "I love you, I love you, that’s all". In the crowd, I dance. Barry Can’t Swim is on fire. I feel the warmth of human connection, or is it the alcohol? Girls push their way through the crowd with manic arrogance, mistaking their privilege for a right. I can’t stand the exuberant ones who reek of stale sweat and keep bumping into you while dancing. I step away, using the opportunity to go to the toilet and grab another hoppy remedy.

I get the feeling the night is taking a turn, flat, or simply a turn. As I write, a cute girl kindly approaches and asks, “Do you happen to know where I can find some ecstasy?”. I didn’t hear her well, so I ask her to repeat, only to disappoint her bitterly. Meanwhile, I feel flattered—my look must be good enough to inspire strangers to ask such “intimate” questions.

Should I leave or not? I could stay here until three in the morning, degenerate psychophysically, but alone, it doesn’t seem worth it. I’ve decided! Spring (today I’d dare say Autumn) Attitude Festival, see you tomorrow. On the metro, everything is quiet. Tomorrow I’ll try the bus. I’m still clear-headed, but hungry. No one is waiting for me at home, except myself and another night to get through.

Spring Attitude Festival (Day Two)

Last night I slept like I hadn’t in a long time, feeling at peace (thanks to a cool night breeze that had been missing in Rome for months and that uncontrollable happiness under the sheets after a night out, slightly drunk after hours in the cold). I had breakfast and, while reading, fell asleep again, had lunch, continued reading and now I’m ready: fully recharged at 100%. I’m getting ready and heading out. I’m on my way. Blonde by Frank Ocean, it couldn’t be better.

“We’ll never be those kids again.” It’s hot on the metro, I’ve dressed too warmly, but yesterday’s cold traumatized me, not for its intensity but because it was the first of the year after a scorching summer. I take off a layer; this city has taught me to dress like “an onion”, like we did as kids, you need to adapt quickly. I watch the people on the metro and I could guess each of their lives going forward or backward. They’re all so sincere in hiding their lies that it becomes too easy to spot them. I’m a fucking asshole, I don’t know a damn thing about them. Everyone has their own life while I—due to insecurity—play at guessing theirs: “sluggish, lazy, stupid and unconcerned”, you got it, Rosie Watson! I’ve missed you, Frank, it’s been a while since I listened to you.

I’ll soon arrive in Cinecittà. I hate arriving “late,” I always feel like I’ve missed something, and I probably have. I want a beer, some good music, people moving, alive, and the pines of Rome in the background: I know it’s a lot to ask, but this festival has what it takes to make me happy. I won’t be alone today, though—will it be different or not?

I enter, enjoying a bit of solitude before joining the “society”. Bar Italia is playing, they sound English, which is amusing given the name, and people are making videos, which pisses me off. I can’t wait to get seriously old; the phase between thirty and forty terrifies me. There’s a risk of ending up dressing “young” and smoking strawberry-flavored puffs at a random festival. This thought is interrupted by the singer who says, “Hi, grandma”, who actually is at the back of the crowd, a nice moment of humanity. Beer #2, it’s the second day and I already have a trusted bartender: I’m such a creature of habit.

The singer is arguing with the lighting technician—how wonderful human passion is. Next to me, there’s a Roman subculture, typically right-wing, unaware and carefree—wonderful—drifting along like historical flotsam and feeling content. I laugh as I write these nonsense lines, I apologize: you’re much less than I imagine. We sing happy birthday to guitarist Jezmi, and all my sharp bitterness, mixed with apathy, crumbles away.

“We are not girls, we are silver bullets for your middle class”, reads a slogan on the jacket of a girl-woman who clearly belongs to the same class she’s protesting against. Ambitious youths are showing off with white-filtered cigarettes or slim, long ones—these cigs are called “puttanelle” in slang (bitches)—and leather boots. How much I envy them, not for their age but for pure, corrupted beauty. The singer leaves angrily, “we had another song, but they won’t let us finish”, I quote verbatim.

Motta, you’re getting on my nerves: anachronistic. I’m going for a walk. I grab a beer and reconsider; Motta actually is great and sounds great. But how fucking cool are those SS-style leather coats? The only good thing from that era—please, don’t be censors, this is still an uncorrupted magazine. Motta says, “as long as you’re right-wing, I won’t like you”, not realizing that this statement is aggressively right-wing; I’d reconsider my judgment, but as an artist, he’s okay. Let’s keep the moralism away from festivals. Motta is joined by Danno from Colle der Fomento, who still “raps” with his hand between his legs, boring. The set is ending, and the “Viagra Boys” come on stage. The frontman, like the rest of the band, is visibly altered but has an amazing voice. The vibe is right, the music is there, the people are too. The guy is dancing, proudly and sweetly showing off his enormous, tattooed belly after giving us a fantastic monologue about the Roman Empire, toilets, and the electric pizza oven: pure poetry, no moralism in sight. It’s time for another beer.

Motta, shot by Raandoom at Spring Attitude

The guys I “described” earlier, having fun—pretending—are now motionless and dazed. Life doesn’t last the length of a story; there are downtime moments. The frontman, whose name I don’t know, says: “Enjoy yourselves now, the rest of the night will suck”. Will he be right? I hope not and yes at the same time, because they’re setting the stage on fire! The guitarist from the Viagra Boys gives us one of the best solos I’ve ever heard live. Under the stage, Bar Italia, who had technical problems earlier, are there. The guitarist from Bar Italia seems annoyed by the solo and pretends to engage in an impossible battle. The bassist tries to stop him, and he accidentally hits her, causing her to run away. He hesitates but, after a few seconds, chases after her, taking a different route—there’s pride to uphold, it’s still his birthday after all! Don’t hate me; I don’t want to gossip, but it’s so nice to describe reality! Should I eat something? The ice cream truck has customers tonight, I feel less guilty: blessed nature!

I ran into E., but she leaves right away. It doesn’t matter: a few seconds are enough to sense someone’s human sensitivity, and she has plenty of it. I wonder if she’ll like this piece. Beer time, I feel like myself, I’m happy. Darkness has fallen; the shadow is mine. How wonderful are things that are fast, painless, without formalities or frills?

Mount Kimbie are boring; the beer has pissed me off, but drinks are too expensive: no good. I’m inside, backstage: first time in my life. The security guys are exchanging food under the stage; it’s nice, I’m alone: moving to the dark side of the Force isn’t easy. I’m the one pretending now. Should I go into the dressing rooms? My father sends a photo with my mother celebrating their 32nd wedding anniversary; they look beautiful. If I could achieve half of their milestones in life, I’d be set.

Hoodie-balaclava and no one can see my eyes while I write, that’s priceless, baby. I come back to the present, it’s worth it. The set is improving, I can’t stop writing. A metal bar separates me from the “others” I was part of until just a moment ago, and yet now I feel so comfortable being myself, as if I’m justified by the place I’m in. It’s absurd!

In two minutes, the set will end, followed by Whitemary. I hope it’s good because it will probably be my last one tonight. Another beer? Last one, guys. My shyness has cost me €60 in two days with poor results. The VIP area is a den of assholes. I’ve spent too much on drinks; if they don’t let me back under the stage, I’ll be pissed, like a baby shark that’s just smelled blood for the first time. They let me pass. Everyone looks at me strangely, but I keep writing, camouflaged in my hoodie-balaclava + beer. Whitemary is great, very much so. The speakers up close make my organs vibrate like I haven’t felt in a long time; only my mask protects me: I can’t stand others seeing my face.

I’ve never enjoyed a set like this; it’s wonderful. Whitemary is a hurricane, I’d like to curse because she’s too fucking cool, but it’s not appropriate. I still feel like an intruder. I’m a little drunk but having a blast. The bouncer is giving me dirty looks, he knows I don’t belong here. I’ve been under the stage for thirty minutes; he approaches, asking for my pass, thinking I don’t have one, but I do: fuck you, I think. I’m a damned intruder, I think later. Or maybe not, I just write.

I have thirty minutes before I need to leave, the metro doesn’t wait for anyone if I want to get home. I’m a little bit drunk but that’s fine. I’m hungry and I don’t know if I should go back under the stage, grab another beer, or just leave. Kiasmos is running late, and I like it. The set starts, slowly, I’m hungry and I want to leave. Five more minutes. As I write these words, I wish I’d never leave. Wishing isn’t doing, it’s time to go.

It’s past midnight, I jump over the metro turnstiles with nonchalance: this isn’t the time to 'be a good boy’. It’s time to finish Blonde, press play. Futura Free is ending, it’s been seven years since I felt this way. How far is a light year?
The return trip is always faster than the way there, I don’t know why. On the street, I don’t meet anyone’s gaze, still wrapped in my cloak as an invisible intruder. I’m home, comforting pesto pasta. The drain in my bathroom keeps leaking for no reason.

Spring Attitude Festival: it was nice to be there, I hope the same goes for you, though I doubt it, maybe see you soon or never again, who knows? In any case, be kind to me, I was just passing through after all.

Adieu my (non) friends. P.S.: Eleonora forgive me, I don’t know how to write any differently.