Italian Punk Rock

Why is it that after a long night of drinking I involuntarily wake up at the crack of dawn? Oh, yeah, because my body hates me and wants me to suffer. Either that or I’m just a sado-masochist that likes to go through life hungover when I should be sleeping peacefully. I can’t decide.

So, last night Ola and I went out to the much-loved (and loathed) Murazzi strip on the river. We love it because it's a quarter-mile long strip of clubs, which never fails to entertain, but we hate it because it is invariably full of malacas. Last night, however, it was pretty much dead, probably due to the sub-zero temperatures that Torino has reached. Can it please snow already so that I can at least get some snowboarding out of this deal? Sheesh!

Anyway, we decided to head down to the Parco Valentino to check out the Chalet (a new nightspot that we’d never been to before). To our relief, the Chalet was packed full of people, and the venue was huge, which always helps. We waded through the crowd, scoping out the scene. Right as I went to pull Ola up onto the stage with me (I just wanted a better view, I swear!), a grumpy middle-aged bouncer started kicking everybody off of it. Dangit, plan foiled. We stayed close to the stage anyway, to see what the fuss was about. We quickly discovered the reason; there was a band about to take the stage. I got to see what an “Italian punk band” looks like up close and personal, and it was about what I would expect to see after living here for two months; the lead singer, while suitably emaciated according to the Rules of Punk Rock, was sporting knee-high boots with black fishnet tights, a plaid kilt complete with cumberbund, and a tight tank top. Oh, and he was male, of course. The backup singer was wearing a gold lamé jacket and a cowboy hat. Ah, Italy, ti amo! Pictures to follow.

What was even more hilarious was the fans. There were several male groupies that kept jumping onto the stage and grabbing the singers, prompting my fave middle-aged bouncer to keep throwing them off. We had no idea what the songs were about, but whatever was being said up there had everyone in a tizzy. Ola and I had a first-hand look at an Italian mosh pit, and let me tell you, I almost wet myself. It was like watching a group of high-maintenance cheerleaders at a Korn concert; they were all too concerned about messing up their hair to do much more than bounce up and down. It was cute, really. You can't pay for entertainment like that, I tell you. I think I might have to go to a real concert at some point, if I'm ever in need of a pick-me-up.