Twenty, two times ten. Twenty years.
You are grown up now, a bottle of beer in your hand, the same pair of jeans six days a week, because the seventh day God ended his work and you do the laundry. You have a driving license now, and your mother’s car to go out at night, to pick someone up and to come back home when the night is over. And the music. Oh, yes, the music. Impossible to forget about it. Milan in the 90s, cars parked everywhere, people smoking outside and inside the venue and you, arriving there, saying hello to the same old friends, heading straight to the bar and then chatting and laughing before the gig. Oh, yes, the gigs. Violent, piercing, disrespectful, rough music. You know the guys on stage, maybe you’re a musician yourself. Milan is such a big city, Milan is such a small city. We are not the ones roaming around Via Montenapoleone, we are the penniless ones, but tonight is Friday or Saturday and you’re already sweaty, while that girl you like so much smiles to you and lights her joint. And, oh yes… you wave hello to that friend of yours that just a few months ago decided to found a record label. Wallace Records. He knows the band performing tonight, of course. He is the producer. Such a crazy guy. The gig begins, the night screams aloud. There is something electric in the air. Twenty, two times ten. Twenty years. Two hundred something records. I don’t remember how many bands, gigs, sonic revolutions, beers, cars, joints and smiling girls.
Twenty, two times ten.
Turn on the radio, choose the right channel, open a bottle of beer and start thinking about what you did in these last twenty years, because you already know what you listened to. And now it’s time to remember all the good things.
Oh, yes, Wallace Records Radio