III.xvi. Broken Social Scene

"And they all want to love the cause
'Cause they all need to be the cause."
- Broken Social Scene, Cause=Time

Late Thursday night, in a dimly lit suburban park in Bologna, an unshaven man wearing a t-shirt with "Leaside Girls Hockey" written on it greeted his five-hundred strong audience: "I just wanted to say, the food here is awful. I've tried Bogolnese sauce three times, and it sucked. You all should try my Bogolnese sauce. If ever you come to Toronto, I'll invite you over and you can taste it. I'll make it special for you, with my own intestines... and ketchup."
    For the lead singer of a group that has composed songs with such erudite titles as "I slept with Bonhomme at the CBC" he seemed quite inarticulate. Perhaps the jetlag, or the beer he was drinking on stage, was beginning to get to him. Nevertheless, he and his twelve or so bandmates performed well that night, despite the occasional insults they hurled at the mostly oblivious Italian audience. The opener, Apostle of Hustle, was composed mainly of members of the headliner, and probably relished in the fact that the Italian sense of humour wasn't cynically evolved enough to find such a collection of band names amusing. It was all a pretty free-flow sort of experience, but the crowd loved it. "Half of you don't even know what I'm saying," he yelled, before dedicating a song to Prime Minister Rigatoni, to the displeasure of most of the audience.
    Such was my experience of Broken Social Scene at the Covo Club in Bologna, a rabbit warren of dark, smoky rooms located in a rather seedy quarter of the city, above a Communist bar for old timers, and next to a popular dance hall. It had a community centre type of feel, with the community consisting of the local quasi politically active punk students that are in on the worldwide independent rock scene.
    Nevertheless, it was comforting in an odd sort of way to hear the familiar Toronto accent spoken so far away from home, and also to indulge in some of the absurd cultural variety our modern world affords. Furthermore, while I distain on the whole the incursion of English music into Europe, it was a welcome break from the almost endless classical music concerts I have been keeping myself busy with in the evenings. I suppose the Southern Ontario drawl of Broken Social Scene is a tad less harsh than the High German of Leonore, Beethoven's Opera which I had seen two nights before, though in terms of musical quality and tuning the latter was far superior.
    All this serves to demonstrate that the nightlife in Bologna is as varied as the architecture, sculpture, or painting, and open much later. The club scene isn't exactly what it is in Toronto, especially since the principal venue in town is outside the city centre, but we've all spent entertaining nights at the Downsview Krispy Kreme in Toronto, so I suppose that can be forgiven. Overall, whether dealing with punk-rock or opera, it seems as though Italy would do better sticking with its home grown talent. If this approach were to be taken, less Phil Collins would be heard droning on in the local Plenty Market, while the 8 Euro rush "seats" in the Teatro Communale's rafters would resonate more agreeably with the heavenly vowels of Italian, as opposed to the German barking orders that, all things said, belong well north of the alps. No imports should be needed here; life itself is an Opera, a full-scale Broken Social Scene with a cast well over twelve, and an audience even larger.