THE MALE CHAUVINIST - An Erotic Autobiography

Part One IV - V - VI

IV

Ten minutes later, we enter the rock temple of Scandiano. It's almost midnight—"grandpa's hours," according to Valda, who wouldn't be caught dead in a club before one a.m.

I look around, pleased to see that the place hasn't changed from twenty years ago. Back when I was a regular, I was a skinny twenty-something (the etymology of that adjective is interesting, by the way: it derives from "saw," referring to the intensive practice of masturbation, which supposedly strengthens and slims by burning excess calories and drying out the physique). I was also a die-hard rocker, a devoted fan of Guns N' Roses, the cursed poets, James Dean, the beat generation, anything that smacked of rebellion and offbeat coolness.

Back then, the youth of Reggio were divided into distinct tribes. The preppies in blazers frequented places like Baby Face (formerly Marabù) or Adrenaline. The grunge crowd in oversized military shirts and torn jeans, who cared more about things other than clothes—like soft drugs. You'd find them in places like Corallo, Tempo di Gualtieri, or the very angry Oasis in Sassuolo. The "progressive" fans ventured as far as the famed Duplè in Aulla, a throbbing microcosm of crazies where the music was a relentless rumble you could only endure if you were stoned out of your mind.

I belonged to the second category, and on weekends, Corallo was a mandatory stop for me and my group of wild friends. Corallo, the rock arena par excellence, where amid tracks by The Doors and Nirvana, a wild mosh pit would erupt to the sounds of Pantera or Metallica, from which a young Pier Francesco would always emerge sweaty and short of breath, pushing his way through hordes of headbangers waving their hair around.

We immediately run into Biagio, the club's legendary DJ. "Look who it is," he says, with his Native American-like face. "The beautiful and damned." He hasn't aged much, and his hair, though slightly grayed, is still long to his shoulders.

"My man," I reply. "These days, I'm more 'beautifully vintage' than 'beautiful and damned.'"

At dinner, Valda had called the club where I spent my roaring years—where only rock music was played back in the day (as I've explained, today even the rockers who run Corallo have had to make compromises, given the prevailing stupidity and the musical taste—if you can call it that—of the youth) a "place for oldies." But now she must reconsider. Indeed, there are few oldies here, and they keep to the smaller upstairs dance floor, dancing to tunes by Celentano and Little Tony like a bunch of walruses high on Lambrusco. ("Look, there's life after death!" Valda laughs, pointing at some heavyset guys who look like bears dressed up by circus trainers.)

Meanwhile, the main dance floor is swarming with hotties. While we're in line at the bar, I overhear two discussing gyms and dietary supplements. "You need to bulk up," one of the youngsters says. "You need to bulk up your brain," I chime in, playfully pointing a finger at the poor guy. "Mind your own business, eh?" Valda teases.

We down a couple of Cuba Libres and take a stroll, but we find neither Bruno nor Jacopo. Valda is thrilled when the DJ, desecrating the central dance floor of Corallo, plays Despacito, and she dances with gusto to it and other popular hits—the horrendous Italian rap of Fibra and Fedez, and the cursed reggaeton. I keep up with her, though this music hardly inspires me to cut loose. We're about to head back to the bar when the sound cuts off and Biagio makes an announcement.

"And now a special track to celebrate the birthday of a dear friend!"

Suddenly everyone appears. Bruno, Ugo, Paolino, Jacopo, the twins, my brother, the indefatigable Mirco, even Campa and Baldo, two other key figures in the group, whom I'll talk about soon. Slayer's Angel of Death blares at full volume. Fearing a beating, the girls rush off the dance floor. The rest of us start shoving each other like rhinos in a mating competition.