So… Circolo Magnolia again.

Since the post I made about Rise Against, I haven’t been back to a concert in Milan. Sad, I know.
Now, on the verge of losing my sanity between job applications (and a frustrating lack of responses) and the great follow-up coming from my university Career Center — if sarcasm were a knife, let me just tell you, it’d make some fucking epic sashimi — I’ve been trying not to lose myself to the hopelessness of living in a small city with absolutely nothing to do.

Luckily — and by luckily, I mean I’ve been fucking around with the gears of destiny myself — I started searching for shows and venues to attend.
But this time, not as a fanboy.
As a photographer.
Remember my bucket list? Well…
Tick fucking marked.

PUNK IS NOT DEAD. IT JUST MOVED TO SEGRATE

One particular show was calling me: Punkadeka!
An Italian congregation of punk-ska-folk-rock misfits still doing their part to keep refined musical taste alive.
(Come on, La Sad. Get back here. I wanted to see you live!)
And the headliners?

None other than motherfucking MxPx.

The definition of oldies but goldies.
I’ve been listening to these guys since around 2006 — although somehow I have vague memories connected to them going all the way back to 2002. More on that questionable piece of brain storage in a second.
MxPx is one of those bands that quietly ended up marking different moments of my life.
There was venting everything out with Secret Weapon. There were the lovely moments listening to Everything Sucks (When You’re Gone) — thanks for bringing up my ex, motherfuckers — and then there was probably my undisputed favorite:
Kids in America.
(Yes, the cover.)
And this is where my brain apparently decided to manufacture its own cinematic universe.
For YEARS, I could have sworn I heard that song during the first Digimon movie. It was completely mixed into those memories: Digimon, early-2000s chaos, Kids in America…
Except apparently I was wrong.
So either my memory is broken, or somewhere in the multiverse there’s a superior cut of the Digimon movie with MxPx in it.
I choose the second explanation.

SO I ASKED 

There was no fucking way I was letting this one pass.
I messaged the organizers asking if I could photograph the show and, to my surprise, they said yes.
They trusted an unknown foreigner with precisely zero concerts of experience as a concert photographer to stand between the stage and several hundred punk fans.
Granted, I wasn’t the only photographer there.
But still.
They trusted me.
Which meant that instead of hiding a camera somewhere and trying to sneak a couple of pictures like some photography goblin, I was actually there with accreditation.
Front and center.
Ready to photograph bands.
And apparently ready to frontline the flying kicks, shoes and occasional headbutts arriving courtesy of crowdsurfers launching themselves over the barricade.
That also gave me the privilege of witnessing what I can only describe as a beautiful moment of love at first sight between a crowdsurfer and a security guy.

Their eyes met.
Time stopped.
He gently caught her in his arms.
Punk is beautiful.
And then tossed her the fuck off the stage.
Punk is still beautiful.

WAIT. I’M ACTUALLY THE PHOTOGRAPHER?

So yeah, back to the point:
I went there as a photographer.
Not hiding a camera.
Not pretending.
Not “the guy who brought his Nikon.” (I use Sony)
A real photographer.
A slightly shy, internally-panicking photographer… but a real one nonetheless.
THANK YOU FOR THE TRUST, PUNKADEKA!
And holy shit, what a way to debut.
Nine bands.
Nine different performances.
Nine opportunities for me to either take a great picture or discover another creative way of fucking it up.
So let me introduce you to what I can only describe as:

A ROSTER OF NINE BADDIES

ALREADY BURIED

The frontliners. Rough attitude, plenty of swagger and basically the musical equivalent of someone kicking the door open and yelling: “Yeah, this is what your day is going to look like.”
Good, I was in.

LILLIANS

Such a fucking good vibe. Great stage presence, loads of interaction, and before long they were already calling everyone to come closer and join the party.
At this point I was starting to realize something important:
Photographing punk musicians is considerably harder when they refuse to stand the fuck still.
Who would’ve guessed?

LIBIDINE

These guys didn’t just play the stage; they fucking occupied it.
Having a toast with people in the crowd, moving around, enjoying every second of their own show…
And honestly, there’s something contagious about watching a band that looks like they genuinely want to be exactly where they are.

TRAUMA

Pure energy. Strong performance, strong presence and absolutely no intention of giving either the crowd a break.

DURACEL

Charisma and energy all over the place.
They had that kind of attitude that makes photographing a band incredibly fun because every few seconds somebody is giving you another moment worth capturing.
At least when your autofocus agrees.

UGUAGLIANZA

One of my favorite kinds of performances: chill, happy faces while simultaneously shredding the fucking stage.
There’s something wonderful about musicians looking like they’re having the time of their lives while creating absolute chaos in front of them.
And then…
Things started heating up.

GRADE 2

Holy shit.
The vocals, the sound, the stage presence — everything suddenly felt bigger.
This was around the point where the festival started shifting gears. The crowd got heavier, the movement got wilder and the nice safe little photography pit I had been getting comfortable in started looking increasingly like somewhere I might receive a shoe directly to the skull.
Which, naturally, meant things were getting good.

And somewhere around the middle of all this, I had one of those moments where my brain finally stopped worrying about settings, focus and whether the next crowdsurfer was about to kick me in the fucking head.
Part of me suddenly realized:
Wait… I’m kind of living the dream here.
I was at the very front of a punk festival without having to queue six hours before the concert, slowly dehydrating under the sun while defending my precious 40 centimeters of barricade with my life.
I could leave.
Grab some water.
Get a pizza.

(Shoutout to the absolute legends working the food stands through the summer heat, by the way. At least you had a fucking amazing soundtrack blasting into the kitchen.)
And then…
I could just go back to the front.
Back to the speakers blasting hard enough to rearrange my internal organs.
Back to that rhythm that makes my heart beat.
It felt fucking amazing.
But there was also something weird about it.
Because for the first time at a concert, I was split into two different people.
There was Photographer Me:
Get the shot. Watch the light. Where’s the focus? WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU FOCUSING ON THAT? Wait for the jump. Shit. Missed it. Try again.
And then there was Fanboy Me, watching the mosh pit slowly turn into beautiful sweaty chaos:

And honestly?
Both sides were having the time of their lives.
One second I’d be trying to nail a shot while silently arguing with my autofocus. The next I’d be staring at the crowd wishing I could throw the camera somewhere safe, jump over the barricade and disappear into the pit.
And somewhere in between all that, I’d remember that I had somehow grabbed the wrong fucking memory card before leaving.
Of course I did.
First concert as a photographer and apparently I needed an additional difficulty setting.
So there I was: memory space becoming increasingly precious, autofocus occasionally deciding it had developed artistic independence, my ears getting absolutely murdered by the speakers…
…and me desperately wanting to be on both sides of the barricade at the same time.
That’s something I never really understood about concert photography until I was there.
Being at the front doesn’t necessarily mean you’re closer to the concert.
It’s just a completely different way of living it.
On one side, you’re looking for the moment.
On the other, you’re completely fucking lost inside it.
And apparently…
I fucking love both.
And then came Talco.

TALCO

What the fuck do you want me to say?
Talco is Talco.
A ridiculously strong Italian folk-punk band with the kind of music that doesn’t really ask a crowd to participate.
It fucking summons them.
The folk blood courses through their veins and somehow spreads directly into the audience. People sing, jump, scream and collectively forget that tomorrow their knees are going to remind them they’re not sixteen anymore.
Before this festival, Talco was one of the only two bands on the lineup I already knew.
Italian folk-punk absolutely worth sacrificing blood, a goat and a picture of Maradona to.
And yes.
The Maradona picture is important.
They love Maradona.
But then…
Stop.
Go back.
Because there was still one band left.

MOTHERFUCKING MXPX

This was it.
The band I came wanting to see.
The band I had been saving shots for.
A band that has been around long enough to qualify as part of punk-rock history walked onto that stage and apparently decided that simply walking wasn’t dramatic enough.

Flying kick.
We’re starting with a flying kick.
Excellent.
From there, MxPx rammed into the show head-on.

Guitars flying through the air.
Constant movement.
Jumps.
Smiles.
Insane energy.
Mike Herrera commanding the stage like this was just another Tuesday after decades of doing exactly this.

And meanwhile I was standing there thinking:
Don’t fuck this up.

Because suddenly this wasn’t me photographing some random show to practice anymore.
I was standing a few meters away from MxPx, camera in my hands, photographing a band whose songs had been bouncing around my head for something close to two decades.
Every few seconds there was another shot.

Another jump.
Another guitar in the air.
Another moment where my brain wanted to stop being a photographer and revert immediately to:
HOLY SHIT, THAT’S MXPX.
But I kept shooting.
And I fucking loved every second of their performance.

Before arriving at Punkadeka, I really knew two bands from the lineup:
Talco and MxPx.
By the end of the night?
The whole fucking roster was a banger.

And somewhere between the first shutter click, the flying guitars, the crowdsurfers and the security guy briefly finding the love of his life before yeeting her away from the stage…
I had photographed nine bands.
My first concert.
From the other side of the barricade.

Tick fucking marked.