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"You're in a band with Michael Imperioli?" I ask my friend Elijah, trying not to sound star-struck.
"Yeah," he shrugs. "But I mean. . .don't mention The Sopranos if you meet him. He couldn't be more different from his character." Elijah pauses. "He once said to me that he likes band practice even more than filming."
* * *
It's been less than a year since the Sopranos' Michael Imperioli (the show's Christopher Moltisanti) began pursuing his dream of being in a rock band, giving birth to punk trio La Dolce Vita. The band doesn't have a record yet, but the sound was described to me as "Patti Smith-like." The last few months have consisted of endless rehearsals, culminating in a concert in Lisbon (their world premiere) arranged by Imperioli while he was filming in the area. Now, they've booked their first-ever US gig, a performance at Don Hill's -- one of New York's few clubs with the reputation of preserving the vibe, if not the music, of the '80s heavy-metal scene.
In his US singing debut, The Sopranos' Christopher Moltisanti (aka Michael Imperioli) pays homage to Patti Smith and the Pixies. Seriously!
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I observe the expectant crowd in the glow of Don Hill's multicolored neons, a group which mirrors the diversity of the band itself: lots of stoic older guys in suits mix with long-shirt-and-leggings, urban-hipster college girls, and there's a few stylistically loyal punk fans sprinkled around. The gruff, stringy-haired bartender who has just handed me my Heineken is a member of that last group. It's definitely an uncommon night for him -- he's serving more Coronas and vodka sodas than Jager bombs and jack and cokes.
Before the band takes the stage, they're introduced by none other than Dick Cavett. Despite what I'd heard about Imperioli's almost painful modesty, I was hoping he'd figure out how to break the ice at his band's debut concert in the United States. Cavett's speech does the job for him, making a Sopranos reference in the first two minutes. Cavett confesses: "I haven't actually heard them yet." But he assures us that "there was a time when no one had heard of Janis, or George Bush even." He professes his great faith in the group and introduces each one -- Imperioli as the lead singer/songwriter/guitarist, Elijah Amitin on the bass, and Olmo Tighe ("spelled the normal way," Cavett quips) on the drums.
Against the red-and-yellow background of the stage, the band strike a stark image in their black-and-white duds. Imperioli is wearing a black suit. Amitin and Tighe, both in their early twenties, dress neutral and casual. Imperioli seems a little shifty-eyed, a little nervous, but his voice is nice and gravelly, gaining urgency by the third or fourth song. The rest of the band gives life to the act: Amitin works in a head bop and Tighe's drumming is intricate and effusive. The bass line is clean, and the rhythm of the kick drum resounds in our stomachs.
The sound -- sharp and well-rehearsed -- jumps from influence to influence. I do hear the Patti Smith and the Clash in there, but the band also seems to be channeling the stylized flatness of Nirvana. Some songs even remind me of the Pixies.
"We're going to take you across the Atlantic," Imperioli murmurs, some of the first words he's said all night. Suddenly a flamenco dancer takes the stage, snapping her castanets in time with the band. A few people around me shrug. It's a puzzling but inoffensive addition, and it's dressing up one of the most accessible songs yet.
After taking off a heavy suit jacket, Imperioli starts to loosen up, correcting wavers in his voice and incorporating a little hip move. He even smiles. The band's songs become catchier, as if the jacket had been holding him back. I can't make out most of words, which are muddled by the close mic, but the Imperioli's voice becomes deeper, focused, more forceful as the set goes on.
Amidst the band's promising but bumpy performance, the crowd remains utterly invested. Fans of each of the band members give hearty applause after every single song. At moments when the lead singer seems bashful, the bass player leans over and grins: "How are you guys doin tonight?" The crowd is there for them.
They might be playing a metal club, but the band's sound is more an energetic and wistful tribute to CBGB's heydey. And the mix of twenty-something band members gives them the potential to attract as varied as audience as stands at Don Hill's. As the crowd meanders out of the venue and into the street, faces gush with pride for the fledgling band. "Not bad," everyone seems to nod.
The band lingers after the show and gives their thanks. Imperioli's jacket goes back on, but amidst the hugs and handshakes, his appreciative smile remains. As Christopher Moltisanti, he might call La Dolce Vita "faggoty garbage," but under his own name, he couldn't seem happier.
La Dolce Vita @ Maxime - Lisbon [YouTube video]
— 15 September 2006
