ABBA
Gold: Greatest Hits

THE REVIEW

For example, I once scored a goal.

The ball was coming from the right. Actually, the midfielder wanted to shoot it at the goal – and thank goodness, because if he had wanted to pass it to me, who knows where he would have sent it – and instead it ended up being the perfect assist. And I was there: in the right place at the right time, as has rarely happened to me in life.

I knew that the full-back was about to crash into me with all his 87 kg of build, but luckily for me, he had a low center of gravity and the speed of a sleepy sloth. There was plenty of time to look the goalkeeper in the eyes: I could sense his fear. He now understood that eating a porchetta sandwich before a match wasn't such a clever idea.

I stretched beyond my cartilage, conscious of facing at least a week of unrepeatable curses and fierce pains.

And when the ball hit the net, She was there.

If She is watching you while you play soccer, if she cheers when you score a goal (even if you're on a rocky and uneven suburban field and you're losing 14 to 5). If she remained there sitting on an uncomfortable bench watching a dozen bizarre little men making fools of themselves and risking a heart attack, wallowing in the mud and insulting each other, then, even if you haven't realized it yet, even if you don't deserve it, you are a lucky man. Lucky and rich.

The adverse Gods may launch against you with all their ferocity, the cruel eyes of the night may spy on your sleep, but neither the ugliness of the World nor the stupidity of Useless Talk can ever undermine the Grace of that benevolent Glance.

A Princess' gaze that makes the knight proud, the gaze of a Mother who protects and cares.

She who was only a mother-to-be for just under four weeks.

I know only a few things, but I know that the God of Pop exists.

He must exist because it's absurd to believe that certain things happen by chance. Like when you return home and have said goodbye to Marco for the last time, and you don't feel like doing anything, you turn on the TV and – is it just a coincidence? – on an improbable channel, "Blues Brothers" is on. Or when you didn't get the job and the radio, suddenly, gifts you "Anarchy in the UK" there in the traffic, so you don't have to scream alone.

To all of us, the God of Pop has smiled, at least once.

At least once, that old, affable long-haired dude, has sat next to us, in silence, as only friends in certain moments know and can do. He rolled a cigarette and stayed there next to us waiting.

Because, He knows: all things pass.

And so, I know that He and only He could have put this CD in my car. The "Greatest Hits" of Abba (because I swear, I don't remember doing it). Only He could have prompted some acquaintance of mine to gift it to me, knowing what an extraordinary pain in the ass I am when it comes to music and how much I hate Greatest Hits. And finally, only He could have stopped my hand when I – pompous fool – had decided to throw that disc in the trash.

Because, you see, when the Planets seem to converge on your fourth house and the Moon is in trine, whatever that may mean, when it seems that everything is going your way, then you can't just stare at your toes.

Run home with Her.

Because, we know, all things pass. Happiness is a nasty and mocking deity that doesn't like to stay in one place for long.

And certainly, in the car with Her, you don't listen to a prog suite, nor a string quartet, or vintage jazz, nor – definitely – brutal metal or an overly intelligent singer-songwriter.

No.

At certain moments, all you need is some healthy, colorful, useless, boisterous Pop. Stuff like Abba, with those bouffant hairstyles, the improbable makeup, sequins like village festivals, and the plastered and fixed smile. In certain moments, you have to sing, sing with Her.

Sing for Her.

Even if Science still doesn't know it (or perhaps it refuses to say it), there is a fundamental force in the Cosmos, an energy that moves things: it is the Universal Power of the Chorus. And Abba know how to compose a chorus. These guys know what they're doing. They know how to build a song.

They are on a mission from the God of Pop.

And in this album, those choruses are all there: "Waterloo", "Mamma Mia", "SOS", "Dancing Queen", "Fernando". Because when you don't know the words, you go "na na nà nà". Who cares! Then you sing the chorus!

Because this is the music you want to listen to when you've determined that, ok, the World deserves another chance.

And it has to be a "Greatest Hits", so you don't run the risk of not knowing any of them.

Yes, this is the only possible soundtrack when you're rushing home because you've decided that in the World there's room for one more person.