Adriano Celentano
L'arcobaleno

THE REVIEW

Monza, September 9, 2014

The radio, the radio is on.

That's not really news. The radio - at my house - is always on. And especially at seven in the morning.

At seven in the morning, that day, there's Sanya. Sanya has a sweet and friendly voice, which is a real pleasure. At around seven, she plays "Rainbow." And she says today is Lucio Battisti's anniversary.

I think about 1977. About the essay by Gianfranco Manfredi. The one that showed how death, in Lucio's songs, was synonymous with orgasm. I think about how good it did me, reading it. When I was little, I didn't like Lucio Battisti. Those were difficult years, and certainly different. And listening to one thing rather than another was quite a big choice. And - usually - those who listened to Battisti had made choices very different from mine.

The "Rainbow" ends. Sanya plays another track. I finish in the bathroom, the day is about to begin.

Then something happens.

Not that this is news either, no. Something happens that I've always known. And also (but it's a very distant memory) there was a song, I believe in '77, that said it. That you could be, say, a musician, I don't know, an orchestra conductor who has to conduct Pierrot Lunaire. And you rehearse it in your head. And you know it by heart. But then - for example - the jingle of Falqui's dragee gets stuck in your head. And there's no way. Bye-bye, Pierrot Lunaire, everything goes away. Every time you try to bring it back, that little tune comes back instead. There's no way around it. It happens to me too. That September 9, 2014. With the "Rainbow."

The rainbow is my message of love, maybe one day it will be able to touch you.

I stop to get gas. And meanwhile, I hum. No words or explanations are needed. The gas station attendant tells me, come on, could it be true that he said "Brianza velenosa"? But he was in Molteno, which is a beautiful place!

I go to work, I'm sitting at the computer. I'm tinkering a bit. And without even realizing it, I sing. Gianna, next to me, says oh, do you know today is Battisti's anniversary? And I nod. And she: I didn't like Battisti. But Celentano, he's amazing. Still, it was really sweet of him to dedicate a song to him. And yeah, I didn't like it, but how many times did I sing mare nero mare nero? And she starts. (She's a little off-key, but she laughs and is friendly).

A student notices that while I'm scolding him (why, I don't quite know), I'm humming. So, without saying anything, he starts singing with a choked voice al telefono poi mi dicevi tu muori.

Nothing, there's no way around it. I try to sing all of Rigoletto by heart. I do it. Just finished, it comes back to me again.

At the bakery, there's Tamara. Is it necessary to say that while I wait to be served, I hum? And she, without needing words, starts singing il mio canto libero. The baker comes out, from the back. He's a young guy. He recites the whole "Rainbow." Without singing it. He recites the entire text, as if it were Dante. Finishes and says, still as if he were reciting: Celentano dedicated it to Lucio Battisti and Corrado Mantoni, two of his very dear friends who have passed. Proud of this display of erudition, he returns to kneading the dough. At the newsstand, we discuss the meaning of Battisti's last phase, the one with Panella. He's not really in agreement. Says that the real Lucio is the one from anima latina.

I get home, start cooking. And humming, together. I'm beginning to reach that age where I read obituaries. And a strange gift I've had since birth makes me make distinctions. And then you rethink the music of your life. And you'd like to think of Peppino. Or Mahler. Or Jannacci. Or some beautiful and indescribable piece you heard in Marvin Gaye. But there's no way around it. All you have in your head is that. Which isn't beautiful music. No. It's not. But it's part of your life. And maybe you'd even wish it weren't. A bit like Lucio Battisti.

If you think of me as I write this strange piece, think of me smiling.

And humming.

You know what. And to hell with Lucio Battisti. And also Celentano, how cool he is.