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Rating: Of course, a piano.
Punctual like taxes. Planted on the stage. A black Steinway, imposing and menacing.
Just like - punctual like taxes - the (so to speak) friendly Palestinian who waits for me outside every single time I go out to smoke. Who has elected me his best friend years ago now. And who never forgets me. Not even that the last time I ran away without remembering his poor creature left in who knows which faraway country. And who - I’m sure - is crying at this moment. Not because he misses his father. Imagine that. But because his father can’t send him what he needs to eat. That is, because of me. He doesn’t say it out of delicacy but makes me understand it.
This time I reach an agreement. Clearly favorable. I drop him five euros on the condition that he lets me smoke. Without speaking to me. He asks for ten. We negotiate. Seven and a half seems acceptable to both. Businessmen are born, what can you do?
The piano, as we were saying. We arrive very early, about an hour before. Already eaten. Yet it’s packed. The only free spot? Guess... Yes, almost like a reserved tag is missing. We can, however, appreciate two fundamental improvements compared to the previous time:
- there is someone who will play this piano
- we manage to choose a table not exactly close. This way we’ll have a view - besides obviously the pianist - of half of Al Di Meola, of almost an entire percussionist, of the drummer’s head.
Al Di Meola, then. A historical guitarist. Historical, famous, and important. Oh my, my boss, who claims to be conservatory graduated, I toss it in the afternoon as I rush I have to go listen to him. And she responds, I don’t know who he is. Boh, peculiarities. A couple of times, I already tossed her some operatic quotes, and she still looks bewildered. Artistic incompatibility?
But anyway, come what may, we manage to finish quickly, and here we are. With the famous or almost guitarist who is - or at least seems - much younger than I imagined. White shirt, jeans, and glasses. Ovation as soon as he enters.
Plus a pianist who looks like an old Boris Spassky, a percussionist who looks like a lifeguard, one of those who, if you’re in a summer holiday club, sends all the girls into a frenzy, and a drummer of whom I see only the head, and the hairstyle, and I think he’s from Oklahoma. I don’t know why, but I’m sure if someone styles their hair like that, like if you did it here in the fifties, they’d mock you for looking old, then you must be from Oklahoma. All three will play behind transparent plexiglass barriers. Why? It’s the burning question of the evening. No answer, or maybe who knows, lost in the wind...
Al Di Meola in front. His speed in moving his fingers on the guitar is impressive. Truly frightening. For an hour and a half, he impresses us. Proposing a series of pieces that send the audience into raptures. Like Spanish-style guitar, with the lifeguard making his muscles twitch while hitting little bells, fireworks, and whatever else, with old Boris Spassky occasionally using just one hand, and the Oklahoma drummer minding not to mess his hairstyle. There, imagine a series of songs with a Spanish guitar, drums, percussion, something on the piano? And always a bang at the end. At the end of each song, Al Di Meola says olé. For an hour and a half. Nice. Varied, especially. Exciting, especially.
Then - fortunately - they grant two encores.
Well, these two encores were two songs with Spanish-style guitar, a sturdy and agile lifeguard percussionist, a still awake Boris Spassky despite the time, an Oklahoma drummer always well-groomed.
And a delirious audience.
And one, among the audience, who had long been watching the clock and couldn’t wait to listen to Pres and Teddy again, like now.
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