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Rating: Prologue
Corso di Francia is the prototype of a road created in the image and likeness of rubber-tired vehicles: a wide and scorching strip of asphalt, crossable at one's own risk.
I walk south, between the railing and the guardrail: a long and narrow corridor of solitary thoughts and hummed tunes inspired by the moment that no one can hear.
Suddenly, here are the three immense shells of the Auditorium, a bit like immense larvae, a bit like stubby ships for interstellar voyages.
Near the sun there's a spaceship – empty – and an absent sailor looks up puzzled.
Single Act
I enter the cavea with the certainty of seeing, even if only for a handful of songs, two pieces of Italian music history and a young and pure-bred singer-songwriter.
The architecture is very suggestive (the idea of making everyone enter and exit from two tiny openings a bit less so, but oh well); this is what I think while I reach my seat on the tiers. I am in the penultimate row, and I wonder: if I paid sixty euros (spent - I must say - more than willingly, since it’s for charity), where the hell did they put those who paid forty?
I closed the windows to not let even the air inside.
The first three performances (which I deem very good) are by as many musical entities that I do not know: the Middle Eastern contaminations of Radiodervish and the talented and tireless Etta Scollo are striking, and the classical touches of Roberto Cacciapaglia leave a mark.
But I'm not here for them, after all; and the view of the gray hair of the old genius cannot help but warm my heart, and those of the middle-aged fans around me.
Good old Franco offers some recent pieces, providing in my opinion a not unforgettable performance (after all, never having seen him live before last night, I have no term of comparison), but more than dignified.
The duet with Consoli in “Tutto L’Universo Obbedisce All’Amore” seems very improvised though, and let's agree to forget it quickly.
I am the devil of the house; of a star, the Azimuth annulled.
Then she enters, the true reason that pushed me, after a day at the office getting sick from air conditioning, to that place, at that time.
Before she opens her mouth, you think Alice is beautiful; even at 56, undeniably: if thirty years ago she was stunning, really stunning, now she is a lady who carries her years, which, inexorably, increase, with great elegance.
Then she begins to sing with a rejuvenated Battiato, and the trains to Tozeur pass by slowly as back then, once more.
Next comes “Il Contatto”, performed on the piano with the support of the “Roma Sinfonietta” orchestra, conducted by Buonvino and an excellent constant throughout the evening.
You think that with that voice, even from a sidereal distance (not bad, for an amphitheatre so small in the end), she could sing for hours; and instead, on the stool that's too low, she offers one more pearl, just one. But a pearl, of incredible value; Corso di Francia might offer inspirations for embarrassing songs (Many cars in Corso di Francia: there's one more jam in the kingdom) for employees walking soul-sweating in the heat, but the “Prospettiva Nevskij” is moving for its emotional power. Deeply moving.
It’s a November evening; it's raining outside, a dog barks. Chills on the skin say that I love you.
The trio Carmen Consoli - Marina Rei - Paola Turci is, as far as I'm concerned, the great surprise of the evening: if the first, decidedly more lively and comfortable than before, didn’t need to prove anything to (me) (but how nice to finally see her live, even if for so few songs), the performance of the other two singers – prototype of the artist who, for consistency with themselves, moves away from the big stages of compromise, and in this compare to the great lady Bissi – pleasantly surprised me.
A couple of excellent pieces (“I Miei Complimenti” by Rei and “Fiori D’Arancio” by Consoli), played effectively by the three and properly embellished by the orchestra and a skilled violinist (whose name I don't know - but I add that he also stood out for the girl at the exit); then the unexpected piece: fantastic, without half measures. Rei, essential and clean on the drums, beats furiously; Turci strums the acoustic guitar as if it were a grater; Consoli goes to town on the bass, and it’s a pleasure: you expect anything and find yourself watching grandpa Franco, pleased, jovially strolling among the three granddaughters who pay him tribute. Cuccuruccucù, Paloma.
It draws to a close, and it’s time for a second duet between the two sacred monsters; nothing new, thankfully: she sings superbly, he composes marvelously and “La Cura” is a stunning song. And who cares.
During the applause, heartfelt and prolonged, next to me, a curly-haired person with a strange way of speaking invokes “Per Elisa” mumbling the words, followed by half the audience; I know she hardly ever sings it, and I'm not wrong this time either: I was prepared, and to comfort myself, I had sung it to myself – not even badly, I must say – along Corso di Francia before the concert.
Meanwhile the universe moans in the throes of labor: those who know things do not speak.
The two instead sing a very symphonic version of the lovely “Nomadi”, before saying goodbye to the audience; which leaves very slowly from the two overflow orifices mentioned earlier, at least cheered by one last, nostalgic flourish from the Catanese, who in the historical pieces recovers greatly.
I hope the Era of the White Boar returns soon, too.
Epilogue
The wait at the artists' exit was not very fruitful: to my great regret, I did not see Alice, Consoli evaporated in two minutes and Battiato offered himself (appearing from behind, already on the street – anaphase) only for a couple of photos (a couple, oh my... one), before bidding us goodnight and getting in the car (him in the back, the nose up front). A monument.
Only Rei (who has her own appeal, let's say it) came out immediately, allowing me not to return home with a blank sheet (and to add her signature to several autographs of inestimable value, among which those of Ciriaco Sforza, Gigi Sgarbozza and the very nice Carla Norghauer). In the end, the time to return home, still satisfied. Not before the long parade in the cool air of the Roman night.
I detest people who scream for nothing, and I like to drink as much as I hate smoking; I love driving alone on a highway, and I laugh thinking of my own funny thoughts.
In Corso di Francia.
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