Biagio Antonacci
Iris

THE REVIEW

There are many Biagios, millions upon millions. My cousin, for instance, is just like him, maybe even more so, and at the bar under my house, there are at least four more. All people (Biagio one, Biagio two, Biagio three, Biagio four) who would never think of rummaging through Iris's poems. Because, by the way, who has ever seen a chick who writes poems, seriously?

I mean, who do you think we are? The little girls who follow you adoringly?

We all remember Iris: a size seven bra and an avid reader of soap operas, beautiful (of course!) but not very inclined to romantic curiosities. So no, I'm sorry, but she wasn't listening to your life when she wasn't with you, she was doing other things, I don't think it's necessary to say what. And if, back in the bar days, you had asked her, "What flavors, what moods, what pains, what scents did you breathe when you weren't with me?" she would have looked at you bewildered, scrutinized you stupidly. And (maybe) from her female fish mouth would have come out (like a perfect, implacable, and ethically understandable sentence) an absent-minded: "A Biagio, but what the hell are you talking about?"

I dare not imagine what her reaction might have been in front of a possible "how much life there is, how much life with you" said, moreover, in that incredibly fake hypersensitive cat-like way of yours. Perhaps she would have laughed in your face or, perhaps, generously, as Iris was (and is) generous, she might have come out with a "call me a bitch, I like that more" (quote)...

And anyway Biagio, I can't see you like this...

So leave the fake intense voice, the mushy grimace, the melancholic face, the sepia videos. They are all things that don't fit a guy with a sound and robust physical constitution. And if you really want, talk about our melancholy, the one we never indulge in, not even by mistake and not even for a moment. Because we don't even know how to recognize melancholy.

Or talk about the tagliatelle from Laura's, the wheelies on the KTM, the porn magazine we all passed around, the Deep Purple blasted at full volume. And if Iris has to be mentioned, say that she is always here with us, always true to herself and never false... false never. Forget about "between your poems, I found something that speaks of us." Come on, Biagio, deep down you have the right face.

And anyway, we're waiting for you for a little drink. Because Mauri, the bartender, between one coffee and another, doesn’t stop sighing "that boy... that boy I don't recognize anymore"...

Trallallà...