Biagio Antonacci
Vicky Love...

This review requires a couple of premises. I'll be brief. Premise number 1: I am not a fan of Biagio Antonacci; I only know about him from what various radios, Sanremo festivals, Festivalbars, and the like have broadcast, and what various hormone-crazed friends have pushed onto me over the years. Premise number 2: the decision to listen to (and then review) this album stemmed from gaining access to two complimentary tickets through which I attended the singer’s concert at the Meazza stadium last June 30th. Hence, my desire to delve into the pieces I couldn’t fully appreciate during the (not insignificant) live performance because they were new to me. And the reckless idea to procure the latest work from Rozzano’s own, the unreviewable "Vicky Love." End of the premises. "Vicky Love," or "The Kama Sutra rewritten by an authority in the field, namely Mr. Antonacci Biagio from Rozzano." Oh come on, be serious; I can see you there getting all excited, with the grim look asking, "What does Antonacci have to do with the Kama Sutra?" Well, he does, my friends, in this case, he does. Having doffed the (baggy) clothes and long hair of the suburban hippie, and the flower power vibes of "Mi fai stare bene," having long abandoned the proto-rebellions of rock from "Liberatemi," Biagio shows us what a well-off, middle-class forty-year-old can do, offering us a CD of abysmal music but with sexually explosive lyrics. The intent is evident from the booklet, where he poses "au naturel": he claimed to have done it to offer the public his most intimate side (oh, what a noble gesture), but I think it’s an excellent way to say plainly "call a spade a spade." I don’t want to emphasize the music, as it would be impossible, since the music in these tracks is dramatically absent. Instead, a diverse ensemble of polyphonic notes, with the sole purpose of serving as a background to the declarations that the handsome Biagio elicits from his prodigious pen. Biagio, an unappreciated poet of our times. How else could one explain the introspective hermeticism of words like "look, the things I tell you do not love each other; if you have to love, you must love me… I would die on that beautiful white body of yours; I would die???" But this is just the beginning, as the radio single isn’t supposed to shock young consciences too much. The milestones of lyricism hide within the folds of the internal tracks. How can one remain indifferent to words such as "the day ends and I should manage to sleep, I try, but with you beside me, my mind always goes there, once again between your legs with your panting breath" ("E' Soffocamento")? From the first track, one sees the means used to sell: what theme besides sex draws people in, thus their money??? Biagio, as a cunning old fox, seems to know this well, and it shows. From start to finish, this "Vicky Love" is all about showcasing, in various (almost always questionable) ways, Horace’s ars amandi. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched to call it a concept centering on the various ways to know how to make love: words like "There is silence when newspapers are out / It’s silent the touch… fertile… of breasts…" ("C'è silenzio") cannot be explained otherwise. There’s everything: from a refined fetish touch ("I will be unpredictable… I will kiss your tired feet and you will sleep"), to thoughts of rebellion against the arrogant ruling class ("Boss, your wife is too revealing / I think about her at night, velvet and laid out / Boss, your daughter is a tad spoiled / And she doesn’t resemble you much...") to pastoral-bucolic performances ("Ladybug, you've flown all the way here / Maybe the wind or luck brought you / You came to see how love is made / You came, and I happened to be here..."), in what, perhaps due to my innate characteristic of wanting to see goodness even where there is none, I consider the only salvageable track: "Coccinella." But the keystone of it all is at the end, where in the space of the last tracks, the real, inimitable stroke of genius strikes the ear. First and foremost, the apology on masturbation and simulated orgasms that is "Non eri tu": a story of a man disappointed by his partner’s sexual performance, who can do no better than mentally evoke other sexual encounters and/or solitary pleasures to bring the act to at least a dignified conclusion ("The first time we made love / I had a sporadic symptom / While trying to please you / I saw muddiness in your eyes, and to enjoy, I had to fly / Dusting off a body not your own / If to enjoy I must invent…. You’re not that thrill of freedom..." masterpiece!!!!!). Around that "sporadic symptom," we could summon a host of sexologists and engage in discussions on grand meanings that... but no. Let's move on. Let the last track play through and wait a bit. The unthinkable happens. Even a dedication from Biagio himself, recited with a smooth voice, which sets about explaining the ghost track (wow). It’s "Fotografie," a song Biagio found on an old DAT tape (he himself carefully explains it to us, sparing no detail) and presented as it is, owing to its enduring relevance matching the latest artistic and songwriting directions, despite having more than a few decades of age behind it. Astounding.  Never in my life have I had to endure an hour of real or supposed trysts, enriched at the end by a children’s fairy tale with deep thanks to fans, reassurances, and wishes for happiness, good health, and prospects for a bright future. My goodness, what chills. Something like 5 minutes of life storytelling and then a track that would have been better off hidden for another 15 years. Mmmm, "Vicky Love"... right click... delete... move the folder and all its content to the trash? Absolutely yes....