Bobo Rondelli
Disperati, intellettuali, ubriaconi

The little cloud of smoke is stirred by the blades of the ceiling fan in my small studio apartment, outside it rains on and off. Do I eat? Maybe, but I'm not that hungry and I have even less desire to cook. Beer? Why not. Music? Always.

Now I'm in the mood for something nostalgic because outside it feels like April, because I'm thinking of you and you're not here, I put on Roberto Rondelli, known as Bobo to friends; and tonight I'm his friend. So, Bobo, what do you want? Oh, sorry, I looked for you, you're right. I don't know, sing me something. The singer-songwriter from the former Ottavo Padiglione, Livornese at heart more than by birth, seems a bit embarrassed at first but then he indulges me, I sit down, press Play, and open a Tennent's.

"Disperati, intellettuali, ubriaconi", 2002, it's an album entirely created with Stefano Bollani, a versatile pianist, omnivorous, a music devourer who handles all the arrangements of this mixed fresco of melancholy and forced cheerfulness, that smile you toss on the plate to avoid too many questions. Nice choice, I say ironically, is this really what you had to sing to me, Bobo? You asked for it, you jerk. You're right, I'll shut up. But start, for heaven's sake.

"Quando non ci sei", "Vitelloni", "Fiore nell'asfalto" open the evening with the most classic club jazz with black lacquered tables, tonight this is my home, immediately it's clear that Rondelli's voice is one of those sneaky and deep ones. Bollani, on the other hand, seems to enjoy himself like a child stepping on piano keys and making all the instruments fit together like the variables of an equation.

After all, music is mathematics, and there's so much poetry in mathematics that people don't see. Already some portraits emerge in Rondelli's densely tragic lyrics, balancing between Conte, Tenco, De Andrè. "L'ultima danza" is a revisitation of a song already appeared in Rondelli's previous album, and it hits the soul, perhaps the most splendidly sad point of the whole album ("on a bench, you are only happy when you dream"). Well done, Bobo, but take it easy.

The jerk instead pulls out a cover of Piero Ciampi ("Io, te e Maria") that if you think about in bed it keeps you awake, "Suicidio Travel" ironic and tragic altogether and then "Il calore di un abbraccio". Bobo, you're going too far. Look, the Stop button is right there, if you want. No, I don't want to. Then don’t be annoying. Ok. I light another Marlboro. Where are you? "I bisogni della vita" brings back the smiling face of comedy, it doesn't last long (1:17) and then another throwback, "Gigiballa" dedicated to a brown bear who lived in the Orecchiella Nature Reserve, in Garfagnana. He lived, imperfect tense, because he passed away a few years ago. That's life, as they say.

A record of real songs, an unusual yet divine pairing, that of Rondelli and Bollani. The former a soul explorer, intimate and reckless, a wandering heart frequenting cheap joints where you drink wine until the host throws you out, the latter a melody juggler offering blues, swing, jazz, or folk, whatever he feels like, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Martin Eden" then, slow at the end of the evening. Do you want another beer? he asks me. Why not, I reply. I grab a Slalom.

On "I Dolori Del Giovane Walter" you even chuckle, with that voice filtered through an old brown radio with big valves, but "Un giorno dopo l'altro" revisits Tenco and the lights inevitably dim again, cigarette drags are long and deep, tonight’s wet Milanese sidewalks are all there. Is there much left, Bobo? No, you just focus on drinking, I'll take care of the rest. I trust him. It ends with "Cuore di bimbo", skeletal and powerful vision of the small victims of war. Thanks, Bobo, I'll buy some of your albums. Where the hell are you going? he shouts after me as I turn toward the exit. I thought it was over.

No, there’s still one more: "Gocce", on my window the rain falls down, it's like you're singing it on purpose given the evening. You really are a bastard, I think, smiling, and I sit back down. I let go and listen, think and then check the time. Nothing. Now it's truly over, I say goodbye, thank you, I get up and grab the umbrella, I go to leave but then sneak back in and see him there leaning on Bollani's piano, with his light blue shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

He stares at the floor full of footprints and wet pebbles, drinking red wine. Disperati, intellettuali, ubriaconi: three vertices of an equilateral triangle, whoever is intellectual is often desperate and whoever is desperate tends to be a drunkard, whoever is a drunkard is likely trying to stifle or set free an intellect.

What’s up? Did you forget something? he says. No, nothing, goodnight, I reply. This time I really leave.