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Rating: I am about to cross the millennial arch, the lights dim, a last puff on the Camel and here comes Will. Applause. On the small stage, there are only him and the young drummer. The audience, about a hundred in all, gathers around the little prince like around a hearth, crouched on the white limestone slabs. Will says "buonasera," pours some red malvasia into the glass, and starts: "I see a darkness." A hypnotized snake chasing the music out of the charmer’s basket, rising high until the weight is no longer sustainable for the portion of the body holding it, then it returns to rest in the warmth of its coils. He moves like this.
Will tells us: "nel mio paese non mangiamo i cavalli." "Horses" begins. His Italian is not just thank you and good evening, but complete sentences: we are already under his power. The guitar draws distant yet familiar landscapes, the voice echoes on the medieval stones in an alternation of anger and calm, pain and relief. Another glass: "oggi non bevo sangue di Cristo, bevo sangue di San Giovanni." The spell has us in a bind, we are anchored to the damp rock overlooking the sea. Vertigo, time drops its mask and is revealed as deceit, space falls under the blows of the universal spirit that is music. He is the Master, we are Everyone.
The apocalypse is near. Everyone senses it but no one seems to care. Will confirms: "No Bad News," only the end of this human madness. It is the epilogue. The lights come on. Will has disappeared or perhaps never appeared. The people are alive and talking around me, exactly like an hour and a half ago, exactly like a moment ago. I step out of the fort beaten by the mistral, light a cigarette, and replay the moments just gone by in my mind; I can't give them shape, only color.
Will is a foreigner of the world, an alien storyteller. His music is just a means, a weapon in his hands in the form of six strings. And for one evening, we are fellow citizens without a land, pierced and happy, or perhaps drunk.
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