Davide Van De Sfroos
Yanez

In an era when the province of Como is known mainly for bizarre characters from Big Brother or, worse, for neighborhood monsters, while the silk market is dying and the Giorg Clunei wander its streets, Davide Van De Sfroos has represented (for almost 20 years) a breath of fresh air, the artistic redemption of a splendid and wild province. “Ciamel amuur; o ciàmel nagott”, he tells us: call it love, or don't call it at all.

That dialect which, between Ceresio and Lario, drifts away from the Milanese first and then from the Comasco, absorbing many sounds from neighboring Ticino, in Davide's pen assumes the dignity and artistic value of a true language; the literature of this language – which is primarily his literature –, its poetic backbone, from the bar stories of the beginnings, over the years has been enriched with tales of emigrants, mysterious and dark legends (in the excellent “Akuaduulza”, for me his masterpiece) and stories of social redemption (listen, for example, to the wonderful “40 pass”, from the album “Pica!”).

“Varda che loena stasira: l’è cürva che paar un seghezz¹; a chi che ghe diis che l’estaa l’è finida che tajumm la lengua de mèzz!”

Anticipated at Sanremo by the effective eponymous track, as catchy as it is melancholic, ultimately autobiographical and supported by a very original underlying idea, a few days ago “Yanez”, his sixth solo album, named after the famous Salgari character, was released. It is a much less immediate album than other works by the singer-songwriter from Monza (and adopted from Tramezzina), but what immediately stands out from the first listen is the exceptional quality of the lyrics; the words of the songs, like brushstrokes of a painter, capture, after all, the emotions and experiences of a lifetime.

“Because ‘l teemp l’è un cunili che scapa, ma l’è anca ‘l can che ghe curr adree.”

Van De Sfroos, who is also a writer, has an almost total mastery of the dialect and can render in an impressionistic way sensations, moods, smells, actions, and thoughts of the people populating the stories he tells, and he knows how to further enclose them in a shell of moving and disarming reality, whether the stories take place on the shores of the laagh (“Setembra”), along the highway in Casalpusterlengo (“Il camionista ghost rider”) or in the cold Russian plains ravaged by war (“Il reduce”).

“E se vardi sto guantu de pell, cun suta un pügn de legn, se dumandi se la man che ho perdüü l’è dree amò a sparà. […] La tua cruus la g’ha sempru tri cioo², e la mia uviameent voen in menu, ma son qui con la stessa preghiera, come ogni sera: te la scrivo col sangue non speso e una penna nera”.

Indeed, melancholy seems to be the dominant theme of the work, as is already apparent from the first song (“El carnevaal de Schignan”): the carnival – and that of Schignano is the most famous in the Como area – is emblematic of this state of mind. “Nissoena maschera cambia facia, anca se suta gh’è un omm che piaang.”, he recounts. There are no messages of hope, in short, there are no morals or lessons; only life lived, and narrated with the voice of the people.

“Ho giügaa i me caart, tra i piant de rusmarén e la rüdeera, cui pügnatoni nel ventru dela sira; in pée, ma cun l'umbrìa sempru in genoecc.

From a compositional standpoint, the album is, as mentioned, splendid, one could, at most, point out a musical structure that is no longer very original, which now suffers from what Davide has already composed in the past; however, I listen to Davide Brambilla's accordion and Angapiemage Persico's violin weaving their always precious fabrics like silk threads and, with a bit of a lump in my throat, I think back to the uduu del laagh, the whistle of the wind, the overflow of its waves. I think back to home.

“Se te podet, fermess che, che in dué tira ‘l veent; i niguj g’hann poca memoria, ma l’erba resta in dué l’è.

Davide… what he is, and what he represents, you've seen it; and you've understood who he is, despite the idiotic questions of critics who, in front of his immense cultural baggage and the traditions of my lands that he carries with him, had no better ideas than to throw the usual false and predictable stereotypes at him.

“E te séet menga se l’è culpa del cioo, o del martell che l’ha picàa; e la matena la g’ha l’oor in buca, però i diamanti i a scundüü in del cüü.”

To my land which, you can do nothing about, you miss it.

¹ Look at the moon tonight: it's curved like a little saw.

² Your cross always has three nails.

³ I played my cards, among the rosemary plants and the garbage, with knots in the stomach of the evening; standing, but with the shadow always on its knees.

⁴ If you can, stop here where the wind blows; the clouds have little memory, but the grass stays where it is.