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- The Live of Telespalla No.6 -
It was supposed to be a messed-up evening.
One of those times you have no desire to go out, it doesn't matter where you go or who you're with, because you already know you'd be bored anyway. Yet it bothers you to stay at home knowing full well that if you pick up a book, you'll just throw it away, and listening to music is out of the question: you'd hate anything coming out of your iPod headphones. So you lie on the bed, look at the calendar, and notice a post-it stuck right on today's date. You get up and look at it. It reads: "10 PM, Diaframma Concert Liò Bar". You throw away the post-it and realize a detail you hadn't noticed: today is Friday the 17th, and you're superstitious.
It was supposed to be a messed-up evening.
The Diaframma concert, you couldn't wait. You had told all your former high school mates. Those ones who make fun of the music you listen to and say: "You sure listen to strange music, starting with those Diaframma you keep pitching to us every time". The very ones who didn't want to come with you to a concert a week before: some prefer to work on Saturday night to pay for a 500 euro Anatomy book, crazy stuff! You decide to go alone. You undress, put on the first things that come to hand, notice they fit well, eat a sandwich, and then leave in your car. Liò Bar, you've never been there, but you were told it's near the Station, and you search for 20 minutes like an idiot asking for directions twice. Turning your head by chance, you see it and curse so much that if a priest had passed by, you'd have been excommunicated immediately!
It was supposed to be a messed-up evening.
Luckily, you find a parking spot nearby. Shortly after, you're inside the bar: a cold, grim place, almost like a film noir. You like the atmosphere and write a poem there; you ask the bartender for paper and pen, scribble something down quickly, and then give it to him. The bartender looks at it, by then you've left and are thinking: "The worst poem I've ever written". No matter, yet you're in a terrible mood even here: go outside and get bored, stay inside and sit glumly on a stool. Meanwhile, time passes, and you see Fiumani signing autographs and talking. You want to approach him but don't have the courage, look at the clock, and realize the concert will start late.
It was supposed to be a messed-up evening.
11:10 PM, it starts, and you're the only one sad. You've convinced yourself that in the end, it could be as splendid a concert as you want, but nothing will take that melancholy off your face. The concert begins, and you listen to an omnipresent drum, perhaps too much so, an absolutely excellent bass, and especially him, Federico Fiumani, with his guitar so dynamic and violent, with that "ugly" and emotional voice. At that moment, you understand why he always turned down all the contracts offered to him: Fiumani has found the elixir of youth and has no intention of letting it go; he looks at least 20 years younger. On stage, he yells, jumps, and flails about, not worried about the tiny space available. The magic works, everything passes, you smile, move, and sing the songs from the setlist: "Elena", "Adoro Guardarti", "Vai", "Siberia", "L'Odore delle Rose", "Il Futuro Sorride a Quelli Come Noi", and "Gennaio", especially the latter.
Suddenly, while singing, Fiumani stops everything: "I'm tired, thank you all. Good night". It was supposed to be a messed-up evening.
You stand there, motionless, between hopeful and furious, yet you applaud timidly hoping he comes out. Just when you're resigned, the encore arrives and off they go with more songs, five to be exact, but inside you, two remain: "Fiore Non Sentirti Sola" and "Neogrigio", so beautiful and so different. One is singer-songwriter and impressionist, the other New-Wave and romantic. At the end of it all, you go home fairly quickly. You enter softly to avoid waking the dog, otherwise, everyone will wake, and you don't want to hear any scolding. Before sleeping, a glance at the clock, it's 1 in the morning, and tomorrow the alarm goes off at 6 to go to University. You decide to vent: to hell with everyone, to hell with the University, to hell with former high school mates, to hell with Mirelle and the interview, to hell with Francy and her anatomy book; the only fool who throws away 500 euros instead of buying it.
May I just ask one question: "Excuse me for a moment, but the concert review?", "We'll talk about it tomorrow, Debaser will wait".
It was supposed to be a messed-up evening.
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