Voto:
Personally, I have always considered the aforementioned character a damn lucky fool, a little idiot born during the era of the maranza, as you rightly recall, with a brain the size of an olive pit and artistic capabilities of a 60s steel cupboard leg, you remember, the ones with felt pads underneath.
There.
The worst has indeed revealed itself over time, and to the worst, by definition, there is never an end. Our guy tidied up his little persona; those who managed him knew that times were changing (always for the worse), and he couldn’t be proposed in the same way all the time, so they relaunched him in another, trendier version, crafting a career entirely centered on his figure, a sort of disarticulated creature ruthlessly thrown onto the stages of the Boot, where he put on indecorous shows where, unable to sing, he improvised as a rapper, a proponent of a genre for which, I must say, I have never had any inclination but do hold some respect for a few of its sincere epigones. The debauched one from Cortona then adopted some vaguely leftist stances, wanting to pigeonhole everything, vaguely indeed, for heaven's sake.
It is also true that Lorenzino can't even dance, but on stage he always manages to organize himself so as to choreograph the more lively pieces like a primate experiencing badly managed epileptic fits. Disarticulated, I already mentioned, I think is the minimal political description to define him on this occasion.
Thus, he has shown a truly accommodating version of himself to everyone, one that pleases me—and also dad and grandma, (listen to the correct things he says about society and the world in general...) seasoning his insipid speeches with guttural and out-of-place laughter, repeating unbearably annoying refrains with lyrics that would be overly generous to call laughable, lacking any depth, suited to the average cerebral-intellectual level of his fans who follow him by the thousands from one stage to another, establishing a singular coincidence with the fans of that other buffoonish mystery that has adorned the Italian discography for a good forty years now, that Vasco Rossi from Zocca with whom he culturally shares much more than it seems at first glance.
It must be said, and it would be strange otherwise, that our man relies on periods with characters who, on a marketing level or a production-artistic level, know how to guide him without appearing too much: primarily, there was the archetypal sly fox of Italian music, living without thinking that music was being consumed, which was Claudio Cecchetto, then, for example, the sound team led by Saturnino, an excellent bassist of his support group and his link to the world of the seven notes in general.
An unworthy impostor, in short, one of those who comfort the weak heart of those who know they are worth nothing, in no field, finding solace in seeing that someone worse than them has made it and has been ridiculing him insolently and persistently for a good forty years.
