odradek

Hi

I'm sorry, but I can't access content from external links. If you provide the text you'd like translated, I'll be happy to help!

Never read it, although I immediately admired its prodigious effectiveness in the stories (read and reread over the years).
I wonder if I will also manage to read its theater, someday. The books have been there, on the shelf, for a while, among those waiting for me: you have reignited the spark.
P.S. Pedantic note from an admirer: you should eliminate that "ne" from "...neppure la regia di Stanislavskij che dell'opera NE aveva dato." In such a dense yet fluid page, that tiny detail is unbearable for an old nitpicker, I beg your pardon. (or Vanja?)

@[Falloppio] Well, joke about it if you like, but you should know that he was truly legendary.
And, for me, even epiphanic.

I was captivated, as if in a dream, when the sun, albeit timidly, casting its rays upon the chiseled features of his lips, illuminated the place we were in, until that moment immersed in a trembling shadow.
And we saw him, therefore, backlit, HIS VERY OWN LIGHT, just like in a dream (or like in one of those photographs of adolescent girls immersed in the fluo effect by David Hamilton).
I believe it was 1979, and I was accompanying a couple of elementary school classes along with their teachers on an outing that, without shame, I and a handful of "creators" had the audacity to call "cultural tourism": what I was exactly inventing or pretending to discover of any cultural interest on that little island emerging from Lake Orta, I truly couldn't say.
But that’s where the epiphany occurred: suddenly, in the middle of a walk that took us to the other side of the island, it flashed back in my mind.
We saw him from above, while, in a white linen outfit, he pretended to row, sitting in the little boat, which was also white, gliding on the still waters of the lake, and singing I don’t remember which gem from his repertoire, he fixed his gaze on a young lady reclining like a doll in front of him.
I have no memory of the prosaic boat that followed closely behind, hosting a small crew; it too, in the image, seems swallowed by the whirl of blinding light emanating from the smile of that oversized cherub.
You can understand that after such a vision, everything transforms, even existence itself takes on an additional dimension, in which everything seems possible.
And it is white.

Thank you for resurrecting the source of every vision I have of the world.

I don't know if it's a dish or a side, but I don't understand what the reviewer did wrong for you to want to replace it with the reviewer.
But I'm sure you have your justifiable reasons.
Another curiosity: I read that you are 14 years old; what are you doing in this den of old-timers?

However, after giving it some thought, it may be necessary to reiterate that, whether one likes it or not (I, for years, have stopped caring about the shifts in his production), there have been no other Italian musicians in the last 50 years who have traversed such diverse, seemingly, in some cases, antithetical territories as he has. Certainly, not always with memorable outcomes, but with an impeccable internal coherence. I remain touched by that unpresentable melodic singer who tried to break into the big league of mainstream music (with no success) and who, a few years later, re-emerged in new forms proposing alien sounds, now resolutely determined to follow his own private path. (I happened to meet him during that time: I was a pretentious and fascinated teenager, he was a willing but resolute adult: I really liked him, that face, that beat-up station wagon, that court of young handmaidens and wild technicians.) And then, years later, he played an equally bold card, releasing a record of little songs for his old small fans, unexpected and disarming. And he didn’t just win a hand, but the pot. From then on, I watched with pleasure his commercial rise (which, essentially, is what national popular success produces), genuinely happy for him. But by that point, my Francuzzo was long gone, and the excess devotion of his ever-widening audience pushed me to the margins.

Now that he's passed away, I am reminded of those afternoons almost 50 years ago, listening to Fetus and Pollution, that otherness that seemed to respond to my, our desire. Something that had nothing to do with rock, so pervasive and assertive, so epidermically "collective." A music that seemed to suggest other possibilities. So, I say farewell to that Battiato, and to my 15 years. @[algol] I hope I have earned myself a good ration of whippings on the member for this umbilical post: I would appreciate them from you, as those from any other DeUsers seem, on this specific occasion, irrelevant. Thank you.

Five stars are too many.

@[asterisco] I hope this doesn't come off as intrusive: I'd like to point out a nice "descriptive" review by Alberto Campo, one of the few whose work I appreciate almost always.

Le promesse di Floating Points e Pharoah Sanders | Il giornale della musica