odradek

ZiOn, by Jarmusch, I see you pick three titles among the best (I would definitely swap Stranger Than Paradise for Daunbailò, but de gustibus). Maybe you've also heard the record by "his" The Del Byzanteens, which contains, in the title track, a verse that seems to encapsulate much of his "poetics." It says (I quote from memory) IF I ONLY HAVE ONE LIFE LET ME LIVE IT AS A LIE.

Oh my God! Are you serious, then? I absolutely have to listen to Kosmo and Trell. You’re so categorical it's almost scary…

"Inside me lives the identical life of microorganisms that don't know they belong to my body... To which body do I belong?" is a nearly tautological closing for a review of this record. But I'm glad you took care of it. You know, you touched on a point with these backward dives that momentarily brings back the taste of that lemon, when this discovery was absolute, in a desolate and foreign landscape. Yes, sweet Enea. The poignant benefits of nostalgia, no matter what the fools say. I'll slip you one of those usual boring reading recommendations: "Nostalgia del presente" (and the title alone might be enough for you) by J.L. Borges, from "La cifra," a collection of poems. It's probably still available. You'll have plenty of time. Areknames.

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Several years later, I walked into a little shop to buy "L'era del cinghiale bianco" on the very day of its release and to discover what strategy he had chosen to implement in order to return to the stage. And that remains one of his most magical works, despite perhaps the overly sharp connotation of the sounds.
MORALE DELLA FAVOLA: the Pezzullo pass, the Battiato remains.
Even though now, for a while, he has ceased to interest me. But one grows old, and it's nice to feel Enea's enthusiasm now that my own has faded out some time ago.

And trying to convince the stubborn Sicilian. After overcoming a weak reaction from his entourage (only young ladies, not a single one even remotely graceful and equally quirky), I managed to sit in this Peugeot with Francuzzu. Damn, he was fried. And how angry he was. And how unyielding: "I’m not going back up there, and I’ll never sing in favor of anyone again, especially these buddies." He told me that at the beginning it happened to him often: a hapless agent had even set a date for him to open for a concert of Mario Merola (you know the AUDIENCE of Merola?) He lasted even less there, but that was more understandable, he said. And I agreed with him. Meanwhile, on stage, the parade of “singer-songwriters and poets” continued, and after giving up the attempt to convince him, we stayed to chat a bit, with the background of those little guitars, those voices trying to emphasize the imminent revolution that smelled like hot air.

So when Battiato took the stage after some bare-footed, depressed, and committed singer-songwriter, introduced by recorded tapes and accompanied by a young lady under a colorful umbrella who wandered around his nose, I was in an adolescent rapture, listening to what seemed like astrophysical theories interspersed with Sicilian phonemes. Even before my astonishment turned into curiosity, the small working-class choir began to express its opinion, and it did so with the traditional clamor that created such an effect in internal marches, in the labyrinthine car factory: "Go to work, take care of yourself, what the hell do you want, but get lost..." And Franco got lost.
Immediately turning off the machines (wild strike?), she closed the umbrella, quickly descended the steps, and took refuge near the car parked inside the Palasport, behind the stage. The one he had come here with, from Milan, I suppose. I shouted to drown out the ruckus of Pezzullo and his gang, alone but thunderous, and almost risked physical altercation in the name of freedom of expression. The close-up view of his bulging hemisphere led me to desist.

Cute, ikeina, arguably (due to the beauty). But for me, it's beautiful too, in an incomprehensible way. To the hedonistic Aeneas, from the temporal abyss that separates us (your father's age, I suppose), I confess that at the same age he was acquiring "lost horizons," I was getting to know the then-resurgent Battiato in the sudden backstage of a concert in a small venue. And I tell you this because I see you enthusiastic. He was there to play with others to raise funds for the newspaper Lotta Continua, which would soon die of natural causes anyway. The audience was made up of young kids, students, and some Fiat workers, among whom was the legendary Pezzullo, who will have his significance (it's worth noting, certain bellies seem to precede the very idea of certain existences). I, among the rebellious students, was there primarily for him. A precocious fortune had brought me his works from those years, Fetus, Pollution, through listening at the home of an older neighbor who was a collector of the unusual wonders of the period.

Certo, invia il testo che desideri tradurre.

Grass, mediocre doesn't carry as negative a connotation as it may seem. But it's the idea that supports it, and that requires that ending, that is. However, it's time to reconsider it and maybe change my mind (for the beautiful eyes of that foal, what wouldn't I do!)