Elio e le Storie Tese
Servi della gleba

I write this review for two reasons. The first is to talk about what is very likely the most iconic piece by Elio e Le Storie Tese. The second is to ease my guilt for not having talked about it in my previous review of “Italyan Rum Casusu Çikti”. (from which it is taken, but you already know that). Only this way can I be forgiven by those who read it and by all the Elii, whom I met in person years ago and who to this day will have no idea that I exist and am talking about them.

But let's get down to business. There's little to say that hasn't already been said about the anthem of the amorous weaknesses of the stronger sex (so they call it). An anthem for the love "underdogs," as our blonde and thoroughly Roman President would say (or should I say, THE President?). Played and sung divinely, as only the talented Elii have always been able to do, and broadcasted on cathode ray tube in that distant 1992 through a jerky and hilarious video, it is a sort of mantra but also an admission of guilt.

When “Servi della gleba” was written, we hadn't yet been infected by the unstoppable anglophone mania of speaking like pseudo-native speakers. Otherwise, perhaps, the title would have been less brilliant, perhaps we would have had as an opening song (there you go!) "Friendzone Me" or "Cringed and Happy." But no, the full-blown Italian-ness of this concept album, a child of compulsivity of genre (both musical and sexual), prevailed and with a historical reference to the misfits of the masses worthy of a speech by Vittorione Sgarbi, we got the title we deserved thirty years ago and deserve even more today.

How many times have we enslaved ourselves for a woman we were crazy about? Against every personal principle, even just appealing to the most sober objectivity and rationality, merely for self-conviction? Against fatigue, common sense, dignity, and aesthetics (when we dressed well to go out with her). We let ourselves be insulted by our parents (when we lived with them but even after) and by friends, the latter avoided in every way and with every excuse, as if they were slalom giant gates. But we did not, we did not let go. Undeterred and armed with every excuse, even the least convincing, straight toward "the little triangle that excites us," which in the end was only pure utopia and effective geometry.

We covered long distances like from Manzanarre to the Rhine, emptied our pockets to buy her a gift that would impress her. But without giving the impression of wanting to buy her, mind you.

We wrote her poems, with the same mastery and precision as those who translate phrases on fortune cookies. We offered dinners, lunches, and drinks to her, her friends, and even friends of her friends. We drove the carless housewife mother everywhere as a "one-time" thing, which then became "a frequent."

We burned and dedicated highly relevant mp3 music compilations, because "that way, more stuff fits," carefully selecting diabetic songs in strictly chronological order. To receive, in response to our timid posthumous request for feedback, a nice: "I haven't listened to your CD yet; I left it in the car, but as soon as I can, I'll retrieve it and give it a listen." As if the car were stuck in an impound lot on the other side of the city and not in the garage next to the basement where she hung out with friends (and maybe just friends).

We lived for years plagued by this question: "Why do women like the jerks who treat them badly?" Without ever getting an answer. Only to finally do what we always thought was right and always wanted. Make her happy. After telling her that sex didn't interest us, that we weren't that kind of guy. Because in our hearts, we knew it was done, we were going for the goal and being pure and chaste would double the libido and the final score.

Then the unexpected. Like a flock of gulls with diarrhea, gliding over our freshly washed car, he arrives: her ex. And we hear her sweet voice say: "Maybe I'm making a mistake and I know I will regret it, but I have to follow my heart. It would never work between us. You are too special a guy, and I don't deserve you."

Blackout. End credits.

But like in a Marvel movie, we know it’s not over. And as our inner guiding voice, collaborating with master of ceremonies Faso, would say: "If getting back with him makes you happy, it's right because I truly care about you. Don't worry about me. It's all good. I'm fine."

And we remain blocked physically and psychologically. Anesthetized. Because in the end, we realize it wasn't the ex's fault. It was always her who was the jerk.

"The dead eye and face of cement. She is my pigeon and I am her monumentooo!"

Too bad the seagull came before the pigeon.

And so we despair, but we minimize by pretending nothing's wrong and attributing pains to a large bruschetta that ended up in our left eye.

We think of solving by turning to marijuana and pills, but in the end, we know we are merely addicted to the card of spades disappointments. With the face "on the rocks," we go back to our friends acting cocky, while the heart and another muscle just below are overloaded.

Besides, we did everything possible. Except putting a broom in our ass to sweep the room.

So be it. But only if you think so.