The vinyl chases itself in the perfect circular motion and renews the magic, every time with an extra crackle. But it doesn’t matter much; time takes away quality but grants charm. And the needle never lies. Ever.
They call it bossa nova, it smells of banana and mango and comes from distant Latin lands, but for the Maestro, it was enough to blend it with basil and tomato to erase its tropical aftertaste and the attached geographical boundaries.
Thus, Antônio Carlos Jobim is a metalworker from Termini Imerese, bossa nova a genre born in the nightclubs of Milan, and Ipanema a lovely resort on the Romagna Riviera. The palms become birches under the shadow of apartment blocks, and maracas echo in entryways.
Hope and optimism permeate our beautiful country. The decade that wanted to change the world is at the exit door. A distant memory. Very distant. Forgotten.
What’s the use of a revolution when you can run your fingers up and down along the impeccable seams of a chaise longue?
The '70s promise a bright future, racing headlong towards the "Milano da bere," but it's still early. The years stretch when the threads of time are so soft.
The shaker starts quietly, Edda is the song of a distant siren. Percussions and brass shine in the light of an unexpected warm sun, and January seems like a fantasy name.
"Imagine, one evening at dinner" and the scent of Palmolive and Linetti through the ajar bathroom door.
"Imagine, one evening at dinner" and the red record player on the carpet in the living room, living a life of its own and singing like a crooner from another time.
"Imagine, one evening at dinner" and the overflowing laundry basket, a lifetime won't be enough.
But there's time, there's always time in the snapshots faded by the years. You can even stop it or restart it at your own will. Like a spinning record. Of bossa nova, perhaps.
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