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Rating: It was a premiere, and it wasn't supposed to be. Yes, because the premiere was supposed to take place elsewhere, some time ago, but unfortunately, Enzo Jannacci had a serious lung problem and ended up with a surreal hospital stay. Once discharged, and "when you get out of there, you are no longer the same...", he found himself in this sad and difficult foggy city facing the premiere of his melancholic and beautiful show. But to say melancholic, while absolutely accurate, can objectively be reductive, considering that everything that Jannacci touches manages to be sad and cheerful at the same time, melancholic and ironic. And his is a beautiful sadness, a sadness that makes you feel good, confirming the principle that a sad song, when it's beautiful (think of De André, Endrigo, even some things by Capossela), is certainly much richer, but fundamentally much happier than some silly, bouncy festival hit.
So, as we were saying, it was a premiere. A premiere where self-deprecation took center stage more than ever. Where Jannacci perfectly played the part of the "bollito" as only he can do. But fundamentally more on point than in all his previous live experiences. Here, in fact, everything fits perfectly: the voice, the intonation, the band led by the excellent son Paolo, the improvisations, the timing of the monologues, the beautiful atmosphere of that Italy that no longer exists. That, in fact, does exist, and it's in Enzo's voice and in the mind and emotions of those who know and love to understand him. Surely, Jannacci has now found his dimension. That is, the dimension of pure songwriting. Since a courageous independent label (re)published him, he understood that the people who loved him loved him for that pure and melancholic singer-songwriter he was, that is, the one who recounted sad and foggy figures of a Milan that perhaps no longer exists and that perhaps for this reason will always be there. Not for that vaguely sad singer-songwriter anxious to find a scene not his own among the flowers of useless and pathetic Sanremos.
Indeed, it was enough to return to singing in dialect and writing straightforward singer-songwriter songs to build what an artist needs today like bread: a strong core. And the strong core of Jannacci is us, those who never forgot "Giovanni telegrafista", those who cherish the old vinyl records swearing against the fools who don't understand they should all be reissued on CD... those, in short, who know that Enzo Jannacci is one of the greatest singer-songwriters our Italian school (one of the most important songwriting schools ever) has ever had. Moving on to the concert, it must be said that it consists almost exclusively of the beautiful dialect songs from the latest album "Milano 03. 06. 2005", old pearls recovered and splendidly re-dressed. Only at the end is there a coherent concession to some rightly famous classics like "Ho visto un re". But not a trace of "Son sciopaa" or "Se me lo dicevi prima", nor the easy concession of "Vengo anch'io no tu no..." and unfortunately not even the seventies tear-jerker "Vincenzina" (in which, frankly, I was hoping quite a bit).
Two written monologues, one about Iraq seen from a child's perspective and one about a symbolic Everest of lack of air and more. The rest wonderfully improvised, especially with the main theme of the hospital stay and the resulting and enjoyed discharges, in an increasingly irreverently hilarious and intelligent crescendo. One joke above all, and we understand each other immediately: "if you really have to throw something at me... throw me some cortisone."
Jannacci is alive and splendidly in shape. And he's touring Italy. It's up to you.
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