Fiorella Mannoia
Ho imparato a sognare

LA RECENSIONE

The umpteenth choice in the name of poor taste that characterizes this latest descending trail of a pseudo-artist adrift. A pity for a performer who, after all, had painstakingly earned a certain credibility over the years thanks to a series of musical gems generously bestowed by the best of Italian singer-songwriters. Parallel to the artistic decline, we also witness a personal one where an image of a woman attentive to social issues and "committed" is gradually giving way to a "carefreeness" that now exceeds the limits of vacuity and serious inconsistency.

Just think of certain TV appearances that know no shame (even at Striscia la Notizia!!!), the enthusiastic adherence to the farce for earthquake victims, and the resort to heavy cosmetic surgery so gross and heavy as to have changed her features (and she certainly wasn't an unattractive woman). Speaking of dignity and empowerment for women while bowing to abhorrent aesthetic dictates that demand the pursuit of a fake youth does not seem really ideal to me. And let's skip the rest, to preach well it would be appropriate to practice adequately.

But let's retrace the most recent discographic milestones of this embarrassing descent into the abyss: first a series of collections and live shows dotted with unpresentable covers, then a truly unlistenable "Brazilian" album ("Onda Tropicale") from which not a single track will remain. Then the trumpeted return to auteur song with "Il Movimento Del Dare" where only Battiato is appreciated in a sea of unreleased rejects. Now, and coincidentally at Christmas, here's the umpteenth album of covers "Ho Imparato A Sognare" with the only original track serving as a lure to attract attention. A squalid attempt to swindle money from fans with yet another copy/paste record operation on the edge of decency.

Here Fiorella has fun defiling with her monotone timbre and infinitesimal vocal range pieces more or less famous (and often already bad on their own) by Zero, Ferro, Negrita, Negramaro, and Cremonini (the creme de la creme, in short). Then a geriatrically flavored quote (The Rokes) and the self-covering of "Caffè nero bollente", in the series what an imagination. Lastly, the cherry on the cake, the brazenness of gratuitous harassment on Battisti who, poor thing, cannot sue her for damages for this disaster. A partial excuse might be the probable attempt to scrape together some extra change so the cosmetic surgeon can finish the work by at least implanting her a nice third. What else to say.

A career and image initially magnified by the beauty of the songs that Ruggeri, Fossati, Bersani, De Gregori, at the peak of their creative vein, tailored for her. And an inevitable descent made of discographic charlatanisms and more. Lastly, this attempt at extortion that can find consensus only among die-hard fans and the audibly impaired. Go Fiorella, I hope you can find your true identity and dimension. Which no longer relates to that of great Italian music, nor perhaps ever was.