Flavio Giurato
Il tuffatore

THE REVIEW

The songwriter prepares, warming up every single muscle in his body. With brief, precise, repeated gestures. The diver prepares, even if the arena is made only of words and music, but the dive is in the heart.

Of course, the perfect dive maybe doesn't exist — the songwriter athlete knows this well. It's just a matter of approximation, of coming to terms with imperfection.

But here you come close. To the imperfect perfection, I mean.

And it begins like this, with an outburst on the sax by Mel Collins, muscular and a bit affected. The words are colloquial yet sharp, obsessive yet impactful, urgent, sleepless. They sketch squalls on gray days, tournaments never played and lives — with brief and precise gestures.

The songwriter athlete knows where to place every word — he grew up on bread and De Gregori, you can tell.

The calm of teachings and the climbs of precision.

Songs like snippets of life, attached to bones, muscles. Tense, made of flesh and words — and atmospheric, lashing like winds, pouring suddenly. Like glossy photographs, moments frozen in time.

There it is, the perfection of apnea. A minute and a half for an entire life:

I wanted to be a diver, with the height under my nose and the bulge of the swimsuit,

I wanted to be a diver, adjusting himself with uncommon beauty.

And now I want to be a diver, to be reborn every time from water to air.

In this timeless moment, in this travail, lives Flavio Giurato.