Franco Califano
I grandi successi originali

Il_Paolo: "E... state con me" n. 3

Hi guys, one of the themes I most enjoy reflecting on in my reviews is the dissipation of talent, as well as the inability, on the part of the audience, contemporaries, or consumers of a work—especially if "minor"—to recognize its exact value, its expressive dimension, crushing it within what we call fashion, which essentially represents the superfluous. So it happens that great artists are labeled as secondary figures or given only a superficial, hurried glance that ends up boxing them into a "stereotype," that is, a convenient image we create of the Man, before even recognizing his Work.

Franco Califano, indeed, contributed to dissipating his talent and obscuring his Poetry behind the character, behind the mask of a dissolute patiently constructed over the years: and so, we are not surprised to imagine him singing and reciting his verses in some dubious Roman venue in the early '80s, among assorted vices and local bandits who idolize him, we almost see him moving from unmade bed to unmade bed in the company of noblewomen and leeches, dissatisfied mothers and girls seeking strong stories, we see him in the role of the betrayer and perhaps also of the betrayed, of the third wheel and the inscrutable rascal; we’re not surprised, almost thirty years later, to see him aged and asthmatic, with a nose strangely thinned compared to the Grecian profile of his origins, apparently alone in dispensing old satyr’s advice to the cameras of Lucignolo, rather than Music Farm.

The fact is that Califano hid himself: he lived, and his full life, though full of mistakes and detours, overshadowed, neglected, the writer, the poet, the Artist that is within him, the interpreter of beautiful pages of Italian music which, fortunately, we can still recover, to see them restored to their authentic dimension.

Califano is, in truth, "the" singer of Summer: as the season of the maximum explosion of life, yet foreshadowing the future shortening of the days, Autumn and Winter as seasons and as ages; the season in which trees and the earth yield abundant fruits, almost overloading the individual with riches, granting his every desire, and making him lose the very taste of conquest, of capturing the fruit; as the season of fleeting sentiment and the ephemeral, of what lasts for a moment and then disappears, so on earth as in the sky of the falling August stars.

Rest, the holiday diversion, the very conquest of the much-desired pleasure, yet ultimately not fully enjoyed because it is current, bare, stripped in its mortality, resolve in Califano into a single feeling: Boredom, that sort of Cupio Dissolvi in which Man, having reached the apex of his existence, abandons himself, to degradation, forgetful of himself, his qualities, his destiny.

In these terms, I like to interpret some texts that you find in this rich anthology, ideal if you have long car journeys planned, or long afternoons spent alone or in company (it doesn't make a difference) on a beach, in a pool, or in a three-star hotel room, or even walking around your city: "Tutto il resto è noia" describes the fatal drift of sentimental fervor into daily routine with marvelous verses "invent parties and invite people over/so you don't think at least you do something/yes, alright, but then...;" "Una favola d'estate" perfectly stages the sense of beach romances and their fate of separation, singing to us how "the highway will slowly bring reality to our two cities/a summer fairy tale ends up between the wheels/of two cars speeding away/soon it will rain here;" "Roma nuda" I see as ideal like the story of a holiday spent in one's own home, wandering through the old, and always new, streets of one's neighborhood, declaiming "Roma nuda... sorry if I drop tears on the road/at worst pretend they're dewdrops/rather than be alone in bed/I go wandering in some violet field;" "La vacanza di fine settimana", although betraying a mountain and winter setting, symbolizes the implosion of a couple in choosing their holiday destination, in relentlessly repeating old habits, old steps, revisiting old acquaintances, as well known to those who, year after year, return vacationing in the same places: "There's a nice rummy game just organized!/Meanwhile, start with three, with the dead one!/Deal the cards, just a moment, I'm coming!/If I don't get to bed, I can't live/I throw myself on the bed, before it gets light, they play with the dead one, that I fall asleep!". I don't see what else to add.

You know that usually, my reviews are also veiled listening suggestions, and perhaps also for purchase: and yet, in this case, I recommend a moderate intake of your weekly dose of Califano. He is a wise man who has understood how the world turns, and has decided to hide behind his apparent madness to detach from it, you, truly, I don't know.

Frankly Yours,

 Il_Paolo