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Rating: The 12 leaves me at the terminus. I ask the driver, who looks at me as if I were an alien, but yes, this is the right place. I let myself be caressed by the first Trieste chill as I look around decidedly bewildered. The Complex is made up of buildings of every shape and function. I wander around a couple of low, silent, dark constructions. "And now who do I ask?", I ask myself, proceeding in a random direction: a downhill street, completely deserted. Finally, a restaurant, people smoking in the cold of a clear October evening. I ask, and finally, I manage to figure out where the Teatrino is. I stride down further with an almost jaunty air, then stop outside another building, one of those that once were part of the city asylum. I wait outside and pretend to fiddle with my cell phone, there’s still no one around. Finally, I decide to go in: I’m more than an hour early, and the hall is completely empty. I happily discover that the concert is free and timidly secure the first row, a central seat. On the stage, surrounded by black curtains, there's a wooden chair, three guitars, a book, some scattered sheets, and a glass of white wine. Meanwhile, the theater begins to fill up, the neighbors chattering about this and that, while next to me, a seat remains empty, then occupied by a tipsy gentleman eager to talk. At 9 PM, the hall is packed, so much so that about ten people are seated on the small stage "for safety reasons." Envy.
The lights go out, and a distinguished gentleman makes his entrance, with gray hair and mustache, glasses, dressed in a dark gray jacket and pants. He makes a slight bow, sits down, and picks up one of the guitars. No more chatter: it begins immediately with "Dentro la tasca di un qualunque mattino." The audience goes silent, and I smile to myself, as I can't help but do. Right from the start, that delicate tenderness that distinguishes Testa's work immerses the small theater in a suspended atmosphere. The applause after the first song, decidedly too loud, seems completely out of place, as do the subsequent ones.
That polite gentleman on stage—between sips of wine, between songs, between applause—tells stories, reads poems (specifically, "Valore" by Erri De Luca and several compositions by friend Pier Mario Giovannone). He speaks in a low voice, almost a whisper magnified by the microphone. He talks about stations, women, moons, and radios. The audience laughs several times (at the end of the concert, I'll hear someone say it felt like being at a cabaret show). Of course, he doesn’t neglect the music: "Un aeroplano a vela," "Veduta aerea," "Sei la conchiglia," "La tua voce." A repertoire that pleasantly surprises me, I expected one more similar to the recent "Solo dal vivo." I fumble in my bag for a pen to jot down the setlist, but I can't find it. Be kind, I'm relying on memory.
The audience laughs when Gianmaria Testa stands up and picks up an electric guitar: "I bought this electric guitar because I think I wrote a rock-blues song. And if you don't believe me, I also bought a pair of sunglasses." He puts on the dark lenses and plays "Via da quest'avventura" in that somewhat extravagant guise: it looks like a surrealist painting, but the performance is still more than enjoyable.
And again: "Polvere di gesso," "Biancaluna," "Comete." And then the surprise: "Many this year have performed his pieces inappropriately. Tonight, I'll do it too." I guess and shiver: De André. And in fact, he gifts us a splendid version of "Hotel Supramonte," made of guitar, voice, heart. Like the whole concert, after all. I sing along with him, swept away by the simplicity and respect with which he sings that song.
It's finally time for songs from "Da questa parte del mare." He begins with "Seminatori di grano," then it's the turn of "Rrock," which, however, stops at the first stanza. "Sorry, emotion takes the words away from me." He starts again from the beginning, then continues with "Forse qualcuno domani," "Il passo e l’incanto," "3/4." He doesn't do "Ritals," and I’m left a bit sour, but "Al mercato di Porta Palazzo," with its nursery rhyme rhythm, restores my good mood. Testa asks the audience to collaborate with him by singing the part reserved for the instruments on the record.
In the end, he leaves, but, as expected, the audience demands him back with applause. He doesn't make us wait too long, comes out, and gifts us the last gem of the night, "Miniera," a song of emigrants from the twenties that talks about mines, nostalgia, sadness.
The same sadness that the end of a splendid concert brings us. A sense of bitterness accompanied by the satisfaction of having savored so many gems in one evening, just as the singer-songwriter savored his glass of white wine.
I cross the room, trying to bump into the crowd as little as possible, and exit. Then, only the chill of the evening.
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