Gisas
The Fingerstyler

If you live in Milan and go record shopping at the bookshops in Corso Vittorio Emanuele, look around: as you leave the store, you might be stopped by a guy in his thirties, blonde hair tied back, usually wearing a jacket and carrying a backpack.

The approach: Hi, pleased to meet you, Gisas. I saw you've bought records, what do you like to listen to?

And you, caught in a feeling of goodness and satisfaction for having just bought what you consider a masterpiece of modern music, like, I don't know, yet another collection of Roberto Pianta and Gino Pagina's tunes, you who couldn't wait to tell everyone you meet on the street, who skillfully unwraps the CD on the metro to show the old lady sitting next to you just how ahead of the curve you are, who reads the song titles with admiration indicating that yes, damn, you know them all, ignoring the fact that people wonder why the hell you bought it then. You, who find yourself in this extraordinary and unrepeatable state of mind towards the world, are enticed in your self-pride by this individual who begs you, primus inter pares, to tell him what you think of the music you listen to, I left home just for this today and finally found you.

And you? And you, damn, you go along, you make some faces, you seem a bit like Richard III when offered the kingdom and he, who had exterminated the family just five minutes before for that very purpose, is found with a Bible in hand pretending to accept only out of magnanimity this burdensome annoyance.
And as you open the bag and show the re-re-re-re-master that you paid 40 euros for, you get screwed over:

Gisas: Great, Zeppelin, they are my favorite band, immense
You: You beam with pride, your heart beats rapidly
Gisas: You know, I find fewer and fewer people capable of appreciating their music and refined message
You (beaming even more): Indeed, their rock is not for everyone, it seems easy and catchy, but only on a superficial listen
Gisas: That's what I say too, but only jerks stop at appearances, they seem snobbish and unpleasant, but as musicians they're unparalleled

You: You're purring, you look admiringly at your interlocutor and see a bit of yourself in him, remember when you were at school and instead of listening to Europe you went to the little shop to buy Genesis records with two tomes of explanatory notes, spent sleepless nights wondering why your friends happily hooked up with a game of spin the bottle and you nothing, with Genesis the little girls would flee, but you knew deep down in your heart it was a temporary sacrifice for a future that would reward you for all the suffering: a harem of women all for you, for you who alone at 16 had suffered and sweated over Genesis.

And how does the future reward you? With Gisas, who while you're busy with self-congratulation, has pulled from his backpack a plastic case, which you initially mistake for a CD, doubt dispelled by certainty when the good young man says: you know, I also make music, I do it all by myself, I'm waiting to hit it big, kind of like the Led, remember? (remember? but you and Gisas were there then?, there’s no time to rationalize, Gisas presses and traps your mind): for now, I self-produce, that is, I play all instruments, sometimes all at once, then I mix and master. This is my twentieth album, it's called "The Fingerstyler", it contains five songs, including an intro, friends say I have real talent, but you know how it is, I have to live in the meantime, and I can’t bust my ass waiting tables, I have to compose, so I produce music and for now sell it. Look, it’s only 5 euros.

And as he says 5, he looks at your 40-euro CD and all the goodness you felt up to that point, all the goodwill you felt towards him and the world made up of you and those like you, turns against itself, the dreamlike atmosphere shatters, the little girls keep going with others, you’re the loser with your tomes of Genesis notes in the dark of your room lined with Dark Side pyramids and Gisas' eyes, fixed straight on your face, making you feel like a selfish bastard.
And here’s the reasoning that ultimately gets you: damn, I just gave 40 euros to that pig Pianta who will waste it on coke and I don’t give 5 measly euros to Gisas, my comrade and unfortunate Gisas?
A lucid thought hits you, it’s the only one since you left the store: but what the hell do I care, go wait tables and don’t bother me with your crappy music, screw you. But it's just a moment, Gisas hangs on, he slides the CD into the Zeppelins’ bag and defeats your apostasy with this peremptory gesture.

Oh, listen to it and let me know what you think, my cell number is on the cover, thanks buddy.
Gisas returns from whence he came, who knows - you think - in what conditions he lives, maybe in a squat house with immigrants and prostitutes, composing music amidst that chaos. That music which is now yours for 5 euros: and what if it's a masterpiece? What if it's truly the first cry of a genius? And suppose he does make it big, this CD is gold, I’ll sell it at auctions, damn, you want to see that...
And as you happily head home, on the metro, the Led lie in the bag, you contemplate Gisas’ work, black and white cover, indescribable image, the back cover is blank, the back of the CD has his signature. You're a bit disappointed, the autograph is for the auction, but to the little girl who was looking at me curiously, if this gay guy had written some catchy phrase, at least I would have had an opening line.

I’ll try anyway: you know, I just bought it from a guy outside the bookshops, he is the author, I don't know him, but it's not to say it’s not valid, not always being sold in stores is synonymous with low quality, indeed, sometimes it’s the opposite...

Her: You’re right, but I’m getting off at the next stop, bye.


The songs: Intro, Cuba Song, Rolling Toms, Arabian Night, Missisipi (sic) Time
For those interested in finding out something about Gisas and his works, I can provide the phone number privately. Otherwise, you know how to find him. Just stroll around the Corso with a Ricordi or bookshop bag in hand, he’ll find you.