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This morning it was raining.
A heavy blanket of clouds hid the mountains and descended, just beyond me, to lick the green waters of the lake, still steaming from the fires of San Rocco. The lake is so beautiful when it rains, it looks like a huge emerald ruffled by the winds and covered with a thousand precious drops. Around, only a leaden duvet of vapor.
I like to walk when it rains; in my ears only the downpour of rain and the watery creak of my soaked shoes, at most the muffled rumble of a car. Few people on the streets, the Germans may not even have left their campsites. Elderly ladies carried their shopping bags, some were walking. Someone else was still lounging at the bar, cigarette and bianchino, but this is not news in a village.
Small world, that of the village; small ancient world, as Fogazzaro defined it. The people are the same as always, the events are always the usual ones, even when you wouldn’t want to know anything about them. The village, after all, should be a place to live peacefully, not a cliché: not everyone knows everyone. I don't know everyone, I’m not even interested in doing so, but I’m not so sure, sometimes. The village is not only alive with people: it also lives on traditions. As long as a rather "enterprising" mayor doesn't preserve them as he did yesterday with the mythical pole on the lake, a tradition for generations. But that's another topic, I’ll talk about it in the village. Traditions, customs, salamis, and cheeses. Ancient stories and people who lived. Hopes and fears yet to come. Hopefully, someone who sings about all this, someone who sings about their village. With words, like the melancholic sculptor from Erto for his dying village. Or with music, like Davide for our lakes. Someone who sings about their village even if the village is a Country. Especially if it’s a village with a recent dark past like a stormy night.
If you listen to the stories of Goran Bregovic, the voice you hear is that of his land; a land, the Balkan one, that would like to show itself differently than it appears. I don't use an ugly term, folklore, I willingly leave it in mothballs. That of Bregovic’s numerous Town Band is a people’s song, a different concept. Gypsy melodies and fiery tangos, brass that laugh, suffer, cry, and rejoice. I learned to appreciate this elf with a Croatian father, a Serbian mother, and a Bosnian childhood a few years ago, when he sat in his brown pants reflecting on songs for weddings and funerals: he thought of the delirious “Polizia molto arabbiata”, the Balkan burst of “Sex”, the brass laments of the intricate and lively with fire "Tale VII", the Balkan polyphony of “Hop hop hop”.
He thought that something more ambitious could follow, even an opera, Carmen. Rather, Karmen. With a happy ending, however, as he would like for his country.
A transposition of the theatrical work that Bregovic himself and his Wedding and Funeral Band presented on stages around the world, this “Karmen” is a reinterpretation of Bizet’s opera, which only surfaces at the beginning and the end, then it's only Balkan madness. The story, centered on the love between a gypsy fortune teller and a homeless trumpeter, is told in the usual manner, typical of the former Yugoslav rocker now a Serbo-Bosnian-Croat singer: mosaics of jarring sounds piled on shaky and dirty chants, bursts of trombone and roars of horns, chimes of garrulous vocalizations. Perhaps, even too much in the usual manner: the lack of a strong track, the break from monotony which was latent in the predecessor, here manages to emerge a bit. The “Kalashnikov” is missing, in short. The tracks, all pleasant and sometimes not unforgettable, flow like the gypsy gossip they tell: “Gas Gas”, “Bijav”, “Ne Siam Kurve Tuke Sijam Prostitute”. To be honest, there is a break, and it’s notable. It couldn't be otherwise: singing “Focu Di Raggia” is Carmen herself; her voice makes the track truly beautiful and enveloping. Then everything returns to flow between percussions, winds, and touches of Bregovic’s own mad genius, until “Lamour” arrives, invented for a once happy moment, on the famous aria “Habanera” (I read it’s called so...) of the glorious composer. Bravo.
I realize how delirious this heavily read piece is. I realize that from the rain in my village I ended up talking about Serbs, Croats, and Bosnians; a bit like D’Annunzio going from the pine forest to the Dark Forest just because it can also rain in Middle-earth; and then you know I’m megalomaniac, when it rains the rivers swell, and the great Fiume awaits me. Fiume is in Croatia, see I was right, O Ermione? Forgive me; but you know, sometimes it’s nice to let yourself be carried away by the flood of thoughts and words, at least that river is dry and doesn’t leave your feet in a cold soaked shell, which although pleasant is still a big pain in the neck. Not of leather, because the shoes are canvas. Even though they rhyme with leather. So be it.
Ah, I forgot: the album, however - to be clear - an excellent diversion given to us by a great artist, scores a four also thanks to Carmen’s contribution, an artist with a voice as exciting as the August rain. Carmen Consoli, to be precise.Loading comments slowly
