Gotthard
One Team One Spirit

THE REVIEW

Those old, gnarled hands come towards me, gradually blocking my view. I am the tiny moon, those arthritic crooked branches the sun; a sun that approaches with rough sweetness, an agonizing slowness that even now moves me as I recall it. It offers me the palm and while a slight smile blooms among the deep wrinkles, at the same time, a fistful of candy materializes: those zebra-striped treats. Then that rough and ungraceful hand rises and, with a caress over hair and scalp, reveals to me all the goodness in the world. In those gnarled, stubby hands.

Sometimes this happens to me daily, almost with regular frequency, other times even weeks can pass. But sooner or later that moment arrives. The air at five-thirty on this Sunday morning was magnetic and refreshing. I like this hour: it seems as though a relay runner is about to pass the baton. Between the champions of the night and the early risers. In this phase of transition, all falls silent. For a while. The goldfinch hops on the freshly cut grass that smells fresh and in a lake of green dew pecks, pecks again, in a persistent search for a worm. It hears the click of my camera and flies away. The small noises, almost imperceptible, in this peace are able to bring me pleasure and physical well-being like the light wind blowing and lashing the leaves. I set the cup down with disarming slowness; I want to savor the tac it makes on the table, the clinking of the spoon, and walk down the stairs turning into a clumsy cat trying not to make noise. In the daily frenzy, slow actions often struggle to find space; I am convinced that slowing down, almost stopping to fully savor the small gestures that punctuate life, is a powerful experience that I am happy to know how to appreciate. Occasionally. These hours give me a feeling of intense, soft, and fulfilling pleasure. A bit like those aforementioned candies whose filling I never wanted to end.

I take the mp3 player and walk without the usual heavy electric guitars to keep me company. I talk to you about a CD: the second of the "One Time One Spirit" collection by Gotthard, composed of sweet ballads, slow and touching where Steve Lee's voice erupts melody at its highest state. Cleanliness and that hint of hoarse tone: salt and spice that enhances everything. Without haste I savour every passage, arpeggio, and chorus as the steps turn into kilometers and "Have a Little Faith" and the somber "Reason To Live" pass the baton. Two lovers, in a corner of the square, hold hands; they hardly look at each other's faces: they can't. They are about to become exes while they caress and kiss each other. It seems like a climber on a cliff holding onto a grip with all the strength he has, well aware he is about to fall. Maybe they'll get back together, I think to myself as I leave them to their intimacy, and the airy chorus of "One Team One World" arrives. Two boys push each other: maybe they’re joking, maybe not. Their fast gestures, their fake tough-guy grimaces, their deliberately loud voices nevertheless can't tarnish the melodic lines rising in "Heaven". A song that in its genre, more than just a set of notes on a score, takes on the characteristics of a jackpot that who knows how many couples have united, reunited. A thin arpeggio gains strength and "Love Soul Matter" creates a cheerful atmosphere while a 3-year-old child runs uncertainly and tries to chase away the pigeons: he succeeds and that smile of real and complete happiness if you really look at it, is something that has the power to positively change your day. Nervous steps are in symbiosis with the rhythmic riff and drums of "Let It Be". I can see the tension of an important meeting: he is early and keeps looking at the clock while playing with the phone. Silent. Scattered thoughts from the warm wind of "Janie's Not Alone" fall on the cobblestones and accompany the restless and absent walks of heads that wander: puppets thinking about everything except what they are doing. If there was a lamppost, they'd hit it; one can see they are with their minds somewhere else while a violin gently caresses my ears.

I pay, turn off the player, and so I return to running my frenetic life like everyone. Until the next stop.

Ilfreddo