Jovanotti
La mia moto

LA RECENSIONE

In the golden age of maranza and paninari, a time when any flights of fancy tended to take shape, even if only imaginary, a young man with a deliberately shabby appearance, after high-fiving everyone, decided to compose a record of light music (not ethereal or damnably featherlight like modern Colapesce) to entertain the idle afternoons of the youths of the time.

He then, with plastic elasticity, grabs guitar and bass, drums and wind instruments, and releases "La mia moto," a glamorous album of an entire, evanescent generation. The title track is a roaring bomb, roaring like the engine of the motorcycle of the young lad who sings it, and it doesn't matter if the metaphor between the motorcycle and the girlfriend is clichéd and, today, in a fluid world, we would say sexist (oh dear, let noses wriggle), the fast and electrifying rhythm is the true cornerstone of a piece sure to hit the charts swiftly. The youngsters, no longer so young, from half of Italy sing it from dawn until dusk and fall in love with the Young Jovanotti.

The final triptych is a blast: "Ci provo gusto," "Ci si skiaccia," and "Il capo della banda" are pure eighties adrenaline, made of sounds halfway between maranza rock and the ska of the neighborhood under your house. Feet and hands are pounded with immense sweat and aching clamor, the rhythm rises, and you can't stand still, there are ancient rules, written in the seemingly mute loquacious stone, that do not suffer vandalism from time, if the rhythm is exorbitant, so too will be the reaction of those who lasciviously lose themselves in the rhythm.

The spirit of the time is reflected, like in a drop of life, in "Stasera voglio fare una festa," ah, other worlds, perhaps cosmic.

If, in the end, "Scappa con me," reminds us of the exalting virtue of youth, and freshness, as fresh as the entire album, a true jolt of energy in a period where rock reigned uncontested and new wave had run out of ammo (punk was no longer heard of), it is the epochal "Vasco" that rises even to Uranus. It is, and how could it be otherwise, the fiercest attack on the world made in Zocca of extreme nights, dubious substances, and lives adrift, no, the eternal young Cherubini tells us with his Sanremo rhythm, I am the healthy fun, moderation in excess, and thinking even on the dance floor is the true high, oh how splendid.

There are flaws, alas, pieces like "Cowboy" with a Leone-like memory appear weak and confused, as do "Bella storia," lust sometimes shields will, and the case of two pieces tossed in a bit haphazardly is proof of this.

It must be said without hesitation that it was, above all, a beautiful story.