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Rating: Intro_I divide the water inside me from the one outside, marking the boundaries of the wall from the sky that I didn’t draw, quantifying the damage of rust on my knees after nights in front of nbatv on an Ikea sofa that makes any kind of blanket slide off as if it were allergic. And I think of you, of me, of an animal heartbeat that sets the rhythm for our shadows and our heated words under the LED of my Blackberry that lights up so little that I have to climb my imagination to realize what’s happening in that mirror where I see only a vaporous, amorous trace of myself. You hate the light, and so you dress in darkness. But by doing so, you make my hands work, and you torture my eyes. Evening exercise, of self-discipline: close the eyes, take the magician’s kit, and instead of making a rabbit appear in the hat, make my hands visible. Give them sight. I’ve already done it. I feel it. I see it. Like speaking in syllables instead of fluently, but it's still a way of speaking. Of telling you that I love you_ ("Di_vi_do", to A., my girlfriend, on the road to see Le Luci di una Centrale Elettrica, or rather the power station)
Half an hour late from the scheduled time, the concert starts, with a surprise guest, a cellist. The cello, which could have been an idea but instead turned out to be half a crap in my opinion. Giorgio Canali is great, rather he is the right man in the right place, for how he stands on stage, for how he accompanies and knows how to stay in his place, for how he assists the shimmering godson when he feels more alone than usual (i.e., almost always, as his songs indeed always talk about "let’s go", never about "I’m going", or "come with me", that "let’s go" as if it were impossible for him not to have someone or something to support him if not "substitute" him in his moments of space-time absence), but why replace the cello with another guitar, a "big guitar" like Mogwai’s that makes a kind of wall of sound and gives less melancholy but more hardness, more "frontal depth" to his songs?
Then, they aren’t songs, they are screams, outbursts attached with clothespins to dry in the sun and wind on a clothesline as if it were a musical staff in the garden... But what garden? The lights of the power station do not envisage gardens, blooming flowers, birds chirping in spring, the colors are few, actually less than three, black and white and everything that ensues. With black dominating white until it sodomizes it. I wanted to go and ask him "Hi Vasco, but are you named like that because your parents are fans of Vasco Rossi?". But I let it go, it would have been too stupid a question. I thus preferred not to ruin even more a night that didn’t meet my expectations. And, very rare for me, I left before the end of the concert. Not out of annoyance or disappointment, but for a sense of incommunicability that was pouring out in buckets on everyone. Then, up to that moment, he had said three words in total; these are things I endure reluctantly. Even though I know he doesn't play a character, and he’s just ‘like that’...
I had just seen before me a great talent that however spoke about his vicious and inconclusive circles that had taken him hostage. A great talent of the word who speaks (the little he speaks) like Luca Carboni, and I do not consider it a compliment. In hostage, not to say prisoner, because by character I have always been optimistic, and I want to think that one day Vasco will free himself from all this corrosive tar he has inside and transform it into healing clay. And that he’ll make me a ballad to see the beautiful things of the world with the same ability with which he sees the worst, that with a capital W.
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