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I discovered her in November two years ago, rummaging through dusty counters at a record fair in my city. After all, that's the only way to dig deeper, to search and try. And that same evening, I listened until exhaustion to two of Lisa Germano's most poetic and tormented works; and I was shaken, as if violently assaulted by my own reason and deceived by my own secrets. To what extent would this emaciated priestess delve into my mind, with her toy-like melodies and her childlike voice, revealing herself as a prophet of things I didn't even guess were a part of me, although they had existed for a long time like dormant moths. Thus, I voraciously made each of her songs my own, cherishing them like a beautiful jewel to speak of in whispers; never would I have thought I'd see in person that woman with blurred outlines and a child's voice, until one day I saw by chance that her European tour was hitting most of the major European cities except Italy, of course.
So I decided to set off, excited by the crazy adventure and the euphoria of the journey to Geneva, a charming modern town surrounded by the glacial waters of its lake. In front of Place des Volontaires, a grayish building did not present itself in any way as the concert venue, but that had to be the place. Indeed, the venue was called Usine, and it could very well have been an abandoned factory. While preparing to have dinner, I heard some verses of Wood Floors sneaking out of a side door: my heart would have wanted to rush to her and seize the moment when I was alone and she was rehearsing, but with extraordinary willpower, I stoically headed to the nearest fast food in the center, feeling a bit better about myself. Let's not disturb her.
Night had fallen, and with it, the superbly typical cold of the lakeside area, a biting and anesthetic cold, purifying. Sitting on the steps of the same Parisian-style square, I awaited the evening; here I met another Italian, which seemed incredible to me - so I wasn't the only mad one? We spoke rapidly and eagerly, as happens when two souls are caught at the sensitive point of the same passions they want to consume in fervent anticipation. He also confessed to me that he counted on having traveled from so far away - Milan, even - but I had beaten him by a handful of kilometers (this reinvigorated my spirit). We exchanged email addresses - this is now the gateway that implies or not an achieved friendship - and entered, practically alone, into a smoke-covered corridor, up to a dark hall with a bar and about fifty makeshift chairs, on which we took relieved the first row - naively fearing we wouldn't be able to see anything - and, on the contrary, we eagerly surveyed the people (few) who entered. We counted them on our fingers, and it upset us with a maternal anguish.
It was around 11, and after Sand Over Skara, a very unique band that I highly recommend, out came Lisa Germano. At first, I didn't recognize her: given that by now a hundred people could have been present, I expected a grand entrance with bows and greetings. Instead, no - adjusting the Roland and careful not to trip over the amplifier, only after a few seconds did she stop and sit with a shy smile and greeted briefly. She was very thin, but a tired look on her face did not hide her fresh and serene eyes. She started. And alone, alternating between keyboard and guitar (I learned that in Spain, about a month earlier, the bassist had abandoned her at the last minute) she made that evening an instant. The voice that caressed the notes of sampled piano, despite being disrupted by repeated fits of coughing, nonetheless created a unique atmosphere that surprisingly enhanced the live genuineness that only imperfection and error could amplify. Among enchanting nursery rhymes and heavy melodies, my soul danced swiftly along with each single note and every different breath, and it became clouded as if in a danse macabre of which that childlike voice was the bitter accompaniment. Suddenly I stopped taking photos: how could a photo capture the ascetic illusion of that procession?
Many times she stopped to drink as often as to introduce the sweet songs from her latest work - In The Maybe World. She presented the song dedicated to Jeff Buckley drowned in the Mississippi, the one for her father and finally to Miamo-Tutti, her cat - a superstar at the time of "Excerpts From a Love Circus," the most cat-focused album of them all - who had recently died: during the last moments of its life, she sang this song, which indeed is "actually written by Miamo-Tutti." She spoke timidly and jerkily like a misfit goblin: her twisting hands expressed more than her words.
In any case, the concert was fantastic, and everyone was happy: she mostly sang her last two albums along with the same Wood Floors I had softly heard from the side door, and some exceptions: Simply Tony, Small Heads and the requested The Darkest Night Of All (indeed some from Turin - yes, from Turin - requested Victoria's Secret but were not satisfied. In the end, Lisa said goodbye, clearly indicating that she would come immediately for autographs and photos. I called her while she was nibbling on some chips. With imperfect English, I said a few words to her, and she was very kind. We took a photo together and warmly said goodbye, with the intention of seeing each other again. So, while other hefty Italians had already grabbed and surrounded her, I said goodbye to my new friend and ventured into the void of the night toward the Warwick Hotel, reflecting on what was going to be a surprising experience, a colorful and exotic flower among the garden of memories.
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