Luca Carboni
Carboni

THE REVIEW

Ah, too many memories. I remember the summer of 1992; I was 8 years old and staying in Diano Marina (don’t know where that is? Unbelievers) and from the jukebox at the beach establishment where I was staying with mom and grandma (dad, poor guy, was in Milan working and came to visit us on the weekend, yes, back then there was still the jukebox, dismantled the following year) everyone, absolutely everyone, played "Mare mare," and went on to sing it under the midday sun. Well, the sun. It must have been what kept us from realizing a blessed nothing, but listening to it again in the shade and coolness, the song, let's say, wasn’t as cheerful, actually at the end he wondered, but me, at the sea, "what did I come here for if you’re not here? No, I don’t want to come back anymore." Instead, we danced, sang, and to the sea, we definitely wanted to go, then me, at 8 years old, even if she wasn’t there, well, amen.

Luca Carboni, one of the great mysteries of Italian music. The singer-songwriter of a generation of 1980's twenty-somethings who asked existential questions about love and the future (everyone thought that generation had no doubts, but Carboni threw them in our faces) soon became a carefree thirty-something with high-charting, yet quality, albums; finished and washed up by the mid-1990s right at the beginning of what was supposed to be his artistic maturity. Was it Jovanotti’s fault who, after this album, took him on tour with the famous "Diario Carboni"? No, because I’d like to point out that after this album, he didn't get another one right (Jova is dangerous, you know).

"Carboni", a largely summery album, was released in early January 1992. It sold so well that after eight months it was still on the charts, doubling, tripling sales. The driving piece was "Mare mare," followed by the famous "Ci vuole un fisico bestiale." It's a notable album, well-crafted in arrangements (non-trivial drums and bass lines), ironic and less carefree than it might seem. It is true that it is driven by these aforementioned hit parade tracks, but the Bolognese singer-songwriter lived within his times and tried to delve into its contradictions, putting current events to the forefront. We were in the years of Tangentopoli and mafia massacres, hence "Alzando gli occhi al cielo" ("How can mafia bosses not repent?") and the track that opens the second side, the fairly famous "La mia città" where he convincingly describes the difficulties of living in a city and the hysteria that affects its inhabitants ("You, who even when eating ice cream have an angry look") and anticipates a theme today at the forefront, the fear of thefts and crime (houses with a thousand bars on their windows, and that was thirty years ago, what has changed?).

The intimacy works. From the resignation of "Tempo che passi" to the anxiety-inducing "Le storie d’amore" (musically dark, despite a fairly easy-going text), however, the billiard shot is "L’amore che cos’è," airy, occasionally shouted, which closely recalls, the leit-motiv of "Farfallina," present in that self-titled 1987 album that redefined his singer-songwriter coordinates.

Not everything goes smoothly, at least two tracks are obvious fillers written only to bring the album's length around 40 minutes: "Siamo le stelle del cielo" is (quite) embarrassing, with those choirs aged very poorly and "Baila Sad Jack," having said of a catchy rhythm, is a watered-down portrait of a middle-aged loser (moreover, not very coherent with the rest of the work).

Last fire, folks. Then the water of mediocrity extinguished it, they say turning 40 changes a man, for Carboni 30 were enough.