Luca Carboni
Intanto Dustin Hoffman Non Sbaglia Un Film

Back then, we were all in love with Vasco. He had just produced the best his genius could offer, and "Bollicine" and "Vita Spericolata" were still powerfully playing on the radio and jukeboxes. And almost all of us, when this new raspy voice emerged, seemingly so similar, got lost in absolutely inappropriate and incongruous comparisons, given the hindsight.

Both from Emilia, both with that slightly laid-back air, both with a certain underlying disenchanted fatalism that was so appealing and seemed so counter-current and "cool." And above all, both making records thanks to a common and great acquaintance: Gaetano Curreri from Stadio. So the comparison seemed natural. Then, fortunately, even back then we would listen to records with attention, calmly, trying to understand everything: arrangements, lyrics, interpretations, atmospheres, and projects both deep and superficial. And this Luca Carboni, after overcoming the initial mistrust, we liked him, quite a lot.

I’ll say it right away, though: there was a great illusion. Luca, in fact, changed already by the second try, and became an honest (at times very honest, at others just barely salvageable) songwriter, partially betraying the cantautorial hopes of purists like me. Amen: we are not the measure of the world, nor do we want to be. But the guy seemed to have great talents and could aspire to much more. But before he went too far, or just barely on the edge, he got it right, proving that perhaps some artists, within books, paintings, records, or movies, have only one true masterpiece, and perhaps that’s where they should have stopped. It's known, after all, that there’s only one Salinger...: the others all fall victim to stardom or contracts, or both.

Here, though, in this album with the incredible (and at the time true) title, everything spins perfectly. The cover captures a handsome guy and definitely winks at the female audience, and perhaps this is the only limit of a perfect product. The internal cover is much better, featuring a "street photo" out of focus, with lampposts, buildings, a passing car, the ultra-humid air, and him standing there, looking bewildered. Putting on the record, those like me immediately felt a familiar vibe. Reading the cover notes clarified everything: pressing srl, production by Curreri and Costa, the band, which ranged from the same Curreri and Costa to Ron and Mariani. In short: the Dalla and Stadio crew. A sort of Minneapolis sound Italian-style. And a guy, Domenico Sputo, with an unmistakable alto saxophone. It would take many years for Lucio Dalla to reveal his alter ego: we’d have to wait for that "Luna Matana," splendidly ugly like all the recent Dalla stuff, where he’d dedicate a good piece to his old self. So, the sound is that, so similar to "La Faccia Delle Donne" or "Dalla," products of those years that relied heavily on syncopated rhythms and perfectly synchronized bass and drums. Many keyboards, but never useless or overabundant, and always piano, acoustic guitar, and very imaginative electric guitars (after all, it was a time when people tried to say something even with elaborate chords and "little notes," not plowing through the same four chords in the usual way).

No need to dissect the individual tracks: they are all beautiful. Sure, "Ci Stiamo Sbagliando" left quite a mark in the eighties, and the last one, "Giovani Disponibili," anticipates that small-province world that would make Liga so famous (and it’s a track that wouldn’t be out of place, by the way, in his range). Personally, I have a visceral passion for "Amando Le Donne," a track that I find beautiful in itself and full of deeply personal sensations completely irrelevant to anyone who isn’t me. Then, above all, a hoarse, suffering voice, at times strained. But fundamentally beautiful and original. And incredibly well-written songs, both in lyrics and music, given that, except for "Fragole Buone Buone," with music by Curreri, everything else is signed by Carboni. And it might seem strange, thinking of some banalities that in the years to come would carry the same signature. But I’ve learned to judge products for what they are, regardless of all the before, after, and around. Regardless, sometimes, even of the author themselves, too often great at betraying themselves.

This album is a testament to the magic of the eighties, of how songwriting still had some paths to explore back then and how everyone has, and probably we all have, a magical moment.