Lucio Battisti
Dio mio no

THE REVIEW

There was like a rhythmic explosion... and there was a screeching and tormented voice, a high note that was a delight in its breaking, in its shattering into a thousand pieces like glass... It was the voice of someone caught by surprise, the voice of sudden fear...

It went like this: “She's coming closer, closer, closer...” And then: “Oh my God no, what are you doing, what are you doing...what are you doing, what are you doing, what are you doing...oh my God no!!!!”

Then came disordered screams.

At ten years old, I didn’t understand the reason for all this commotion very well... and certainly, I wouldn’t have told you that, musically, it was expertly built tension reaching its climax... In any case, everything, from the agitation of the voice to the rhythmic frenzy, seemed fantastic to me...

Maybe, if I had already started frequenting bars, already then full and overcrowded with experts on the man/woman relationship... maybe, maybe I would have understood, even though I was just a child...

In short, a WOMAN could not, ON HER OWN INITIATIVE, ask where the bed is, put on pajamas and jump on you... No, she couldn't... Ah, dear old stupid Italian male (and, in our case, from Romagna)...

Even though, in reality, back then, there were various interpretations of the song’s meaning. Most, for example, hypothesized that the protagonist's white heat was due to oral relations. But it was Rapetti Giulio himself (known as Mogol) who clarified, years later, that it was pure terror.

Let’s do this, let’s immediately deal with the lyrics. Equipped with a raw and powerful expressiveness and able to probe reality by bringing to light images of brilliant freshness, Mogol's lyrics were (and still are) very true and credible.

Furthermore, although immediate and popular, they managed to indulge in surprising cryptic rises (think, for example, of “I giardini di marzo”) which, combined with the immediate correspondence with reality of the most memorable images, created an effect of astounding linguistic swagger...

Of course, then, Battisti's voice did the rest.

But let's get back to “Dio mio no”, which I'll now tell you how I discovered it.

You know when you're a little kid and you look with admiration and envy at the older kids? And in the midst of all that hormonal chaos, there is always a face that is the precise image of everything you want to be? You know it, you know it very well. That face was there for you too.

And it was there for me too, obviously... The very lively and smiling eyes, barely shaded by a slight mockery and buried under a sea of curls, that face always shone among a noisy group of close friends and adoring girls.

That face... That face had a body... and had gestures suspended in an unreal and seemingly incomplete naturalness. Ah, he wasn't the usual hunk, handsome and arrogant... you could see it, you could understand it immediately...

I must have been eleven, he was sixteen or seventeen...

And one day, while I was sitting alone on a bench, the incredible happened...

He came towards me dreamily humming a song by our Lucio (and damn, I’d pay money to remember which one it was), yes, yes, he came humming... and when he noticed me, perhaps surprised to be caught in the act of his sweet singing, he first smiled at me and then said: “Battisti is great, huh? He's really great, he’s got something...”

I mumbled a voiceless and choked yes and he replied: “Don’t worry, I won’t eat you, you don’t like music?”

“Yes”

“Good boy...” And he went on his way...

Oh, gods, my little adolescent divinity had spoken to me!!! Who did he talk to me about? Battisti? Oh, I knew Battisti a little. In the “Hir parade”, right in those days, “Il mio canto libero” was on.

But it wasn't “Il mio canto libero” that was sung by my new fabulous friend. It was clear that I had to get to know this Battisti better, so a bit later, I bought with my little savings a cassette... The very first cassette of my life...

Another cassette story!!! But this time they were knock-offs, the ones that cost a thousand lire... Those bought from the electricians.

“And I offer you the intelligence of the electricians so finally a bit of light will fill our empty room in sad hotels...” Oh yes, yes on the light we are, Battisti was incredibly bright then, almost blinding...

The cassette was an anthology with all, or almost all, the masterpieces from the golden period. Well, I always listened to that anthology. And among all the wonders contained therein, the greatest wonder of all was “Dio mio no”, which together with “Prisencolinansinainciusol”, I believe was, for me, the revelation of sound...

The idea that sound could be a vortex, a whirlpool, an explosion... And then, damn, that song lasted more than SEVEN MINUTES!!! And who knew you could go beyond three... Hey Jude, apart from the Ati tea commercial that took its na na na, I had not yet listened to it.

And if “Prisencolinainsinainciusol” taught me that it was possible to escape the dictatorship of meaning at all costs, years later, when I was already on the progressive path, there were plenty of people who wanted me to come back through the door after I had escaped through the window.

That, with all that sent me wild as a child, I always found someone who wrinkled their nose. And even if those were fabulous years, the debate was teeming with too many can'ts and must nots. And it was always (always, always!!!!!!!!!!) a problem of content...

Back then, I was still a kid and couldn’t really respond... but today individuals like that I send packing...

Because that word, content, I can't hear it... I CAN’T HEAR IT !!!!!!!! The contents, damn it!!!...

But, I repeat, today I send those individuals packing... because today I know it's great to be content when you are out of your mind badly, maybe snugly tight, inside certain boxes like cats do...or am I getting confused? Oh no, not at all... because contents are containers...

The contents, at least the ones that back then lingered like prey animals on my head, were like those boxes, but you had to get in them by force, even if you didn’t want to... you got in back then... only that you weren’t comfortable like a cat, but you tossed and turned like certain summer nights when the heat is suffocating...

Over time, I then learned to enter only occasionally, only when I felt like it...you have to slip into a box by yourself... only in this way are you like a cat...

That we (the “we” is rhetorical) we don't care about contents, we want moments of splendor, experiences, energy, and we like to find these things, going on instinct, relying on our personal little bell, the divining rod of chance... And a whole series of little lights and flames...

And then, above all, these things can be found everywhere and almost always where you least expect them... Of course, you don’t find them where everyone (intending for everyone a variable element...who knows, band x...or gang Y) wants to send you...

Recently, a basic user wrote that Battisti was epidermal, but that this wasn’t enough... But the epidermis is splendor, it's energy, it’s experience!!! Which is exactly what we want...

Let's take this “Dio mio no”....

Which is extreme guitar strumming, rhythmic paradise...and a strangled/broken/cracked/screamed voice in the attempt (successful) to sustain absolutely new sounds in Italian pop of the time...

It feels like you’re always at the limit... and it seems that the limit doesn't exist...

And there’s a ton of stuff... There’s the black music of the sixties and a jam session warmth... and keyboards almost like Brian Auger and a desire for adventure... and a great joy...

And a sensation of light goosebumps like when everything is fresh and unexpected... And a kind of fire inside like leaving the room even if it's raining... or maybe precisely because it’s raining...

And then there are also great musicians...who give the impression of being in the grip of a kind of enthusiasm... That give you the impression that you’re playing with them too... So what the hell more do you want?

It's pop, sure... just pop music... so what?

To all those who insist on snubbing Battisti, I’d play this song to them for days, uninterruptedly, a Clockwork Orange punishment... But it would be pointless, as I already know the unfortunates would appreciate it from the first listen, only to deny it afterward.

This review is written by the child from then with today’s words... and it’s a shame the child from then can’t use his own words...

I don't know, maybe he would say that this music is like scoring at the ninety-seventh minute against Juventus, like the smile of Orsetto’s sister, like drinking sparkling wine at Christmas...

Or he would say that Battisti had something... That in our parts having something means having a great talent...

I still have to say something about the magical kid, the one who made me discover Battisti... Yes, there is still something left to say, which might seem like foolishness, but is of great importance to me.

One day, in eighty-two, I was at the little station of a small Normandy town... That town had the same name as that kid with the only difference of the y instead of the final i.

And that y, along with the possible French accent, meant only one thing, eternal glory...

There’s a picture of me at that station: I’m on a bench under the sign with the name of the town.. Sometimes I look at that photo and smile...

Then I start humming “Dio mio no”.

Or I go back to that bench, not the one in the photo, but the one from that first and only meeting. That bench on which someone, surely a foolish and romantic being, engraved a phrase with a small knife.

The phrase says: “know, you damn fools, that here one day a teenage god smiled at a little kid.”

Amen...