Luis Miguel
Aries

Hello, little man. It's been a long time. So long that I would have more than one thing to tell you – but since you didn't quite understand Italian, I’d like to tell you with the words of that song. One from many years ago.

A certain Morrissey sang it, you’ll know. And he sang about the exploits of a teenager inside a small screen. The teenage star of a TV show. The one-season phenomenon.

Friday nights, 1969.

Yes, exactly that one. Do you remember how it went?

‘You were too old to be a boy wonder and too young to take the lead’.

They quickly forgot you.

‘A star at eighteen, and then - suddenly - you were gone’. And no one wondered what happened to you, except me.

‘Little man, what now’?

Yes, little man. What happened to you? I wonder.

Now I know, but for years I didn’t. Because actually, from our side (and that's the key point: from our side), what happened to Luismito is known by almost no one, if anyone at all.

It was that Sanremo that someone called embarrassing, perhaps the most embarrassing among all the embarrassing ones. The one with the New Trolls and ‘Faccia di cane’ with the dog-like playback, the one with Zucchero still in the lower depths, the one with Francescone Di Giacomo gesticulating on stage with unbecoming movements, while his mouth engaged in a desperate struggle with the background voice. Struggling in the futile attempt to keep time.

Meanwhile, everyone else danced with guitars on their shoulders and pressed random keys, because there was also the track. In addition to the voice. Magically, guitars played without jacks and barely struck acoustic snare drums emitted sensational electronic booms. Because anything was possible in those fantastic years.

And then, him. The dazzling blonde mane, the bow tie to be untied during the performance. And that way of recalling Julio that had to shine through everything, starting from the way he held the microphone.

They dressed him as a little dandy, they wanted to make him look like an adult. He didn’t engage in a desperate struggle with the playback, but with the last button of the jacket that wouldn't come undone. Although he did his utmost to own that stage like a seasoned performer. And to really believe in what he was doing and singing (in a language he barely knew).

But his mission did not end there. He had to make sure that you too, believed it.

He clenched his little fist and looked determined into the camera, while singing ‘we are the ones you can believe in, the true friends you don’t have’. It seemed he wanted to convince you, when he said ‘you have to come with us’.

Then, the famous atrocious unparalleled high note - suspended ad cazzum three-quarters into the song, because it had to draw the unavoidable ‘but what a talented boy he is, what a voice he has, he sounds like an adult’ that would surely come from home.

It wasn't enough. He didn’t win because i Ricchi e Poveri won. Relentless like Juve winning the championship already in February, plebiscitary like the Christian Democracy, predictable like a banal First Republic thing.

With us, Luismito was a success, even if – indeed – just for one season. With that generational anthem coming from none other than the pen of Toto Cutugno. The response to ‘staying friends with everyone’ of Ramazzotti from a year earlier, a thing to sing all together to color this city. And then you'll see you'll like it.

Then came the time for success at home, and the inevitable musicarelli of Mexican production that swept the box office. Movies in which – needless to say – he played himself, facing processions of eager aficionadas at his feet. Yet, his character was more complex than it seemed. He had different sides.

Depending on how he was framed.

Indeed, once he was framed from the front while coming back from a bath in the Pacific and running a hand through his hair, another time he was framed from behind while diving into the pool of a luxurious resort. He was 14/15 years old, but obviously in the movie, he was always on vacation alone. Like an adult. Indeed, like a little man.

Most often, he had that brilliant smile of 175 teeth (bless the ears, which prevented the smile from reaching the nape). A smile that dazzled young girls – pardon, little women. Although his heart beat for only one. And he pouted if her parents didn’t give their blessing. ‘Ah, these lady-killer singers… they're all the same’.

Then came another time, that of an adult career. To consecrate him in the predestined role of Latin crooner, charming and suave enough to threaten Julio's throne. International success, Grammy after Grammy, record-breaking sales in Latin America, arenas packed in celebration. And the Aztec Stadium that hadn't been so full since Italy-Germany 4 to 3.

Sumptuous and lavishly (over)produced was also the award-winning Aries (Summer '93): a triumph of penthouse atmospheres, sleek funk and west coast adult contemporary for the finest tastes. The soundtrack for nighttime flirts of men who never need to ask, when it's time to take home the trophies of a whole beach day. Only conquests of a certain level, of course.

‘Suave’ topped charts from Miami to Buenos Aires, while with us it didn't arrive. With us, the competition from ‘What Is Love?’ , ‘Sei un mito’ and the Repetto dance was too fierce for the former little man to leave a mark again.

But elsewhere, everyone bought (or got sent) his records. Even in Saddam's den, they say, the Americans found a copy of Segundo Romance: a collection of fiery boleros for special evenings, with wine and candles illuminating the imperial bed of the hacienda.

Grunge passed, hip-hop passed, styles and fashions passed. But he was always there, immutable, an aristocratic seducer ruling his empire from above. Elusive and mysterious moreover, staunchly enclosed in his soap opera world of passions. Occasionally he emerged from that world. But only to romance some soap opera actress.

And years went by. The little man had come a long way.

In May, the little man was arrested. It seems he defrauded his ex-manager for a million dollars. Things happen, nothing much. But enough for Italy (which once adopted him) to remember him again.

Remember.

From one side I read ‘Arrested the one from "Noi ragazzi di oggi’. That one.

From another side, instead (and at least): ‘Arrested the singer of "Noi ragazzi di oggi”. Just to remind that, after all, that little man who we once saw was a singer. Not another profession.

And it’s a bit a metaphor for life: you struggle, you strive to believe in what you do (or are made to do – it doesn’t matter), sell millions of records, fill the trophy cabinet, have thousands of admirers waiting at the door, Saddam has a copy of your record at home...

...but eternally you’ll be remembered as the one who sang a song by Toto Cutugno over thirty years ago.

As if seeing your name associated with Toto Cutugno wasn’t already a sentence.

As if finding yourself in handcuffs after the brutal mega-lifting (some say plastic surgery) that transformed you into the missing link between Gabriel Garko and Massimo Oddo wasn’t already a sentence.

As if still being called little man wasn’t already heavy enough. So excuse me, little man.

But the fact is that when you’re now too old to be a boy wonder, they only mention you again when they seize your pool and Rolls-Royce.

Or not?