Lynyrd Skynyrd
Live From Freedom Hall

THE REVIEW

A child of 2 years old, perhaps younger, seems like ivy as she twists to try to reach a handle placed too high. A tender and useless grimace to the father who, due to the cold, cannot satisfy her. And then a waterfall cry floods the place. The giant doesn't understand that it is essential for her to go out and open that door. Now. A boy, as tall as four beer canisters stacked, is at the video game. Without credits, he presses the buttons seemingly at random, but he's a terrible actor. He lingers between one furtive glance and another on the spot-the-difference game on the touch screen, which captures alluring and scantily clad madams. Damn, I think to myself as I take another sip, when I was 8, I was thinking about the Commodore 64! A brand new couple is honey and caramel: his gaze could impregnate her. Four elephantine motorcyclists, despite their 50 years, boldly show off their lived-in sleeveless jackets that make room for showy tattoos. With large booted steps and a thunderous chatter, they break all the balance of the scene, shattering the fantasies of the boy who would have stayed there for hours, the romantic atmosphere of the two lovebirds. Unsatisfied, the four fling open the door from which the little girl immediately sneaks out, chased instantly by the gentle giant.

I am in a strongly egoistic phase. I know it cannot last forever, I hope at least, because year by year it will become harder to accept and pathetic to see. But I have an absolute need for solitude, for selfish freedom right now. No, not like coffee in the morning, but rather like air. Maybe you won't agree with me, but when you want to build something, you must be willing to give up, at least in part, your passions on both sides: and I am tired of living with unreciprocated renunciations and taking as a reward assholes combined with excuses and tears. And so now, right now, I want no impediments: I found myself signed up for another mountain running race, and after 6 hours, here I am up here, in a poor unknown B&B in Valtellina, ready to spend an unexpected weekend. Carried like a grain of sand by the wind to the foot of the Cevedale. Like those which occasionally from the Sahara somehow end up on the Alps. I observe small situations, savor them while waiting for my pizza. I decide on the fly what to do, then change my mind, then go back on my steps and finally change track: the phone is there, only for cases of necessity, turned off. Dead. I feel free, open to everything; I find myself spending the evening with strangers, and then who knows: a wobbling beam resting on a moving sphere. Exhilarating and vivid uncertainty.

I certainly don't want to pass myself off as something I am not. That is a fan of theirs. Of Lynyrd Skynyrd, I only know that they are a very famous band, devoted to pure Southern Rock, decimated from the '70s to today by incidents and illnesses. Until three days ago, I only knew "Sweet Home Alabama," which is a bit like claiming to adore Queen because you can recognize the melody of "Bohemian Rhapsody" and "We Are The Champions." For the hours of car ride awaiting me on Saturday, I wanted a new CD, different from the usual metal. A more relaxed, carefree, dreamy, and libertine record. And so between a hairpin turn, an alpine pass, a descent, and a queue for works, I found myself tapping my hand on the steering wheel. I think I heard it, I mean "Simple Man," five times in a row. That initial arpeggio, the penetrating voice in symbiosis with the steady rhythm, accompanied me in the narrow hairpin turns of the Gavia full of cyclists and cars. A slow crescendo, up to the river chorus that dispenses serenity and continuous well-being. And then the solo in which the lead guitar excels, holding the notes in the atmosphere. A live performance of great class, well-played and sung by a band exuding experience, craft, and professionalism, among which stand out “That Smell” and “The Ballad Of Curtis Loew." Their western atmospheres, pure Southern rock, made of dust, calm, sun, filth, and fieldwork, are truly unmatched. Star-spangled patriotism in the mawkish, pompous, and grandiose “Red White And Blue.” The swaggering march of “Give Me Back My Bullets”, with an over-the-top vocal performance: it seems that Van Zant has a handful of rusty metal in his mouth. And then lighters flash on for the sweet, lulling, and nostalgic “Tuesday’s Gone”, capable of evoking a glance at the past. A fiery piano for the fast and compelling “Call Me The Breeze” that revives an audience in rapture over the ivory scales.

And in the end, “Sweet Home Alabama” is almost the worst performed of the lot. Too many expectations, too much pressure, and haste. The audience gets lost, sings blatantly offbeat, and it's hard to reach the conclusion amid applause. Because it often happens precisely this: that in situations where you bet all the chips/expectations, you're more likely to stumble upon a disappointment than a beautiful memory. And the best things instead arise conversely from improvisation, from a mistake, from spontaneity because it's the unknown that attracts us and makes us feel alive. A CD far from our musical tastes, an unpredictable weekend, a return home on Sunday with a 32-tooth smile. Because who the hell would have ever said that, just on Saturday morning?

ilfreddo