Mario Venuti
Veramente

There was a time when I spent hours at the gym, like Battiato. But unlike Battiato, there were no orthopedic ankles involved.

That time didn't last long: about a couple of months. It was the spring of 2003. Four times a week – strictly in the afternoon, compatibility permitting.

Gym in the outskirts, huge window overlooking the classic exotic postcard scenario: the half-empty square of a transport company.

All the equipment as needed, nothing missing. Spacious room, never too crowded. In the back to the right, there's the weight room, a glass separating the gym aristocracy from the rest of the common fitness mortals. The usual hulks wandering with their hands in their pockets in a few square meters of room. In reality, it's the bar annex located on the ground floor: they mostly sit around doing nothing. Occasionally, they lift something. Something other than the laughter of those who see them with those hammer thrower outfits. But just being there means doing gym, real gym. "What do you do?" "Gym." "Well no, I do gym, real gym"...

Outside the gym, real gym, there's the Lao-zone, territory of those who have nothing to show off except the program just compiled by the instructor, wrapped in a transparent plastic cover. I go there with my Nottingham Forest shirt from the 95/’96 season, just to give myself some presence. Unlike a colleague who is spinning over there in the corner, flaunting a faded t-shirt with "Recuerdo de Santiago de Compostela" on it.

"What, you've been there...?" - I say. "Yes. Beautiful place, really. The cathedral, the landscape, everything. Then the story of the little shepherds, the Virgin Mary appearing, uh... moving".
"Oh. Look at that."

The other thing that can be shown off in the Lao-zone, besides the instructor's program and the surprising tales of never-made trips, is one's own musical culture.

There's the usual group of bank employees, or maybe postal ones but with more of a bank employee face, singing to everyone. The staircase leading from the hall to the changing rooms turns into the ideal stretch for in-depth discussions on the subject; the place where, between a discography of the Queen and a vintage Bon Jovi already ready in the BMW parked downstairs, the role of status-symbol is assumed by the fantastic Daira Strezza by Marc Nòffe.

"Oh nice, huh...?" "Uhh... I've got the complete discography, yes yes..." "Braders In 'Armese, damn album..." "Yeah but, Mèkin Mùvi..." "Oh well, alright..."

With the complete discography of Daira Strezza distributed over a handful of releases, TV Sorrisi e Canzoni had delighted bank employee music lovers with the guitar myth of Marc Nòffe.

But the music of the Lao-zone, in 2003, was also what was playing from the gym's official radio: a well-known Umbrian station that still broadcasts in my area.

Antonacci and Ramazzotti were daily bread, just like the Vibrators - also known as Le Vibrazioni - that year winning over with Giulia and that song which wasn’t exactly titled Giulia, but talked about a certain Giulia. And it hammered. But Radio-Gym wanted to show it could push further, even daring more sophisticated aspirations, with a Sergio Cammariere just back from the latest Sanremo. When Cammariere was on, the gym's management discouraged weight lifting to avoid sudden nodding off with the equipment in your hand.

Then of course, the foreigners: there was the Canadian blonde Aprì La Vigna, there was Ben Harper with Diamonds On The Inside, there were the resurrected Simply Red, but they were a small thing compared to the (homegrown) 200-ton mega-monster that tyrannized the frequencies of the time. REALLY. Mario Venuti. Ahh.

Softly he had appeared already between February and March, but it was with spring that he established himself as one of the most viral and obsessive hits of that year, at least until 'Bonito' by Jarabe de Palo (and here, a jolt) challenged his reign. 'Veramente' was truly everywhere. It was a constant presence. It followed you right into the changing room when you thought the bombardment was over, and only a cooling down Bennato remained. With each new 'Veramente' you were in awe, and the specter reappeared.

With those profound words, with that text that wanted to be in its own way refined (yes..?), with that way he pronounced that "veramente!", which was not a "veramente" like so many others, Venuti of 'Veramente' truly imposed himself: "I pretended not to care about you to make myself more interesting, but now I am just REALLY".

Ahh, though. What words.

I think of Mario Venuti every time I think of that time when I spent hours at the gym.

Oh right, the gym. I went back two years later, but to a different gym. Series of 50 push-ups interspersed with fast running for 2-hour sessions. To me, who had never done anything, it felt like being in Full Metal Jacket, but there was no Private Pyle. Instead, there were the Pink Floyd of Delicate Sound Of Thunder, on endless rotation, from a cassette that survived the '80s which the instructor kept in his locker. At the 32nd pass of One Of These Days, I crashed to the ground.

I haven't gone back to the gym since then.