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- The Live of Telespalla No.11 -
If I hadn't arrived, who knows how long it would have gone without anyone talking about you. Dear Masha, why write a review of your concert four months later? Maybe it's because I couldn't find the inspiration, but there's one thing I must confess: the emotions you granted me that evening are special, they still linger on my skin now. The only one who shares this privilege with you is Federico Fiumani. Find some of his lyrics and get them translated into German. He's a poet.
I still remember the Liò Bar, a place that reeks of arrogance and crappy beers. I remember your sharp and lively guitar, I remember those who stood next to you, who felt almost indebted to play alongside a musician of your caliber. I remember those four drunk idiots who disturbed you while you played. I came to your concert not knowing who you were, with the curiosity of not having ever known or admired you. It was a strange, instinctive attraction, and for this reason even more beautiful. I looked at the support band and they gave me a terrible impression, people not fit to play or even exist for that matter. Basically, a crappy band.
Before it started, I positioned myself in the best spot: on top of the speaker next to the stage. I see you get on stage with Norman, a decent bassist, and the "It's a Musical". They accompanied you on that little trip to Italy; who knows where your usual travel companions were. I look around and as usual, there were only about 20 people paying attention. You start playing, I'm there watching you almost hypnotized, and I applaud you continually. I'm truly impressed, I liked you immediately. A bolt from the blue in a crappy period I was compensating for with writing. Meanwhile, you continue, song after song, as your "session musicians" took a bow every time I applauded and praised them. Unfortunately, then came that awful scene. They came up there, stood in front of you. They tried to grab the microphone stand, "I Love You" they said. I'm disgusted and disheartened; who knows what you must have thought of the Italian audience. Shortly afterward, luckily, the encore arrives and I see you come in alone, creating splendid riffs with the guitar and producing beautiful slides with the amplifier.
I have a doubt: "why did she come up alone? The others were so good". I don't care, I need to know you and have one of your records. I go to the CD booth and discover something wonderful: the vinyl of the new record costs only 15 Euros. I don't let it slip away. Before leaving, you arrive, and I'm captivated. I try to say something in English, to apologize for what happened and to thank you for the concert. In the end, I say something beautifully honest: "I'm sorry for my bad English". Unfortunately, I'm not as good with English as a friend of mine whom I miss terribly.
When I return home and reflect, I discover important information about you, material I didn't know that leads me to discover your musical past. Today, I adore you for what you play, you've been my soundtrack for months and months. I care about you as I can scarcely care about music. Thank you... an Italian admirer.
Side comment and outside the letter: from the photos on the internet, she looks so ugly. Believe me, whoever photographs her is an idiot. There will be time to talk about Masha's history and other records.
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