Mia Martini
Il giorno dopo

Call me Mimì

for my black eyes and hair, and my dark thoughts

there’s Mimì walking on the bridge holding her daughter’s hand, looking down.

For the life I had and the life I gave, for my dark glasses,

to explain to her daughter that tomorrow will be better, that you’ll see, things will change.

This is what Francesco wrote in 1987 about Mimì, without waiting for the premature passing as both the Italian and non-Italian culture dictate. In my mental struggle, over time, I've given strictly Italian musical figures the role of ‘relative’, very much in quotes. And just as babbo Faber, who also passed away years ago, I often sought refuge in the maternal figure of Mia. To me, she was a character with two faces. A girl I would have gone mad for in the 70s, a wise and caring mom in the years before her death. Because Mia Martini was a parabola. I remained strongly attached to that image of a woman, fragile yet strong and courageous, as demonstrated by some of her themes, often censored and never really accepted by censorship. Yet this is how she was, a bit closed in herself, a bit different to be accepted as she was by her colleagues, to the point of attracting the worst malice from a world that, like many, is founded on envy and resentment.

I was a young rascal when I first encountered this woman. In a house where the radio ruled in the mornings, musical encounters, good or bad, were the norm. And it was when I first heard ‘Piccolo uomo’, a song influential in the process that saw Mia as a prominent figure, that I began to wonder why that voice, even not knowing to whom it belonged, I couldn’t get it out of my head. A pure and particular voice, perhaps not wonderfully trained, that expressed the sentiment never banal of a woman and her sufferings. Because only in her and at most in Tenco did I find such an identification in what is sung as to even believe that the protagonist is indeed the one telling the story, to the point of thinking of something autobiographical. And it was only years later, driven by curiosity, I gave a foundation to this theory, discovering in Mia Martini a different woman, a victim of a family relationship, especially with her father, devastating, and a series of loves that deeply wounded her. I slowly began to identify with this figure, as fascinating as she was a victim of a sense of anguish she carried with her all her life. So I decided some time ago that Mia would become a part of the soundtracks of my past and my future, and I’m not changing my mind just now, now that perhaps, with a few more years, but still relatively young, I understand even more her approach to song and life.

It seems paradoxical how a woman so apparently fragile, showed such boldness through her songs. Censorship, as we said, never spared young Mimì, in the 70s, always accompanied by great lyricists, Antonello De Sanctis first, Ivano Fossati later, to mention the most influential. It was in ’71 with ‘Oltre la collina’ that we got to know her: songs difficult to digest for an Italy still too tied, perhaps rightly or perhaps not, to a very strict conception of a ‘filter’, like ‘Tesoro ma è vero’, where the theme of blindness and consequent abandonment is addressed, ‘Padre davvero’, and the tremendously conflictual relationship with an unloved father, the theme of suicide in ‘Lacrime di Marzo’, and finally rape in ‘La vergine e il mare’. A really strong album, a punch in the face to a country that was rarely accustomed to releases of this kind. Things slightly softened with the subsequent ‘Nel mondo una cosa’, containing the first hit ‘Piccolo uomo’, later plagiarized by Baglioni with ‘Poster’, ‘Valsinha’. A Baglioni who, remember, has often collaborated with the singer. Also noteworthy is the wonderful ‘Amanti’, a praise of adultery, among the most poignant songs of her vast discography.

It was 1973 when Mia Martini, now at the peak of her career, released ‘Il giorno dopo’, (unlike Guccini’s two). A sort of concept album, as the numerous songs are linked by a common theme, namely the irrational abandonment to passion towards man, a source of joy and pain. All supported by perhaps Mia's most famous song, ‘Minuetto’, written by Franco Califano. Minuetto is the story of many women, made slaves and prisoners of an unrealizable love. It is the story of those who pursue a dream, remaining paralyzed in front of not being able to govern themselves, daughters of an almost renouncing attitude towards a passion too strong to be tamed. A continuous mind-heart duel that inevitably leads to resignation. To the point where she can do nothing but ‘keep waiting in the evenings to beg for love’. The same theme is evident in the first track, ‘Ma quale amore’, where the profound change between the love of the past and what it has become today, a sad habit (And at night I’m fine, then tomorrow good morning and away/ But what love do you believe, am I stupid?). With a sweet introduction begins ‘Bolero’, among the most beautiful songs of young Mia, taking its title from a dance of Spanish origin. Melancholic and haunting the chorus, which highlights how, despite the apparent distance, the thought will always follow the beloved. ‘La malattia’ instead has as its main theme that of drug addiction, of which the man of her life was a victim, who despite the serious signs of discomfort, remains the man she fell in love with years before, all in an emotional crescendo that unleashes all its strength in the wonderful chorus. ‘Picnic’, set to the notes of Elton John’s ‘Your Song’, is a splendid tale of identification with nature, on the verge of panism. ‘Signora’, is a bitter invective towards the mother-in-law, who cannot conceive her son’s love towards the woman (I know she didn't raise him for someone like me, too bad/ Before cursing me, remember the dawn of that day, when she too dreamed, lady). The album concludes with the notes of ‘Dove il cielo va a finire’, a wonderful identification with the immense and the beauty of sunset. Everything dissolves, everything disappears, where the sun goes to fade away. Where it goes to die. All the fears of the previous tracks are lost in a guitar arpeggio. And she will return, after this moment of calm, like in a pendulum, to be a victim of her own fears.

An operation on her vocal cords partly compromised her career. A long break from the music scene, according to her colleagues, saw her changed, more sunny, with a different view of things, but always with that bitter aftertaste of defeat, towards a world that never appreciated her. It’s been 21 years since that tragic ’95 that saw her fade away. And at that moment, like in a premonitory sign, I was born, and today, like 10 years ago, I continue to chase her, and maybe who knows, always in my struggle, to find her in someone.

We love you Mimì.