Mina
La pioggia di marzo

And even as a child, you sometimes have revelations...

Hit parade, basements, keyholes...

Radio, record players, black and white dreams...

But, in this case, the revelation happened in a dining room...

A brown dining room...

That was the time, dear Mina, when your face no longer seemed like a cream pie. Something, digging and redigging, had transformed it into the semblance of a witch.

And a witch, as you know, says and does not say.

I knew everything about you, the names of your thousand husbands: Corrado, Virgilio, Dimitri Karamazov …

And the name of the boyfriend at that time, a guy with a crooked face who was featured on Stop, Eva Express, Novella 2000.

Very similar to certain Argentine coaches with elusive speech, he was a sort of villain with a predatory gaze. A very seventies face, if you know what I mean. One like that, whiskey in hand and semen in the eyes, you’d find in any bar.

Besides, it wasn’t Battiato who invented the symptomatic mystery.

Anyway, if you want, I'll tell you about that time at school when I made the teacher angry, we were talking about Mazzini...

Mazzini Giuseppe...

“Mazzini is also the tiger's surname, who knows, maybe they’re distant relatives...” I said.

The result was a note to be signed by my parents.

Then I also remember those other two teachers on the bus, two half-broken old ladies in a horror Padana style. And one said to the other: “Did you see Mina the other night, did you see how she was dressed? But how she sang!!!”

And that evening was indeed a Saturday night...

Something like a thousand lights in black and white...

Was that even a song? It felt like being on a swing, damn. And the words were not the usual words, but popping soap bubbles.

The words, a very clear language, all rhythm and light, like couplets of Rodari carried by a capricious wind.

The swing, a half-playful incantation, an abc rhythmic where the enchantment lays.

That would be bossa nova, darling. A fine and popular dictation, simple and magical.

“La pioggia di Marzo”, is the cover of “Aguas de Marco”, a masterpiece by Jobim known especially in the incomparable version by Elis Regina.

But Mina doesn’t joke either...

Her version has something playful, or, if you prefer, what I like to call joyful madness. A little cushion between a pout and a smile where the Cheshire cat naps.

And her new witch-like face, the one that says and does not say, at the time was the most perfect to offer us such beauty.

“It's but, it's maybe, it's when you fly”, it starts like this...

Uncertainty and magic, then...

Then the images follow with an inexplicable naturalness and, fluttering and in the grip of rhythm, they take home in the obscure brightness of a nursery rhyme.

It's the allure of the list, the divine inventory...

An anthem to life and all its oscillations.

It's but it's maybe

it's when you fly

echo rebound

it's being alone

glass shell

it's the moon and the bonfires

sleep death

it's to believe or not

field daisy

the distant shore

King Arthur, Babau

it's the fata morgana

it's a gust of wind

wave of the swing

a deep mystery

a little sorrow

north wind from the mountains

Sunday evening

it's the pros and cons

wanting spring

it's the rain falling

it's fair's eve

it's March's water

it's was or wasn’t

it's yes and no

it's the world as it was

Madamadorè

a passing storm

it's a swallow in the north

the stork the crane

a stream a fountain

an extra crumb

it's the bottom of the well

the departing ship

a face with a pout

it's staying apart

it's I hope I believe

a count a story

the drop that trickles

an enchantment a meeting

it's the shadow of a gesture

something that glitters

the morning that is here

the alarm clock that rings

it's the wood it's the fire

it's the bread the flatbread

the jug of wine

the hustle and bustle of the street

it's a house project

the wool shawl

it's a sung song

an andana an altana

it's a step you hear

that comes and goes

the profile of the mountains

with the sun beyond

and the March rain is what it is

the hope of life you carry with you

it's but it's yes

it's when you fly

echo rebound

it's being alone

the rose the yo-yo

lullaby or lullaby

it's a pain but

it doesn't hurt too much

it's the March rain it is what it is
the hope of life you carry with you

it's but it's maybe

it's when you fly

echo rebound

it's being alone

it's a step you hear

that comes and goes

it's a great horizon

it's what will be...

and the March rain is what it is

the hope of life you carry with you...

What do you say, isn't it a wonder? I could have raved about it even more than a little. But a text like this is better left alone, no?

And then, oh well, I was born in March. I must know something about its rain...