Negramaro
La Finestra

Today I want to grip one of those ergonomic handles costing who knows how many euros to feel that dull, monotonous, and regular sound of sharp teeth that cut and carve. To see the sawdust flying everywhere; getting into my eyes, making them red, and finally falling on the ground and the table.

It was on that cold and undefined night that, left semi-conscious by four anonymous arms at my doorstep, I understood I was an athlete worthy of the best laurels in live TV: the ones with the national anthem accompanying at the Olympics. Forget about the soccer goal leaped over by Javier long socks Sotomayor, forget about the hundred meters in 9 euros and 59 cents of the Jamaican detergent, and forget about the three hops (for a total volleyball court and stingy Genoese tip) of the English seagull Edwards. A metallic roar, the lamp, to support my very personal feat: completely drunk 20 spiral steps, the opening of the door, and the arduous climb of the bed without nails and ice ax. A bump, that damned metal lamp, to underline the goal to sanction the deserved rest of the new champion of the known universe.

You open your eyes and curse having done so, because turning on that fold-ridden Commodore 64 hurts like hell. In your mouth, a kilo of dirt and the feeling of having kissed a dog that just gulped down a couple of Ciappi bites, or whatever the hell that mush is called. Eros Ramazzotti, my promised land, no more than 5 meters away. The toilet. But in that dazzling pit, from the esophagus, only a scant squeeze of bile falls. John Travolta and Uma Thurman in "Pulp Fiction" dance barefoot in my mind: I admire them for a bit, slightly envious, and then decisively cut off those two fingers they’re passing over their eyes. Not for revenge, but just to shove them down my throat. Not much. After a sip of lukewarm sea water with mediocre results, there remains only enlightenment.

And there it is, between the cerebellum and the forehead, taking the shape of a neon lamp that lights up to command a frantic search for a plastic ring. The hand like the slender shape of a fish thrashing on the shore while still having the hook in its mouth. A frenzied rummaging of phalanges among junk considered lost and finally there it is, under the Castiglioni Mariotti and Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit, the original CD I was looking for.

I do not doubt that for those who appreciate the genre it may assume the connotations of excellent work, but for my ears, it is by far the worst CD within the walls of my home. A stylized person, a thoughtful lover, with arms crossed on a window. The stereo swallows it reluctantly: a good spoon of sour syrup for a child. Those speakers are used to drinking poor-quality beer from a dirty glass, sanitized with the sleeve of a t-shirt, and that glossy production almost deceives it. The CD skips. It's the stereo telling me: are you really sure??

A pop not only harmless but also quite sneaky, with that shrill voice that might initially please. Not for me. His, more than singing, seems to be an ostentatious display of the ability to ride high notes even when there is no minimal need. The electric guitar rasps a couple of slick and elementary riffs for the famous “Tutto Scorre” and the opener “La distrazione”. It must have been for these two chords that they were defined somewhere as an emerging rock group. The cardboard rhythm section in “Neanche Il Mare” mixes with an anonymous chorus and the sample not to mention the gallop “Parlami d’amore”. A handful of words taken from a dictionary and randomly thrown for the lyrics. I would list them all for you, I mean the songs, but I feel the inspiration waning tremendously.

The album has yet to reach adulthood, the halfway point, and has already fully accomplished its task because finally, naturally and copiously, here comes that alcohol ingested with such vast waste of filigree a few hours earlier. Panting, hugging the toilet bowl, here I am finally returning to life as another useless and colorless song fades out.

This moment, little and diabolical clairvoyant lover, you saw it clearly in your crystal ball when you gave me this piece of plastic as a gift, didn’t you? And I, foolish, who doubted your choice even though I feigned appreciation for a bit of easy love on a bed of shrill notes, which to my ears are decidedly nauseating.