Nick Kamen
Move Until We Fly

THE REVIEW

A few days ago, I couldn't resist reading the review of the new CD by this Mr. Jovanotti, considered by all the mentally impaired as the Tiziano Terzani of Italian music.

In that audacious review, I sought as much as possible regarding the singularity of artistic metamorphoses, the alchemies that transform - even without improving the quality - a moron who takes nothing seriously (himself primarily) into an equally moronic person who takes everything too seriously, starting with himself and his musings on pan- harmonic harmony and a sustainable, tolerable, or negligible future.

The maturation processes, more or less happy, successful, or still studied, obviously involved the most immature characters of our local music scene, which largely, it must be said, are all Cecchetto's patents, like Francesco who recently sought the "Normal Living," the suburban guy Max who, after two albums of gratuitous swear words in Milanese, sought virgination by cutting out a (great, given what's shown on television!) dancer, undoubtedly the most talented of the duo.

The first attempts at directional change, as we know, leave the audience surprised and unprepared: adults look at you with their usual suspicion and don't believe you are sincere; the young or the pimply fans, at the same time, no longer recognize you due to the change of standards.

Sometimes the saying "he who perseveres wins" works, and such Jovanotti soon returned to meet the public's favor. Other times, however, growth leads to oblivion...

In 1990, while this Jovanotti began to mix a bit of redundant and rhetorical as well as super-perbene reflexivity with the usual carefree spirit in the album "Giovani Jovanotti," there were not few puppets of prepackaged and chart pop, national or international, seeking a second life. The attempts at reconstructing the credibility hymen were varied. Some caused a sensation and therefore succeeded, others were funny, desperate, unfeasible.

The one under examination in this review, also dated 1990, was simultaneously ridiculous, desperate, unfeasible, and moving.

Ridiculous because the pretty boy with the mole in the right spot seemed to want to take style lessons from the "drunkard" Mick Hucknall, not exactly a hottie: "We Can Make It," "Agony And Ecstasy," "You Are" and its decent groove, as well as "I Want More" are indeed in full white British funk-soul style.

Desperate for the same reasons: Simply Red were the best around on the white funk-soul and chart front, and referring to them, considering that Kamen can't even sing, is a suicide.

Unfeasible because, among all the puppets of that period, Nick Kamen, a gentle Elvis with a mole, a childlike nose, a ton of gel, a non-exaggerated '50s tuft, a model's rear end and a pair of Levi's, was the most puppet of puppets, the one who most relied on his image. It's likely that not even a young girl (and not even Madonna, I believe) lingered on him to examine his artistic depth.

Finally, a touching attempt for those with enough distance to reflect on it coldly because noticing a finished singer trying in every possible way (few, to be honest) to escape his fate was touching, engaging in the tedious gospel of "Oph How Happy," with the cool modern and metropolitan jazz of the title track, or with the sweet "I Promise Myself," all good sentiments, acoustic guitar, and echoes of a famous John Lennon song.

"Move Until We Fly" will succeed only here in Italy, unfortunately for sociological reasons I won't discuss here; a stronghold of everything young, handsome, male, and riffing proposed to succeed. The rest of the planet smashes Ciccone's pet, inviting him to desist from trying again. Which he will punctually do, then finally realize he's unfeasible, desperate, ridiculous without even touching the most sensitive.