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Listening to Paolo Conte, I admit, is not really within everyone's reach (No hard feelings for those who don't listen to him, mind you).
First, there must be a desire to escape ("Fuga all'inglese") and a yearning for an elsewhere, an absolute elsewhere.
Paolo Conte is a gateway to little-known universes, an exoticism that becomes presence, the story of an absence, the fortune of a presence.
I was there in front of a cassette player listening and dreaming about his tracks; I had just started elementary school, my father was a fan of his, and I remember long car trips in his company.
He had become a family type, he had become my grandfather, yes the one I never had.
It was he who, from behind the large speakers made of plastic and sound, told me stories, stories that took me far, stories I did not understand, stories I loved because I chased them.
Melancholic one is born, and nostalgic one becomes; I, being half Greek, could not help but keep my nostos, my pain for memory, towards a vaguely defined place.
Instead, my grandfather, Paolo Conte, knew that place well; he had been there several times, and he talked about it to me every night, like a good storyteller.
And in the meantime, I was growing up, and falling in love, I became disillusioned, and he was there in some random mp3 track that included Blink 182, Linkin Park, and Manu Chao; but he was always there, companion of fantasies, guardian of dreams.
He is a cat in a tuxedo on the rooftops of daily life, gazing and observing existence, unfolding it into complex and simple seductive verses. All of this is accompanied by a good glass of wine, a romantic disillusionment, the smoke fading from a cigarette, and an unabashed longing for elsewhere.
As one grows up, one goes in search of one's past, and so I rediscovered yet another level of understanding of the artist Paolo Conte is.
I speak of his being a director, of his way of speaking, making music, and expressing himself: well, Paolo Conte makes futurist music, capturing snapshots of moving images, freezing time by seasoning it with sensations ..."and the dancers wait on one leg for the last charge of another rumba"..
Two days ago, I had the chance to meet "my grandfather" live at the Teatro Sistina in Rome.
He was there, "sempre più solo" with his ever-rougher voice, continuing to tell tales, and as this happened, unruly tears streaked my face.
It is very strange to share solitudes; it almost makes you feel in company; it is very strange to have a grandfather you never had, it makes you believe you have him forever.
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