Paolo Conte
Paris milonga

THE REVIEW

Sneaky and sly, you grumble in the shadows, You throw the stone, hide your hand. And after entrusting to the enigmatic puzzle the saying and not saying, you secretly watch the effect it has.

You put all the old refrains in a crystal ball. scribbled with the kazoo, mixed the azure like a Sunday painter.

Do you know how much we care about the jazz of the twenties? We care about the magic lantern, that's where you put the jazz.

Jazz and all those outdated music hunting for echoes and madeleines.

Then yes, magic lantern is perhaps a bit too much, especially for someone like you. You're one of those who believes poetry, to be true, doesn't take a step forward, but backward.

And anyway, no fairy tales, rather a thousand disguises as a "fake" common man, as a historyless macaque who knows the essential things.

It's wonderful to stay away from the present or even brush against it and understand it by flaunting a marvelous anachronism. All true things escape the era, any era, let alone this one.

After all, "it takes character and accordion, a sense of thrill and solitude," and having said that, what more could you possibly say.

Coming to "Paris Milonga," the title would be enough. Two words that evoke travel, intertwined in a formula that is both a revelation and a secret.

Here then is a collection of very rare essences opened in a hotel room by an improbable sales representative. In one vial, the rain of Paris, in another men who look like scarves, in yet another the famous supporting cyclists in escape.

Open those vials one by one and intoxicate yourself. Master Paolo is a true expert in spices and perfumes.

Yes yes, open them one by one. But, please, say nothing. A single wrong word can collapse his perfect world in an instant.