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Rating: ‘The water was warm and it was evening, one of those evenings when the color of the sky changes the hue of everything, making them feel less heavy. An evening like many others, to be honest, which would have been nothing special, if it weren't for what had just happened to me. For the vision I had.
I don't remember if it was summer or winter: it's always warm in Los Angeles. That evening, the water was warm. It was '79 and I was in America escaping the triumph of Pensiero stupendo, in search of solitude, tranquility. That's why I chose the Chateau Marmont, a Hollywood hotel born in the Thirties and frequented by actors, a true institution, which I had always loved: I found it had a particular energy, something magical. Of course, I didn't think of it that way.
I was alone in the pool, surrounded by an unreal, almost artificial silence. There was no one around because the actors who stayed at the hotel hadn't returned from their sets yet. I adored the peace of that moment, all mine. I had immersed myself at sunset and swam for a long time, merging with the water, my element, so light, so free.
It was then that I had the flash, out of nowhere.
A brief, very brief vision, but at that moment it seemed infinite, like when you are about to die, and your life's movie flashes before you.
Only, I wasn't dying.
I was being born.
Many years have passed since then, but I remember everything so vividly that sometimes it feels as if I'm still immersed in that vision: me coming out of my mother's womb.
The first person I see, the one with whom I cross the first gaze of life, is Grandma Maria, my father's mother, the woman who raised me and taught me to be free.
She smiles at me.
She welcomes me.
Grandma.
On one side of the room, it seems I see other people.
Four faces, as if drawn on the walls, but I wouldn't be able to recognize them.
Grandma takes me in her arms. She is the first to do so, and at that moment, I feel good. I feel so good. A sensation of warmth pervades my body. I feel safe.
And in that moment, the vision ends.
It had all been so real, so incredibly tangible.
Then I picked up the phone next to the pool and called her.
“Hello? Mom? It's me, Nicoletta. I know we haven't spoken in a long time, but listen: I need to ask you something”’. (Prologue)
Nicoletta Strambelli, born in Venice in 1948, became the first icon of freedom and transgression from the '60s thanks to a 'libertarian' education received from her paternal grandparents, who were non-conformist for the era.
Entrusted to them by her mother, the future singer was born with a character intolerant of rules, often under the 'protective' action of her grandmother, which led her to become a young woman 'scornful' of the principles (moral) and conventions of the time.
In a book that tells her life story after 50 years of career (released in 2017), the former 'Ragazza del Piper' (nickname given by the same person who launched her on the scene) presents with nonchalance and lightness an intense existence, sometimes extreme, but never dramatic, from a restless and 'rebellious' childhood to an adult life full of passions and adventures, but also much seriousness and dedication in her artistic life, making her a true icon, comparable to great similar personalities of international music from the past.
Going through the singer's childhood experiences, it's noteworthy that she witnessed on her first day of public elementary school (after escaping from a nuns' school) the teacher opening the day's lessons not with prayer, as was customary in Catholic Italy of the '50s, but singing 'La Marsigliese' (the French national anthem, written during the Revolution, ndr/reviewer's note), and being captivated by her.
In opposition to the closed-minded and bigoted mentality of the society of the moment, Nicoletta, a girl who confesses to her grandparents about having made love, finding it wonderful and returning right after lunch to do it again, and taking the first birth control pill in Italy (or being one of the first to do so), under the obligation of her grandmother, at a time when these were not yet available in Italy.
And in those same years, the meeting with the American poet Ezra Pound, accompanied by a woman, on a day of unexcused absence from school.
The debut of the young girl in the music world happens through her constant presence in a recently opened dance hall in Rome, the 'Piper', thanks to two radio presenters (Rai), Renzo Arbore and Gianni Boncompagni, who, noticing her among a few others in the audience wildly dancing, point her out to the club owner and a small record label (an imprint) Alberigo Crocetta.
In turn, Crocetta, after launching her on stage, pairs her with a support band (the English Cyan Three) and during a spaghetti dinner after the club's closing time creates the stage name 'Patty Pravo', with '‘Pravo’' from the 'souls prave' of Dante's 'Inferno' (emerged in a conversation about school memories) and 'Patty' after some English girls who frequented the club with this name being popular in England.
From here to the first success, the step is short: she chooses herself a foreign song to record, rejecting many proposals from the record label, and the author of the lyrics, Gianni Boncompagni, Patty presents a 'generational' track, 'Ragazzo triste' (based on a hit from an American duo, Sonny & Cher – the one from 'Believe' of 1999, ndr).
From here to 'Pensiero stupendo' of 1978, a career on the rise with few artistic and commercial setbacks; among the historical tracks she recounts: 'Qui e là' (a hymn to freedom, embraced by the youth of the period), 'La bambola' (which didn't convince her because she found the lyrics sexist, and the first international success), 'Pazza idea' (with a troubled history, became a summer hit of 1973 and cemented her worldwide fame, thanks also to the recording of foreign language versions) and 'Pensiero stupendo' (written by Ivano Fossati, a story of a menage à trois).
In the same phase of great affirmation, not only musically, the meetings and friendships with important names on the Italian and international scene (including Mick Jagger and Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix and Roger Waters of Pink Floyd); and among the loves, complete with marriages and divorces, Gordon Faggetter (the drummer of Cyan Three), Riccardo Fogli (the singer and bassist of Pooh) and two American guitarists in a threesome relationship, Paul Jefferey and Paul Martinez.
Excluding a nude shoot for the magazine 'Playboy', an interesting Patty is found in the '90s with the arrest for false drug accusation in 1992, a rejuvenating journey along the Silk Road countries concluded with a concert at the Italian embassy in Beijing, the explosion of popularity in China (first foreign artist in that country) and from that experience the creation of the album 'Ideogrammi' (1994, ndr) with the involvement of local artists.
To conclude with this Patty, the meeting with Vasco Rossi and Gaetano Curreri of Stadio for the audition of '…e dimmi che non vuoi morire' (brought to the Sanremo Festival of 1997), a track 'not written for her, but about her'.
A journey into the life of a 'transgressive', worth taking.
‘I was in Madrid for a TV show with my orchestra. That evening, I hadn't sensed anything unusual in the air. No negative vibes. Everything seemed as usual. And yet.
I was backstage, very focused. The show I was about to perform was important. At one point, when I was almost ready to enter the scene, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, annoyed, and found myself in front of an RCA guy. Someone whose name I can no longer remember.
- Madame… - he mumbled. - I'm sorry… We've received a call. We need to inform you that your grandmother has passed away. I'm sorry.
He said it like that, and then he left, just as they were introducing me.
So I went on stage, and the concert became a prayer.
Later, I discovered that Grandma had died in her sleep, of old age, in her bed, and I felt relieved because I knew that's what she had always wanted.
I rented a plane to Venice, where together with Linda Wolf and Paolo Olmi, at that time my orchestra conductor, I attended the funeral mass from the back of the church. Then I boarded one of the boats that would take us to the island of San Michele, the cemetery of Venetians. Not the family one. Another. That's why I could watch from a privileged point of view what happened: from the boat carrying the coffin, floral wreaths suddenly began to fly everywhere, as if someone was throwing them away.
Then the curtains started to move wildly, and we heard a hearty laugh, Grandma's laugh. Even today, Paolo turns pale if I remind him of it.
Grandma has never left me. Sometimes she plays jokes on me, moves things around, steals a friend's hat, who finds it at his home in Verona after it disappeared from Rome. Once, I saw my secretary running like mad down the stairs leading to the cloakroom and storming out through the front door. When I went up to understand what had happened, I found the closets open with everything scattered on the floor.
But I am happy to have Grandma nearby, she who was the first to hold me when I was born, the first to welcome me.
My mother confirmed it to me, the evening I called her from America after the vision I had in the pool: me coming out of my mother's womb.
- Hello? Mom?
- Nicoletta?
- Yes, I know we haven't talked in a long time, but listen: I need to ask you something.
Then I told her everything, everything I had just "seen," words rushing like a river, trying not to leave anything out. She listened to me silently, very attentively.
- But is it true that she was the first to hold me? - I finally asked.
- Yes, - she replied. - It is true. That's what happened.
And she told me that mine was a difficult birth: people like me, who later reveal themselves to be special in life, are born with difficulty, with suffering. At the end of the labor, Mom was exhausted, and so Grandma held me instead. Because she had a superior sensitivity. Probably, deep down, she already knew what was going to happen.
I owe to her my strength of spirit. I owe to her the ability to see beyond the rules. I owe to her, especially, the passion for music and that, even stronger, for freedom.
I miss her greatly, but I don't need the afterlife to see her again.
If I close my eyes, we are still together, in the house in Dorsoduro where it all began, or along the walk to the Ponte della Libertà.
- You know - I tell her now. - Next year I want to return to the desert. A longer, more extreme journey with that madman Max Calderan.
She laughs. - Will you manage?
- Of course, I will! - I protest.
- Then tell me your plans, go on.
- Okay, Grandma. Now I'll tell you.’ (Epilogue)
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