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Among my last nights I choose this one.
Among songs for four-year-old men, who fight fiercely under the sun. Red, for an un-serene serenade or a ballad questioning what the hell am I doing here.
Four-day sailors, who've broken the waters and hesitations and need to hurry, because in six hundred days at most, one must talk.
Twelve hundred days to become useful to the cause. Or become donkeys, in that country where I don't want to live anymore either.
There’s one thing that holds them together, however, the donkeys and the sailors: jam' avànt, jam arrét.
A coming and going with a logbook that someone will write and someone won't. And thank goodness you wrote it.
Peppino Voltarelli, for me the smallest Italian songwriter of the new millennium. And it's better this way. To his physical stature of a dwarf with his heart close to his ass, corresponds a moral and artistic stature that he could already lick his own mustache.
Mediterranean and Andean. Without a song and somewhat a croupier. Even this time the games are done.
Come back soon Peppì. But not here.
n.d.r. - Here, I've castrated one of my reviews.
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