Raffaello
La Nostra Storia

This summer I believe I spent way too much time on neomelodic "singers," even unintentionally. Every morning, upon waking up, I could clearly see on Teleakery (another private TV station, of higher quality compared to Televolla because it used to focus on ancient Neapolitan songs and now on international ones) the advertisement for albums by Raffaello and Alessio, the two most influential local singers.

The scrolling of the albums was accompanied by the sweet laments of Maundy Thursday from the two guys, put together in the ad space evidently for their same '80s-style sideburns. To tell the truth, when I first heard Raffaello mentioned, I was curious to listen to him and consequently his genre. My cousin obliged, quite happy that I was opening up to new musical horizons and beginning to convert to neomelodicism. If he hadn’t done it, it would have greatly benefitted my eardrums. We slipped into his cozy Smart car and he started playing a few tracks. After a minute, I started feeling terrible stomach cramps, after two minutes, a feeling of nausea and vomiting, after three minutes Valium would have been fresh water, after four minutes the torment ended, thank God. I didn’t want to hear about it for quite a while. But the encounter was inevitable.

Just these days I borrowed the CD (of course copied, try finding an original one of these) to analyze his latest album, "La nostra storia," as an apprentice reviewer. A cover atrocity, depicting his nice boorish face, already hints at the terrible Afro-Cuban tortures he has skillfully prepared. With much reluctance and fear, we let the disc start. It miraculously begins with some silvery guitar chords (could he have done a copy-paste) that even deceive the cleverest listeners: in fact, after a few seconds, a boorish voice that pretends passion and talks about love (as chocolate, he says, like the taste of the girl's lips) is heard. The main course is the chorus, that skillfully mixes Italian and Neapolitan words, exploding emphatically, without fixed limits ("La nostra storia sembra scritta da un cartone alla tivvù, tu ragazzina innamorata, ma viziata un po' di più, con molti sogni nel cassetto, mi ripeti molto spesso, che ccu' mme è vuò realizzà…") pure poetry, for the ignorant, obviously. For 3 minutes and 25 seconds, he continues making embarrassing similes and stereotypical phrases. The melody is surrounded by sickly sweet saxophones, slaves to this Attila of music. This horror is the title track.

The fake abyss where the piano is violated is reached with "O' vuò bbene ancora," which of course talks as per script about left loves where poor Raffaello makes himself a martyr consoling a poor girl, who probably died hearing his very poor but heartfelt ear-splitting appeal. A lament of broken chestnuts, to make a hyperbole. Instead of saying "don’t worry I am with you now" he says "even if it hurt you, you still love him…" But, my son, you have a nice chick in your hands, carpe diem! Do not be fake or worse, a fool. Well… Disturbed by his naivety, we move to the third track, "Vivo di te." What a fantasy of titles! Really I have to compliment you, offspring of Pascoli! Come to me and suggest me three or four love phrases, since you have a vast and varied repertoire! Let's leave the title and move to the music, if it can be called that. Gigi D'Alessio-style rhythms mark the prelude, and guess his first words: I live for you! I bow to you, king of fantasy. But beware, I hear a soft female voice: it’s a duet, incredible friends! A duet, how disgusting, I wonder why they do it… A sudden change of rhythm makes me finally draw the gun from its holster, to put an end to my suffering. The text is unique. It’s a dialogue between him and his phantom girl (but who picks him), in which he reveals his strong obsession for her. Help, help, put my finger on the FWD button! Fourth track, "Tirati su quei pantaloni" (Otherwise they accuse me of rape) that involves the use and misuses of the electric guitar, very heartfelt and romantic. Talks of love, obviously. Please read the chorus: "Tirati su quei pantaloni, ma che stupida che sei, incontrollabili i tuoi modi, sembri il diavolo ma io, cà nun m spogli pe ffà ammore…"… Let's stop the music, please, a spontaneous question arises, actually two:

1) Are you gay? If yes, I sympathize, otherwise…

2) I didn’t get it, you make love dressed??? Then you’re a legend, a great, a supernatural man!

Let's close the parenthesis, otherwise I might have a hysterical fit. The good Sigmund Freud's Thanatos (unconscious instinct of aggressiveness) could overpower my ego and push me to commit genocide of neomelodics. So, melody cooked and digestible like pepper steak at midnight. Voice tones that humiliate absolute boorishness. Incredible use of electric guitars to create a skeletal interlude. No, come on, I won’t rate it 0, it would be too much! Overcome by laughter, which set aside the mad homicidal instinct, I move on in my crusade against Raffaello. What do I hear, a sax and a cell phone ringtone (prolepsis and reference to Moggi?), followed by female sobs, presumably due to the monstrosity of the record. This is the genesis of "Te vengo a piglià" (I come to get you), the only piece that perhaps deserves a score above 0: a good 4 no one can take away from you. I’m kind, come on: you can see your good will and desire to move, but you must really refine the technique. Oh, crystalline acoustic guitar sounds give breath to "Tuo padre non vuole," in which our man wants to clarify his love story and affirm his caring for the girl. Too banal, too stuffed, too heartfelt. And as it is known, too much of a good thing. A pearl of wisdom, however, is the chorus line "Chi overo è nnammurato nun s fà cumannà," a faithful transposition of the saying "You can't rule the heart."

Let’s leave aside these atrocious sentimentality and proceed with "Una storia per metà" (A half story), which starts in chorus, probably made up of the maladjusted and chronic sick. Raffy still exudes loving words, wants to make love with his girl and then die (may heaven grant it!). A spiritual testament, like "Motorbreath" by Metallica. No, please, let's not bring masterpieces into this review. It would ruin the absolute perfection of the rough. Rhythms that move the beautiful girls of Forcella who have nothing to do but give a deep and sincere listen to this rubbish. I’m sorry girls, but you wasted your time. In "Nun pò continua" there is nothing but the reiteration of embarrassing and weak amorous and adulterous concepts. On the other hand, it was hard to expect a turning point. The chorus has a drumbeat rhythm like Good Charlotte, which does nothing but ridicule everything. A rock Raffaello? Yes, in about 500 years we will manage to get it. And we are optimistic. This track is just a vile imitation of rock, mostly commercial. Moreover, if that were not enough, Raff fills his lover (he's a playboy the little guy, show maximum respect) with "stupid" and "fool." Truly moving. Please, pass me the cordless. I'll call the pink phone hotline. I can’t take these (sexual and otherwise) nuisances anymore. Throw him in jail!

D’Alessio-style little tune, it’s the start of "Vancelle a dicere" (Go tell her), which tells a story hindered by the wills of parents. The deepest themes in music history have really been reached. Forget about themes on man in "The Dark Side Of The Moon" or on American idiocy in "American Idiot"! Here every nobility has been exceeded. Hats off, people. Applause, please. Raffaello would like to be the best Gigi D’Alessio possible, but the result is rather unsatisfying: the music goes pretty well, but the lyrics are embarrassing (not even written by him if I’m not mistaken), the tones are extremely commercial and affected by acute boorishness, repetitive. A cute mess externally, but as soon as you dig a bit it oozes absolute banality. Touching and heartfelt sounds give the impetus to "Over l'è perdut," where Neapolitan and Italian are one. The temptation to turn off the CD player is very strong: the peak has indeed been reached. Enough, enough with love, I risk getting castrated! I’m going to Frullone (a well-known Neapolitan asylum)! A straitjacket would be a little jacket, I would free myself immediately due to the anger and murderous instincts this CD arouses. Last (luckily) track is "Napule," which strangely is appreciable: it certainly fails to emulate the splendid city overview by Pino Daniele with "Napul’è," but still makes a nice description of my city. It deserves a 7 for effort. It manages to move, talking to the city as if it were a person, exposing its problems but at the same time exalting its virtues: "Napule, tu sì grande, sì Napule!" (Naples, you’re great, you’re Naples!). A good swan song. If all the tracks were like this, I probably would have given it 4 stars. Unfortunately, 1 is luxurious, I place it because of the last track.

Without it, the record can have many uses: coaster, frisbee, disc for grinder, lampshade (attaching wires to its ends and sticking the bulb in the hole), paperweight, sharpening tool, stroller wheel (this one is fantastic), saucer (but why didn’t I think of this before?), and so on and so forth. My battle against Raffaello and the Neomelodics ends here. We are all exhausted, but I believe I have won. Friend Mopaga, bring me back to my senses with your IV of jokes!