Schrott Nach 8
Zuppa Romana

In the heart of the glorious headquarters of the Politecnico di Milano, which ennobles Piazza Leonardo, there is a small square with a concrete block, the pizzaccia sold behind the plaque; it is the place where we students bask like lizards in the first spring suns, our bellies full (?) of meals never sufficient to satisfy our hungry bodies.

Under this small square, there is a large study room, accessible by a cobbled ramp. Enormous glass windows along its entire length allow us to peek inside and justify its name: aquarium. Bitterly cold in summer and nauseatingly hot in winter, the aquarium is an institution where the hours pass slowly in the morning and drowsily in the afternoon; after all, many beautiful moments spent there remind me that it is part of who I am becoming.

Inside the aquarium, 180 study stations in puke-green color have collected and continue to endure tears, joys, sighs, and anxieties; disjointed notes and impeccable notebooks; colorless McGraw-Hill books and Citrini-Noseda red ribbed as if it were raining.

On one of these stations, the laptop connected to the university's wireless network, during a break (not an entirely rare event, indeed), my good old friends pointed out a video to me.

I watched it and immediately started laughing.

I still bear the consequences today.

Ssssh, silence in the classroom!

Since then, I listen to that song n times a day.

Since then, I watch this video every time I want to laugh.

Since then, I train in front of the mirror, wearing an elegant jacket, to mimic the grimaces of the young singer who, at present, is my avatar of liber vultuus (as my dear sister kindly points out, I should get myself checked out by someone good).

Since then, a world has opened up for me.

"Zuppa romana," year of Our Lord nineteen eighty-three, practically constitutes the only success (at least abroad) of the Bavarians Schrott Nach 8 (literally, wrecks after 8); despite the appearance, the choreography (and the faces) of the "Crude Prawn" of the friendly Landsknechte, the text of the culinary song, very refined, would not look out of place on the Artusi.

No need for me to recount to you the perfection of certain melodies, the remarkable sophistication of certain rhymes (as in the breathtaking trio spaghetti/shrimp/cigarettes) and the superb rhythmic construction, guided by the cheerful bass drum beaten by a lanky fellow easily imagined with a mug in hand at the HB pavilion on a late September afternoon.

There's no need to highlight the exciting interpretation of Gessler, Blass, Henkel, and company: the pathos that oozes from their faces and the Teutonic vocalizations aimed at recounting verses of unattainable poetic beauty ("gorgonzola, coca cola?" miraculously absorbed by the listener who, dazed and ecstatic, can only sigh before such grace.

There's no need even to talk of what preceded (the for me disappointing "Carbonara" by the compatriots Spliff) and what followed that magical moment (Lino Toffolo's homemade version "Pasta e fagioli" and the disco remake on the good Luca Toni); that moment shines with its own light, bright as the sun reflecting its rays on the snow of the Bavarian mountains.

Some will say it's a filthy mockery; others might say it's just a clever operation aimed at fattening the wallets of the joyful singers in question; others still will simply say it's crap.

For me, it is nothing but a masterpiece of irony.

Preeego.

A moment of pure fun when you're feeling down, when washing dishes in the evening, or when the Caiazzo/Loreto/Piola sequence starts to get on your nerves.

A moment like any other for a fleeting, ephemeral, and necessary albeit momentary escape from the puke-green of the aquarium.

A moment that reminds us that sometimes in life, we need to laugh.

Dedicated to my super friends, with affection.