Solomon Burke
Don't Give Up on Me

I am in bed, awake for a few dozen minutes, but I really don't feel like facing the day just like that, out of the blue. There are a lot of sounds I would like to hear while I'm nestled inside the duvet. The sound of the rain, kamikaze drops breaking on the tiles, the gurgle of the moka pot, but she, who made it for me every now and then, hasn't been around for a few months now. Even the squeals of the new neighbor, the one who, as soon as she arrived, gave me a look that clearly said "loser"; yes, those little noises while she plays rodeo with the Big Jim of the moment could be pleasant. But these walls are too thick. Another sound I would like to hear is that of someone moving around the house, indistinct steps in the distance for the comfort of a presence that doesn't make you feel so alone. And instead, the sound that makes me get off my ass is the metallic noise of a shovel biting into the asphalt. A sharp, unmistakable sound: it's time to do a bit of exercise with the neighbors. At least five below zero, courteous greetings, and in 10/15 minutes a dozen arms are ready to shovel, and while the flakes fall abundantly, we grunt to clear the ramp, the yard, and remove the snow from the cars. After two hours, it's almost done and here comes the son of a bitch "Porsche Cayenne branded clothing lead ass," of whom, for privacy reasons, I will only mention the name: Carlo. So we were heading back when the bastard, of whom, for privacy reasons, I will only mention the last name: Albertini. In short, this smooth-talking biped with a five-figure income emerges with a "What, have you already finished?! Sorry, I just heard now." The shovel feels heavy after two hours but magically becomes light and makes a Giotto-like semicircle in the sharp and icy air to swiftly slice his jugular. Almost black blood gushes, staining me and the four neighbors. We dance on crimson puddles that stain the snow, we draw lines on a tennis court on the white blanket of the lawn and start a match with his balls. But no: I mutter something like, "it's okay" and retreat home. He doesn’t even answer me; I'm not even a homeowner.

Either I shoot something like "Inglourious Basterds" and imagine his face as I scalp him or I calm down. I calm down. I put on the stereo at a vigorous volume "Don't Give Up On Me" by Solomon Burke, and that insignificant little man disappears. Yes, I know it's a useless duplicate, but I won’t do a track-by-track review, I'm not capable of it, I won’t talk about the sacred monsters who wrote these songs for the album in question, nor will I talk about the excellence of the musicians who played with Solomon among whom there are noteworthy ones. I see no reason to repeat what has already been well described.

I just wish someone stumbled upon these lines, lost their balance, and followed my example by listening to these 50 minutes as if they were one great song. Yes, because with Sputifive people pay to "skip" songs. But damn, music is a continuum that must be savored, so treat yourself to this journey from "Don't Give Up On Me" to the final "Sit This One Out." Burke gracefully and passionately leans into steady rhythms; I feel my heartbeat slowing, my clenched fists relaxing, and finally opening up. My 90 kilos, roughly spread over a six-foot slice of bread, become a feather. My head. Nods. As I close my eyes and turn into a flag at the mercy of a mild breeze, his voice. I'm amidst the notes of the sheet music; I can't read it but the only thing I can tell you is that they are the right ones; they are round and precise like a Federer forehand and yes, even though I'm ignorant, I can fully enjoy the shifting melodies, now swelling, of this sound river that gently tickles my sturdy arms and makes me relish. Goosebumps don't lie. Relish as when you make love a couple of times and after coming for the last time you sink for a few seconds into the bed or floor and become a rag doll while you hold her and need nothing else. And when finally this piece of plastic ends its run the only thing you want to do is press the play button again. Sound drug so well written, produced, played, and sung that everything else fades far into the background, almost disappears.

Carlo who? That noise again. I have to go back to shoveling!