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Envy is a terrible thing.
If we give credit to the Great Poet, dear Papa Dante, who claims to have been there, in Purgatory, the envious have their eyelids sewn shut with wire and keep them singing the litanies of the Saints, dressed in a hairshirt until their soul is amended. Now, let’s accept the hairshirt and, though annoying, the wire on the eyelids; but the litanies of the Saints for that slice of Eternity, absolutely not! By Jove!
Therefore, in an attempt to publicly cleanse myself of yet another of my faults, showing everyone the sincerity of my repentance, in the hope of gaining, in due time, a chance for benevolence in the eyes of any Judge who might face the tedious task of sentencing the heap of my earthly shortcomings, I will try to speak to you in the most correct and sincere manner and according to my limited abilities, about the object of my (latest in order of time) surge of envy: this volume, titled “Dischi da correre” by Stefano Causa.
And, the reason for the envy, is not so much in the pleasantness and undoubted validity of the book in question, but in what, in my opinion, it means.
Let me try to explain.
I have known Stefano Causa for much longer than I care to count, but—even though I would love to claim it and, I am sure, he wouldn't mind—it wouldn't be right to count me among his friends, as our acquaintanceship has been too sporadic and fragmented over time (so, at least the doubt that this might result in any kind of “conflict of interest” should be dispelled). About him, an Art Historian, university professor, exhibition curator and leading cultural animator not only in Naples and Campania, author of books and articles and, in short, a recognized intellectual not only nationally, you can find abundant information online if you wish; I—on my part—can only add that whoever was fortunate and privileged enough to attend any of his lectures, still cherishes the vivid and enlightening memory.
But Stefano, in addition to all this and more of which—it is not worth speaking here—has always had another passion, a not-so-hidden love: Music.
And so, our protagonist comes forth quite nicely with this well-curated volume published by Roberto Nicolucci Editore, which is nothing more nor less than a sumptuous and delectable treatise on Pop Music in the broadest and most inclusive sense of the term. Or rather: more than a treatise, it is a journey, an obstacle course, a map to get lost, the ghost of a coming-of-age novel or, more simply (but only apparently so), the presentation of a list of albums from which and on which to start a series of dialogues on the present, the past, Art, lived life and other trifles.
But—and here's the coup de théâtre, the enlightening idea—Causa, who knows well that “talking about Music is like dancing about architecture,” doesn’t tell us what we would expect about those albums but talks to us about the covers!
And all those covers are there, all the ones that need to be and many you wouldn't expect, but—most importantly—none of the ones that “shouldn't be there”: like “Sgt. Pepper” or Warhol's banana or other stuff you would be sure to find in a book by just any Castaldo or Assante. Here, there isn't that kind of “manual of the good music critic” stuff; here, they talk about something else: for example, that white is the color of ’68, that in cathedrals as in certain albums it's better to enter through side doors, what connects Tina Turner in a black sheath dress to Pope Paul III Farnese or the most evolved prog to dentists, how seductive red-dressed foxes can be, and that Dickens should have known how to play the flute, not to mention peeing in company with our rites & myths and much, much more.
All of this, then, is taken along uneven paths that pass from Totò to Hitchcock, from Lucia Canaria to Proust, from Egon Schiele to Rai YOYO's Game Catcher and then through allowances, study holidays, dance parties, and Orietta Berti on TV.
In short, never mind High and Low, here we are “beyond”! In a blender that soars through the skies of “elsewhen”; because that's what we talk about when we talk about Art: ecstasy and sweaty armpits, books read in grey waiting rooms and blinding epiphanies appearing in foul-smelling train wagons, in the most uncomfortable seats of well-worn film clubs or, perhaps, at concerts where everyone coughed or while trying to steal a kiss under a stage among shoves and kicks and also in long silences in empty museums; in other words, trifles and things that fill your Life (and sometimes, save it).
And don't make the mistake (or worse, the wrong) of mistaking it for a diversion, a detour, or five minutes of air to an established intellectual seeking distraction from the onerous duties of their role. No, “Dischi da correre” is perfectly coherent with the rest of Our Author’s—only seemingly different—literary production, from “La strategia dell’attenzione” to “Caravaggio tra le camicie nere” (to mention the first two that I feel like recommending to those who love being surprised by these themes) with which it shares much more than just the happiness of language and profound knowledge of the subject.
In short, to return to the incipit of this piece and to speak of that “meaning” from which the malevolence of my envy arises, here it is: “Dischi da correre” is the book of someone who doesn't need to prove anything to anyone! Of someone who knows what “no one knows and few say: but the history of Modern Art is a matter of covers—a highly navigable channel that, by popular segments, becomes a true priority lane” and tells us so.
And, as an added bonus, he does it having fun and making us have fun. In the face of those who still believe that culture (with a capital “K”) should be a matter of “sweaty papers.”
But, to stay within our scope, since here—among us—we are among pop enthusiasts and old “air-guitar” champions, I add that Causa is the Alman Brothers Band or the Grateful Dead: there is no point in trying to bring into the studio what they know to be “live,” if you haven't seen them in concert you can only enjoy them halfway (to paraphrase a famous advertisement), and this “Dischi da correre” is his “Anthem of the Sun,” meaning the more or less successful attempt to get as close as possible to what happens on stage. So, if you can't imagine him behind the professor’s desk saying those same things, jumping from Sade's songs to Francis Bacon's crucifixions under the astonished gaze of his students, you enjoy it—precisely—only halfway; though “half is better than nothing” (to paraphrase another advertisement).
Finally, after quickly highlighting the last little gem, that is, the volume does not have the canonical rectangular shape but is square (a choice not exactly commercially beneficial, I’d say), precisely not to distort or shrink and humiliate those covers which, being the only true protagonists of the work, are all reproduced respecting the original colors and proportions (and if this doesn't show how seriously Our author approached the subject, I wouldn't know how else to prove it), I go to put on a rough wool sweater, and with my eyes closed, I will sing litanies of Saints.
Just to start training.
You never know.
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