Umberto Tozzi
Tu

THE REVIEW

The record was the culprit and who wrote it: I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you...

That branch of the lead-blue road leading to school, one noon at the end I had written an unbroken chain on the ground of I LOVE YOU ... Love memories on an asphalt blackboard. A year had passed, and Umberto Tozzi's hit had faded away, along with my cryptic white spray anthem. And magically, here comes the mythical summer record! with a new album and a 45 top of the discoring: You we're here we're there, there's love, you've got it tell me yes if you like my strong bed and you weigh little more than foam rubber, you...(sic). All the songs on Tozzi's 33 are fresh fun and unpretentious like a mint soda before it became Sprite, an extinct foam, an ice cream melting in your hands on a pale and absorbed afternoon with the girlfriend, with the backdrop of amenities like Hey sun, the sun always the sun, Like sugar on the lips, Beautiful but-she has little breast, I'm losing Anna, Gypsy I want to live like you.

"Tu" an anthem of bad taste suitable for the worst nightclubs of the Adriatic Riviera, busy entertaining drunk Dutch tourists with Umberto Tozzi, oh alas transit gloria Tozzi, a sugary summer pop anthem that I fondly remember ended up on a site like Orrore a 33 giri.com - which reads: Trash, Weird, and Demented Music. Disgusting earworms, hidden masterpieces, or just embarrassing moments not to be forgotten? 

Ti amo was a very simple round of DO, I know, and Tu is a sped-up slow with disco bass drum, with the usual Montale-Bigazzi lyrics and caramelized singing that hides a blues soul of our hero: it was a real hit spread by all the juke-boxes I came across, from the bar under my house to the beach club, over-sung, over-gifted, over-played on guitars at the beach, another great help for "declarations" in the nick of time, at the end of a party. Indeed, a party, my felliniesque topos...Silver cardboard lights, late May, a garden with the scent of hydrangeas and wisteria, an old turntable with jumping vu meters, two low-fi speakers...a sly swing for two, while I dance with Chiara F., imagining who knows what escapes, brushing her ebony hair, her white velvety peach-scented skin like an August moon with freckles, glimpsing two not too unripe breasts, those snowy teeth, white as Poe's Berenice that I wanted to pull out and put them in place of my braces to always taste her...my hands sliding down her hips, thinking -She won't remove them! She's into it! 

Instead, today I'm sitting here on a bench by the sea, like on the cover of Tozzi, waiting for her to return dressed in youth and me to say to her tell me that you are not a mirage, but it's you. Dabadan. Without Chiara, what a goal.