Vasco Rossi
Va Bene, Va Bene Così - Live

THE REVIEW

I already wrote, some time ago, that for certain authors the release of a live album is—or perhaps it was better said, the closure of an artistic moment, and a precursor to the opening of another. It might be better said that the release of a concert is the cover, or the end title, of an inspirational moment.

Think of Conte's "Concerti," Daniele's "Sciò," De André's concert with PFM. Think of "Banana Republic" or "Tra La Via Emilia E Il West." Some cycles closed with the live album, and frankly, I have never understood whether and when it was intentional or accidental.

The fact is that for many authors it’s a common scenario and, alas, for too many artists the first live marks the end of the best period. Followed, for some, by a period of honest craftsmanship (think of Guccini or Conte), and for others, like Vasco, by the start of an artistic downhill which, curiously but not too much (we are in Italy, right?) often corresponded to a commercial boom.

In this album, everything goes well. I must say that I have always loved short albums, those (forgive me the non-olds who might not understand) that fit on a 46-minute cassette.

Therefore, this is perfect. A single live. A "gunshot." With what was, at the time, a new language. For almost all critics a worse, execrable, bad language. Which is objectively true. And I think even Vasco would agree. We cannot compare the perfect construction of a lyric by De Gregori, De André, or Guccini with the street eloquence of good old Rossi from Zocca.

None of the historic singer-songwriters mentioned would ever dream of a piece of pure rustic racism like "colpa d’Alfredo," where the southerner ("negro") takes our hilltop woman ("bitch") for the car he "has" (don’t tell me you didn’t get it...). Where it talks about shattered livers and drug addicts coming home early in the morning with headaches.

In short: a non-poem. But, on the other hand, was free jazz even jazz? Is a Fontana cut a painting? New languages have always bewildered and puzzled and sown criticism. And Vasco gathered quite a bit of criticism, gleefully enjoying it. He ended up in jail for drugs and came out telling the judge that "I’ll draw a line under all this story." Certainly neither good nor benevolent. Certainly light years away from classic singer-songwriter music and the classic Italian songwriter’s song.

But thanks to God, light years away from the easy melodic pop and simple rap that in a few years (with the complicity of Bocelli, Pezzali, Pausini, Jovanotti, etc.) would pollute our radios, our ears, and our lives (at least musically).

That Vasco is something else. It is incorrect language, spoken songs, at times beautiful (here there are perfect versions of "Ogni Volta" and "Vita Spericolata") and at times entertaining. Always irreverent.

Italy still had a meaning, it still knew how to be new, provocative. Maybe beautiful. In the same years, De André innovated his language with "Creuza De Mà," shortly followed by Battisti's "Don Giovanni," another example of pure vocal experimentation.

And from the province, the push still came forward, not the reverse gear that would later make the fortune of bar-minded politicians, telemarketing and quizzes, and terrible songs worthy of the worst dance hall.

Even Vasco, it will be said, later spoiled himself, his language, his novelty. It's true. Undoubtedly.

You just have to remember him here, as he was. In the golden period of the career of a guy who, like it or not, speaking as he eats, turned the page.