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Versione 1
Rating: Ah Dislo, Dislo, without knowing it we were almost preparing the same review...
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It's too beautiful, too...
Here everything points to the imprinting of certain 70s songs, to the breeding ground/wishing well where we waded in total, wonderful unawareness...
In the attic/refuge full of junk, the radio was sputtering (or coughing, you decide) certain strange music, but not always.
The afternoons between boredom, comics, and who knows what were too long and too blue. The TV, in its foggy black and white, started almost in the evening, sometimes offering a crash.
The first crash: a man with a rough voice and very lively eyes saying: "I don't like the alarm clock." "Imagine that," I think to myself.
After all, you know what Sunday morning is like? When you open your eyes for a moment and realize that, indeed, it's Sunday. No school, no teachers, nothing at all.
The second crash, on the other hand, is "a very nice house, without a ceiling, without a kitchen" and what can you say here? Better not to squawk about sacred things.
Anyway, the man with the rough voice and lively eyes is named Vinicius de Moraes and he resembles some uncles of Paolo Conte (oh uncle, uncle, explain life, explain how it is) or, in my case, someone I know and certain resemblances say more than a thousand words.
Only then what I know, you don't know.. So let's say that Vinicius wrote songs with clear colors, rhythm in essence, and beauty, tout court.
From the dryness of words devoid of any light, what did Montale envy in Sandro Penna? Perhaps "the striking grace"?
Yes, "the striking grace"...
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Vinicius knew two tricks. Oreste's: "Do you see that girl? From her voice I will make the melody, from her gaze the harmony, then I will steal the cadence of her step." And his very own one: no beauty exists without also being sad.
His great album is "O Afrosambas" with Baden Powell. So beautiful that it is indescribable.
Because in "O Afrosambas" there is something beyond the two tricks. A dive into the origin and myth, as it were.
In a journey to the purest sources of rhythm, white poetry allies with the black heart of candomblé culture. Even if it all seems like a kind of family celebration or a strange gathering of slightly tipsy anthropologists humming in the evening. It's the touch of de Moraes, magical amateurism and enchantingly natural.
And anyway, when things mix, something interesting always happens, weren't we expelled from paradise for a fruit both sour and sweet?
...
From "Os Afrosambas" here there's only "Canto de Ossanha" and there are no words.
Apart from Ossanha, though, no ancestral stuff, just caresses and hits of melancholy.
Nothing but a guitar, a hint of rhythm, and those so human voices, nothing but conviviality, the reunion. And that lightness, that striking grace.
It must be spring or something like it...
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Ah, for Toquinho ask Dislocation.
As for Maria Creuza, her version of "Chega de saudade" is one of the songs that will play at my funeral...
Well, here "Chega de saudade" isn't included, and that's the only flaw of this album.
Trallallá...
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