Preface by Furio Colombo
Adriano Celentano is a benevolent ruler in a world made up of young women. Like in a fairytale, we have no idea where his kingdom lies and how large it is, but it must be vast because the king has got a lot of work to do.
He has a special way of ruling. This king listens. I know I just stole a quote from Calvino and a title from a Luciano Berio opera, which are dangerous credentials while entering the land I’m about to explore that is somewhere I know but also somewhere I’ll have to climb to.
That’s when I’ll find out that that there’s a much-abided law: the king listens. Each line, each verse of Adriano’s musical conversation is a question and an answer, a provocation, a reference, an interruption, a reaction, a feline way of indulging the opponent so that he will approach. And the counterpart does come forward. And during each step of this voyage – also known as “song”- there’s a question, an answer, a reply. No one starts, no one finishes, and whatever it was, already happened or is about to happen.
It’s that magic that a kind king surrounds his land and himself with, enough to confirm that the narrative is important (in the sense that it’s important for the who’s talking, who’s listening and who’s just passing through). And this narrative has no end. Because what’s always missing is the finale: “and they lived happily ever after”. Sometimes these voices that listen and talk are happy and sometimes they’re not. What counts is that the conversation never gets interrupted, and even if the discussion is a quarrel, it always feels like the relationship is strong and will hold through. Because it’s got the human power. That’s what’s usually missing from fairytales and that’s what makes this fairytale different.
You would think that since there’s a king, there must be subjects. The king leads a dance that isn’t mechanical nor ritualistic, and each movement is a new, invented step.
He leads but he’s not arbitrary because he listens. And no one knows where the story will go since it is a conversation. This is a king who serves and indulges the citizens of his kingdom.
Of course all kings always say they serve the nation’s best interest.
But in this case there’s some truth because the rule is that these citizens exist because they partake in a conversation with their king. And the king talks with unfinished sentences that speak of minimalist gestures, mood swings, a reaction to the face of the listener, something the interlocutor wants or did, the color or a physical sign that even if it’s minimal identifies and connects with the other person through a fraction of a sentence.
The rule of this enchanted space demands that the other voice shouldn’t be physically felt. But we never witness the sovereign’s dominion. His power lies in evoking life, not in changing it. Of course he has the ability of bringing to life and making real and tangible something crucial like two bodies brushing against each other, or even just a flash of pure attraction between two physical entities.
What takes place in the forest of this kingdom and gives an identity – or nationality – to its citizens, is an intense series of vibrations that are different in nature: they are mental, sensorial, evocative and of anticipation. And also the detailed narrative of the events.
Because the odd task this King has assigned himself – and which he conscientiously abides to – is a form of respect that stops him from invading other territories. This puts him in the condition of having to ask, accept, and exonerate if his desire isn’t fulfilled. But he will never invade. He’s a governing king and occupies only if he’s offered the space and enjoys expanding his dominion. But never through warfare.
He refuses to use sophism and deception, and when his story is over, it’s over.
In Celentano’s musical forest the women the king listens to, talks to, tries to connect with the intent of overpowering them, aren’t members of a harem or of a meek love-forlorn bunch of subordinates.
This king is a peer who demands an equal partnership. What’s important in this magic forest is to be heedful of the details, inquisitive even when there are no answers, because he’s temperamental both in a good and a bad way. But as the constitution states, the king is just an emblem.
He speaks (and sings) for half of the population. But the members of the other half respect him because they feel he represents them.
It’s the male population that speaks to the female population, and they recognize each other because of the cautious and reckless, aggressive and meek, strong and frightened, relentless in their desire to seduce but not in their stubbornness to conquer. It’s a population of men who talks with women and not about women. And these men accept the fact that they don’t know what they don’t know and don’t fake being something they’re not.
This king sets up frontiers, he wants to dominate without invading.
He respects boundaries when he sees them.
He doesn’t seduce his people by accepting everything. He’s not nostalgic, nor melancholic, he never feigns desperation, there are no sunsets or regrets for the space he rules.
And that space is never a hotel lobby with Muzak playing in the background: Adriano is like Zorro because he leaves clear and unequivocal signs. It’s either his way or the highway. But before coming to this conclusion he listens even if no one else can hear the voice he’s paying attention to. And this explains his long pauses while he’s speaking in public, and why those pauses don’t dissolve the attention but increases it.
Because everybody knows he’s listening.
He reprimands: “You think that’s what the world is like”.
He acts: “The fairytale ended and the salad wilted/ you stopped wearing/your blue skirt”.
He wavers: “Tell me, is that how you do it?/ Is that what love is about?”
He’s stern: “You’ll get lost in this video-society/that is telling you how to love/how to invest/what to read/feeding you illusions”
He’s sincere: “There’s nothing left to say/I wish I was out“
He’s generous: “I still like you/when you laugh or when you cry/and when you’ll walk with a cane/ your youth/ will even be more brilliant”
He’s realistic: “One day they’ll live in this world/without us”.
He’s sarcastic (and self-deprecating): “And if I leave you/wait for me forever/ the worst thing that could happen/ is that I’ll be back in September.”
In the magic forest, Septembers always returns.