Preface by Roberto Benigni
Songs like Azzurro should be illegal.
Or at least there should be the warning that you must wear protection while it’s playing. If you listen to it without any, you might end up scarred for life. It’s like when you bump into a galloping white horse with no sweat in the middle of the night. It’s got something to do with mystery and the unforgettable.
It was a summer eve when I met Azzurro.
I heard trumpets and trombones heralding a joy that wasn’t there, followed by a tornado of arches that was accompanying a beautiful voice.
It was like being served sunset in a cup.
That voice was Adriano Celentano’s voice.
Adriano Celentano. Just his name was enough to make the game players of my small town community center rush over cards in hand to stand in front of the TV set in a joyous silence.
Not even Berlinguer got this kind of attention.
Adriano Celentano. Spiritual and sensual. Part Pope John and part Brigitte Bardot. We loved him so much. That evening he was singing about a summer afternoon, a group of priests, a lion, and about desire. The song was beautiful like a bag of ripe apricots. Beauty is God’s currency so you can’t hoard it, you have to share it, and that evening we all went back to our card games richer than before.
That night we all won. Somewhere in the sacred scriptures it says that he who sows joy shall be saved.
Asti’s Lawyer and the Accused of Via Gluck, deserve a ride on that white horse that never sweats.