Riccardo Sinigallia

An intimate evening, that of January 5th. Naples, shaken and turned upside down by perverse political dynamics, finds itself hosting one of the greatest singer-songwriters of the latest generation, without any fanfare. Quietly, in a friendly spirit.

At 10pm, Riccardo Sinigallia is sitting on a sofa next to an arch of the portico surrounding the splendid Mutiny Republic, chatting away with a drink in hand, explaining the reasons behind his latest ideas. He then explains them again, on the makeshift stage set up without any frills, armed with his Nord keyboard and his guitar: he's touring Italy, yet it feels as though he'd rather just whisper about it. It's like witnessing a tender back-to-the-future moment from a survivor of another era — that of the storytellers' clubs, unafraid to broadcast messages, songs, simplicity.

There's no feverish anticipation, just calm; people chat among themselves, simply waiting for the young man to shift position and begin something that will bear little resemblance to an actual performance. And when he does, he immediately establishes a direct line to the intangible: he plays, sings, half-closes his eyes, shapes his lips into every possible form and goes into raptures. His hands brush the keyboard for three gems from his latest effort, in strict track-listing order: "Finora", "Laura", "Amici nel tempo". Songs stripped of their already-unobtrusive arrangements and handed over to a silent audience, more watchers than listeners. Songs ranging from love to personal emptiness, passing through the tender melancholy of the many forms friendship can take. An auteur's break, stronger than anything that will follow, acting as both wake-up call and antechamber.

From here on, the red keyboard is definitively set aside in favour of an equally personal little guitar. The relationship becomes even more direct, the dialogue open and even slightly bolder. His Keith Jarrett-like expressions remain, because he's someone who truly *feels* music, cradles it, shares it. We travel straight back to the '70s, perhaps following his original intentions from the outset. A man alone with his instrument, lending strength to the word, in such a way that it leaves a mark on everyone, a nagging thought of positive life, a memory to be lived with a faint smile, with a half-sad gaze. A man without frills, without an obsessive concern for musical perfection, without the chains of "duty". Riccardo is the centre of a gathering among friends, anything but a star to be idolised.

He plays the minstrel, throws out proclamations about the Naples indie scene, greets the members of 24 Grana in the audience and encourages some good old word of mouth. He forges a molecular union between his worlds by citing Massimo Volume and Elettrojoyce, themselves drawn close together by the pens of Emidio Clementi and Filippo Gatti, which converged on "Anni di Pace", a twisted warning aimed at this inert populace lost in "phrases suited to any occasion, that leave no trace, yet resemble us". What better unwitting snapshot of the splendid Naples outside, devastated by who-knows-who and who-knows-what, sordid, manipulated by obsolete clichés. "La revisione della memoria" also seems to wade into this same river, even fiercer, even more piercing, a scathing indictment hurled at those who should act but don't, using the (in)correct revisions of historical events as a pretext.

And so we found ourselves at the evening's "political" moment, as ever hidden behind his hair, delivered with grace and a proud desire to feel like dinosaurs.

The lighter moments, on the other hand, fall within the notes of "La descrizione di un attimo" or "Bellamore", hummed shyly by the "audience", almost as if no one truly wanted to disturb the stillness hanging in the air.

A nice touch too was the tribute to Alan Sorrenti during one of his three encores, performing a "Figli delle stelle" that flew in the face of the original — alone, stripped down and far from danceable.

The finale is reserved for "Il nostro fragile equilibrio", the standout track from "Incontri a metà strada", once again devoted to the ever-taut strings of existence. The theme of fragility recurs throughout his writing; it's clearly a constant touchstone, a point of fascination. Perhaps it's no accident that it serves as a farewell, a "see you again soon". Who knows whether this experiment will have a follow-up in the years to come, but formal considerations aside, witnessing a concert like this truly means creating a communion of minds. How sweet observation is when aimed at reflection, "using" listening and the power of memory.

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