Sanremo Festival

Everyone's passed through here. Coming straight from other shores, with performances no less than memorable, both for better and for worse: Louis Armstrong, Ray Charles, Madonna, Peter Gabriel, David Bowie, Antony, Kula Shaker, Skunk Anansie, Rufus Wainwright, Dee Dee Bridgewater, Whitney Houston, Cat Stevens, Placebo, Elton John with Ru Paul (!), Phil Collins, Jamiroquai, Rod Stewart, Bruce Springsteen, Blur, Jimmy Page & Robert Plant, Rem. And also Dire Straits, Queen, Kiss, Van Halen, Depeche Mode, Paul McCartney, Def Leppard, George Harrison, Inxs, Joe Cocker, Paul Simon, The Smiths, Barry White, Grace Jones, Asaf Avidan, Caetano Veloso, Marianne Faithfull, Shirley Bassey, Dionne Warwick, and some of them even played along with the "competition" format (Graham Nash, competing with the Hollies, America competing against Sandro Giacobbe...). Contrary to what's always been said, Italian singer-songwriters haven't been so far removed from it either: Dalla, Battisti, Battiato, Modugno, Paoli, Tenco, Gazzè, Bersani, Finardi, Avion Travel, Murolo, Cocciante, Jannacci, Gaetano, and where their feet didn't take them, their pens did: De Gregori, Fossati, Conte, just to name a few, or else took the calmer option of appearing as guests: Bennato, Baglioni, Venditti, Fossati himself, Ligabue.

Ennio Morricone passed through there too, in his own way, as an arranger.

As we know, there have mainly been the great voices: Mina, Milva, Mia Martini, Alice, Giuni Russo, Elisa, Petra Magoni, Antonella Ruggiero, Giorgia, but also the "characterful" timbres: Carmen Consoli, Patty Pravo, Fiorella Mannoia, Ornella Vanoni, Amalia Grè, Malika Ayane, Loredana Bertè, Rossana Casale.

A stage for homegrown beat (Ribelli, Equipe 84, Rokes, Giganti), it has been a battleground for belters: Al Bano, Claudio Villa, Renga, Anna Oxa, Fausto Leali, but also for art rock: Elio e le Storie Tese, Quintorigo, Le Orme, Delirium, and for the post-punk of Decibel and Denovo.

Then of course there have been the "mass phenomena": Celentano, Zucchero, Vasco Rossi, Ramazzotti, Pausini (and among the guests, Duran Duran vs Spandau Ballet, Take That vs Spice Girls), but to reach a wider audience that stage has also welcomed Afterhours, Marlene Kuntz, Bluvertigo (along with the whole 90s electro-pop scene, from Soerba to La Sintesi to Subsonica), and then jazz with Stefano Di Battista, and if we include the guests too, Bollani, Danilo Rea...

What is this monstrosity today, the one Enzo Biagi and Pier Paolo Pasolini once hurled anathemas at? What is this thing around which millions of euros revolve, in times when "one day after another" brings news of suicides caused by financial ruin? This thing where careers are gambled, where people go to prove they can survive, in politics, in show business, one way or another... A rather serious matter. And I will treat it seriously.

Sanremo is the last, desperate outpost of Siae, one of the few chances for a handful of labels' monopoly to pull in the oars amid the crisis, but also, and precisely for that reason, in a nation as lazy as ours and willing only to be indoctrinated by a sound that passes through leaving (apparently) no trace, a voyeuristic gathering around the few merits and many flaws of our neurotic, discouraging “essere/ apparire/ sperare d’essere riconosciuti a guisa di una proiezione ideale di sé”.

Yes, because nothing new beyond small embellishments around a secularized song-form has been possible so far, except thanks to a certain Fabio Fazio, who in the early editions he hosted made important short-circuits possible, bringing onto the stage people like the already-mentioned Avion Travel, Quintorigo, and the much-contested Fabrizio Moro with "La Croce".

At Sanremo, as in the land of "let's keep this between us", small changes are possible, as long as they stay small, yet capable of settling into people's consciences (but that short-circuit of the appearance of John De Leo's band back then was as huge, and equal to the Avion Travel win, as that "Croce", which, yes, was out of contest, but truly "against"). At the singing academy in Monza where I taught in recent years, Antony and Asaf Avidan had suddenly become "the" voices to follow and whose style to imitate, and certainly not because of what we teachers "passed on" as a message to the students, but because of what they brought to us. A miracle of "mother TV", but a welcome one.

So I ask myself: what weight can an edition as dismal as the one just gone possibly carry?

To be fair, Fazio hit the mark fully by bringing a magnificent Rufus Wainwright onto the Ariston stage, with a spine-tingling performance of "Cigarettes And Chocolate Milk", but the audience (ridiculous protests aside) couldn't have cared less, preferring to his class, and to that of Diego Matheuz's supremely agile conducting of the Filarmonica della Fenice, a Renzo Arbore comedy sketch, incapable of raising a laugh, banal, vulgar. But wasn't this Festival supposed to be a tribute to beauty?

Littizzetto's monologue, like Crozza's, shed light on the matter, making people smile, laugh, reflect, but, as we know, comedy rages and reigns supreme only where empires are crumbling, and a hard, pure Cat Stevens, an illuminated and moving maudit, certainly wasn't enough to repair the embarrassment, turned into outright terror, in the face of a performance by Franca Valeri, who was great, once, but... that's how it is, and nothing can be done about it now, sad as it is to say.

Beauty can turn to ashes, which is honest, but it can also turn into a merciless mirror, and watching Carrà dance while singing idiocies never heard before isn't even funny, it's pure terrorism. Picturing her astride a motorcycle receiving the baton from Piero Pelù keeps me up at night, please, somebody stop her!

Rai (apparently) closes its doors to Mediaset and no young talents from Amici, thank goodness, but in fact X Factor, with "judge" Arisa, and Noemi standing in for the "baton" passed on to her in turn by Lady Raffaella (was there an appeal for the Marò too?... and then?) for The Voice, brought a hefty dose of self-referentiality and truly old, ugly music. Not only that: more than any other, this was the Festival of voices singing all over themselves, steeped in hoarseness as if some evil ogre had gone around planting polyps on real vocal cords and leaving only the false ones alive, pushed to absurd extremes in an attempt to imitate, say, Mia Martini, while the fingers refuse to play the right notes on a piano, at least they do, as if to say "Noemi, please, you stop too, a trip to London alone doesn't make you an interpreter".

But it wasn't just her, oh no! We had to wait for Gino Paoli to hear a true interpreter, and then some, with an invaluable Danilo Rea on piano. Moving, without shouting or frills, through a bone-dry version of "Vedrai, vedrai" and an even more beautiful rendition of Umberto Bindi's "Il nostro concerto". This is class that still lives, this is beauty, but there's also a need for something new, an urgent need for something new, so as not to sink under the defense of memory even once it's gone stale and rancid.

The great Ruggiero has aged too (will Battiato ever write something for her again? A break from Colombo's yellowed pen could only do her good, gifting class upon class). The former Matia Bazar singer, after a truly poor performance on the first night, terribly stiff, overly focused on technique, managed to reconnect with the soul and deliver a lovely version of New Trolls' "Una Miniera" (all in the family, so to speak...) alongside the tablets of Digiensemble Berlin. The song she brought to the final grew night after night, but the arrangement...

All in the family again with Ron and his superb version (truly one of the highlights of this edition) of Lucio Dalla's "Cara", and all in the family once more with Cristiano De André. In his increasingly clear idea of beauty as a "mirror", Fazio never hid his preference for one song at the Festival, De André Jr's "Invisibili", which duly won the Sergio Bardotti Award for best lyrics as well as the Mia Martini Award, but as for the music... (was it a coincidence that the Festival's theme tune was a song by Dori Ghezzi, with Wess? All in the family indeed). The best thing Cristiano did at the Festival was singing, in the same manner as his father, "Verranno a chiederti del nostro amore" — moving, sure, but really not much, even though I doubt anyone will take a Premio Tenco away from him this year, an award that, it's been said, will receive more funding after the risk of closure, and which by now I doubt this blessed mirror I keep talking about could ever shatter. Yes, because it's not enough to "act" like a singer-songwriter to be one, it's not enough to "act" like a singer to be one — you first have to "be" one, and the acting follows naturally, and no one will give us back De André the father, no one will give us back Tenco, even if the award named after him is given to "Baccini canta Tenco" (well...), which is and remains a monument to that very mirror mentioned above.

But where the hell is anything new? Listening to the singers on parade feels like watching a Carlo Conti show where everyone impersonates someone else and Conti impersonates himself: here, each singer simply plays their assigned role without letting a shred of real emotion show through. This is an imitation of beauty, but beauty only needs to manifest itself, even when it's pitch dark and unpleasant to look at, like a dancer (Dergin Tokmak) defying his disability by flying on crutches, full stop. And as if that weren't enough, yes, there are also impersonators of other people! Raphael Gualazzi, who sounds like Pino Daniele, for instance — even though the song he brought to the final was, in my view, the most on-point of the whole show (after The Niro's "1969", which is nonetheless superior) thanks to teaming up with a fun and capable The Bloody Beetroots, whom I wish a great deal of luck. If I had to grade the song I'd give it a solid pass: a notable arrangement and a great gospel choir, a good hook, almost like an American Battisti dipped in techno sauce. Curious was the reinterpretation of "Nel blu dipinto di blu" with Beetroots — oops, "Sir Bob Cornelius Rifo", that's his "non-pseudonym" (something tells me the guy, with his solid classical training, might well know Sir Brian Peter George St. John le Baptiste de la Salle Eno, which is a good thing), happily also on vocals, and a Tommy Lee (! Hard to believe, but this is Sanremo…) genuinely awkward at having to keep a swing beat without smashing the cymbals to bits (cue Gualazzi's dirty look during a nice piano solo).

But when it comes to impersonators, the band led by Rossano Lo Mele, the new editor of Rumore, the storied rock magazine (founded by the equally storied Vittore Baroni), don't mess around either: the seasoned Perturbazione, in this genuinely unprecedented mode, seem to perfectly emulate (and that's no compliment) the cultured yet light irony of Max Gazzè, with a less interesting voice and a cello there purely for show, as a mirror-image gimmick. Naturally, the Press Room Award/mirror-image went to… what can you say? At the very least, the band could have spared us from murdering De Gregori alongside Violante Placido.

Bands break up and leave us with solo singers as their legacy, because that way, in times of crisis, you save on touring, and here we are again: after the collapse of Giovanardi of La Crus in 2011, here we are once more with ex-Timoria man Renga and his mannered warbling (long gone the days of "Sangue impazzito", eh?), butchering Bennato together with Kekko (yes, really) of Modà with a barrage of shouting, while Francesco Sarcina (ex-Le Vibrazioni) can't resist the temptation of the "selfie" throughout all his performances… pretty lame, right? (No, I'm not talking about Arisa, heaven forbid!) That would have been more instructive.

There's also room for Riccardo Sinigallia, in the past closely tied to Tiromancino, who got eliminated for having performed his song at a local fair (what is this, anyway? Are there secret services operating behind Sanremo too?). As sweet as ever, the songwriter brings deeply intimate, almost off-putting songs, which would be worth revisiting, not least for a brave reworking of "Ho visto anche degli zingari felici" by the great Claudio Lolli, joined by Marina Rei and Paola Turci.

But please, I beg you, give us something new… And that something is neither the pleasant, if lightweight, charm of Giuliano Palma, nor the much-hyped Renzo Rubino. A mix between the mawkish irony of Denovo (who probably doesn't even know who they are) and a nationwide-crowd-pleaser vocal style drawn from his chosen master, Modugno. It's almost comical the way he attacks the piano, his vocal cords and the songs themselves, as if trying to compensate for the flimsiness of the material. Now, despite lacking any cultural reference points beyond the institutional, and despite being so "poor", he does seem genuine enough to last and become an Italian-style star — just don't ask me to listen to him again, please. He and Simona Molinari nail, with real elegance, Gaber's "Non arrossire".

The young ones? Rocco Hunt and "a Gennar cc’ avut ‘o criaturo” and an assortment of fishmongers, mums and dads in tears? Oh, come on… The critics' award went to Zibba, for reasons nobody quite understood. There was, as I mentioned earlier, a track that, heard on its own merits and away from the whole circus, would have held up really well, yet nobody even came close to giving it credit. That "1969" by The Niro, which brought a bold gust of baroque pop, with a classy, far-from-obvious arrangement (the best thing heard all night, easily a solid 7.5), an interesting lyric and a fine countertenor voice, only slightly dimmed by a stage presence that wasn't the most confident, in a world where image is everything. Where were the "quality jury" and the "press room" for him? The genuinely simplistic structure of this year's songs, the lack of substance behind them, the obsessive chase for the "happy hook and the personality underlined in bold subtitles" (Stromae included), even when wrapped in often very classy productions, hearkened back to the Sixties — but in a historical moment where light entertainment now feels like a paradox.

In some cases the arrangement becomes so "refined" that it's almost funny: did we really need to reach for elegance with a clarinet introducing the verses of Arisa's song?

It has to be said that, when not propped up by driving rhythms, no single song really stood out from the others — but no matter, the many radio stations owned by the lobbies (by now, to a greater or lesser extent, ALL of them, except the radiozine) will hammer us with this rubbish for a whole year until it turns into "classics". Yes, because with the Festivalbar long dead, there's no other mirror left to climb, and the labels with money to invest know it well, to the delight of Siae, its top-earning members and their heirs. Yes, because many readers don't know that for every record sold, for every TV or radio play, only a tiny percentage ends up in the pockets of songwriters and arrangers; the rest gets split among the top earners, meaning the "loyalty-tier" members — so Celentano, Mina, Ramazzotti, Pausini, Zucchero, Bocelli, Modugno's heirs. Every time you buy a record by Deadburger, by Massimo Volume, by Kurai, Butcher Mind Collapse, but also by Ulver, by Scott Walker, by Current 93, your money ends up in the pockets of the gentlemen named above — it's Sanremo all over again, and yes, even in your Metallica CDs there's a little ghost of the "Lady of Lugano" lurking, just so you know!

Dear Fazio — because that's exactly what you are — you who complain about being called "goody-goody" and snap back saying you're "sick and tired of it", if only you knew how we feel! Do you want to make a Sanremo that actually draws people in? Do something new, and allow your Festival to also feature (I'm not saying "only" — you can keep the tear-jerking Neapolitan phenomenon, the housewives' song and the one for the bimbiminchia) musicians who don't have labels with thousands of euros behind them, and make sure the "quality" jury isn't 50% made up of starlets, and that the press room includes webzines and radiozines genuinely attentive to music in all its forms. Out of 20-30 songs, couldn't we hear just one indie track that isn't Renzi-approved? One metal song (I know, blasphemy)? One avant-garde piece (just one, come on! Even your beloved Beatles wrote "Tomorrow Never Knows")? One hip hop track not tainted by playground-level populism? One that's dark, psychedelic, progressive, punk, electronic, folk, grunge, post-rock, real jazz, baroque pop (thanks again, The Niro), dubstep, improv… look, the genres are all out there online, and if you need someone to give you some names, write to the editor-in-chief of any random webzine: they'll drag you out of your gilded world and show you that the beauty you praise so much is alive and well in Italy just as much as anywhere else in the world, and it can really hit hard.

We have nothing to be ashamed of compared to anyone else in this country when it comes to creativity, but people like you are an insult to those who struggle every single day in the music world just to pay the rent, because what's missing is visibility, and you have the power (as you yourself admitted on "Che Tempo che fa") to give it. Because you, and you know it, in times like these, there's no room left for those doing genuinely original work — people who wait tables by day and write music by night, and that's a crime. Because even indie has by now become a "would if I could" situation, and shining a spotlight on micro-labels and crowdfunding platforms would certainly reveal that most of them are cultural associations set up to squeeze out money, dodging Siae however they can, but at least they'd bring a bit of freshness. Because, sadly, the more time goes by, the thinner the line grows between mainstream and "alternative" music, in deference to the God of Money, and we can no longer brush the Sanremo "phenomenon" aside as a minor issue, since before long nothing will be left in this country but sonic conformity.

Because in Sanremo there's already been a death, and another nearly happened in '63 — the same year that saw the man you invited this year to commemorate those who died in poverty, that Paoli who wrote: "Ogni suicidio è diverso, e privato. It's the only way to choose: because the crucial things in life, love and death, cannot be chosen; you don't choose to be born, nor to love, nor to die. Suicide is the only, arrogant way given to man to decide his own fate. Ma io sono la dimostrazione che neppure così si riesce a decidere davvero." Well, that man did go on to make plenty of choices afterwards — so prove that you too can decide to do better, and stop doing your impression of Baudo, from whom you don't seem all that different. You can laugh at Leporello's Aria sung (well, almost brilliantly) by Crozza, but there are people here who can't laugh smugly at "Voi/Germania prendete la Maestosa/Italy, a noi rimane la Mafiosa/Italia", and who would gladly hand back the entire lineup present at the Ariston — wealthy spectators/regulars, "quality" jury and press room included.

It's not enough to tell the story of the "homosexual" Michelangelo to talk about beauty — we want to see it on stage, because beauty in art is a light that shifts what everyone else has already mapped out, a step further, and it can even be uncomfortable, but if it isn't given room to exist, it dies, full stop.

Whoever, like you, Fazio and Littizzetto, holds the scepter to decide who gets a platform and who doesn't, and instead showcases the same old stuff, is, without realizing it, a direct accomplice in an ongoing, shameful killing that, whether they like it or not, they must answer for. Just like beauty, "art is not a mirror held up to reflect the world, but a hammer with which to shape it", as Mayakovsky firmly declared, and as Henry Cow reminded us with "In Praise Of Learning".

In the meantime, any response is welcome, even one from Luciana Littizzetto, who, yes, says intelligent things and single-handedly holds the whole show together, but whose true allegiance still remains unclear.

Regards.

(Monday, February 24, 2014)

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