The streets of Milan early Sunday morning like those the day after. Nothing and no one, even dirt lot. Gray sky. Like that day three decades ago that, back home after school, on a gray day, gray listening to the radio, I heard a song by an unknown singer. He sang to himself one more cup of coffee before going down the valley down below. The DJ explained that it was recorded in New York and New York for me since that day there was always the gray sky gray although when I went to New York I found some great sunny days.
A gray sky gray even after I found that I lost in what is called the "low", the countryside outside Milan, Pavia. I was looking for a farmhouse where he was to hold a concert and ended up in a tiny little bar run by a thousand year old woman. That gave me a strange elixir, probably drugged, and put me on track. There was nobody around that day, in the lower. As this morning on the streets of Milan. Like that girorno in Chiavari, or New York. Because the low-lying, low, in short, the lowlands are everywhere. The lowlands are a state of mind and heart.
The other night, or rather night, when I listened to the song Little Cheap Paintings of an Italian group, I was torn into that gray sky. Like when I listened that song about another cup of coffee before continuing his journey to the lowlands, excuse me, the valley down below. There are few songs that pierce the sky, but thank God we have and are still there. Cheap Little Paintings picocla is fragile and the paintings just as the price of which you speak, but it is a precious song. That piano melody that pluck an old and well known, lost and found, the singer's voice that folds on itself but at the same time is strong and vigorous. "As these prayers launched at the sky, like a kiss in a bar late at night, such as letters never sent, such as mobile silent, still hung there, never left you alone." Mmm. How true. In Ralt nothing passes, everything remains in the objects that have collected the eyes that are placed above them.
How wonderful life of lies, Life's Beautiful Lies lyrics prior to that, so full of remorse and sadness. That voice, that voice that rips. The delicious riffs of guitar, violin and accordion polverosi.La total solitude of he Left. Treasure and store.
They call themselves - is not an accident, nothing ever happens by chance - Lowlands, the lowlands low. They come from Pavia - it is no coincidence, and perhaps thousands of years old know it too - and have a really great Italian band. Forgive them if sometimes the atmosphere in certain scvilano all american Springsteen , I can not bear anymore, but if they go right, all right, too. The disc is Gypsy Child, has just been released, the singer is called Edward Abbiati and is one that knows her. Can afford to sing in English because he was born in England, I seem to have understood, or something like that. However has a "voice" and that's enough. He knows his stuff, i know the Lowlands fattoloro and it is good that there are still so in Italy band. To combat the gray skies gray, to listen to before getting another cup of coffee. Before going into the valley below.
www.lowlandsband.com
(The video below is not a song the new album, but this restaurant in London once I got drunk like a whore with my friend James K.; them, the Lowlands, but we have played. So you see, nothing happens by accident)
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