"The man who has no music in himself, that the harmony of sounds that touched knows betrayal and treacherous fraud. His emotions are a dark night, his thoughts a black Erebus. The music believe, not to him "
(W. Shakespeare, Self-timer from in 4 / 4)
The ways of rock'n'roll are endless. More than two decades ago, these streets I portavano sulle rive di un lago a cercare una rock'n'roll band sconosciuta che aveva la sfrontataggine di fare in Italia quello che si fa in America. Il motore dei Rocking Chairs era questo stantuffo umano, gigantico e gigantesco, che suonava poderose note di basso. Per anni, poi, l'ho visto dagli schermi di Mtv e di cento altre televisioni a dare quintalate di carisma alla band del rocker di Correggio, e ogni volta che le telecamera lo inquadravano, la sua faccia scolpita nel rock'n'roll rubava la scena al leader della band. Il rock'n'roll è fatto anche di attitudine. C'è chi ce l'ha e chi non ce l'ha, l'attitudine.
Le vie del rock'n'roll mi hanno portato a rincontrarlo una freddda sera di inverno fuori di a little place by the parties at my house. And it was as if twenty years and more had never passed. With some people do not need to hang out, because the spirit travels parallel even hundreds of miles and lifetimes away from each other. Every time is like today and yesterday is just around the corner. Tomorrow, however, is too long to come.
now flip through her book, Self-timer in 4 / 4 and think, damn all of these words would have been able to write myself. No, that Antonio "Rigo" Righetti is a musician and I did not. But the substance is. We find in all my favorite words, such as Mystery, and written with a capital. We find in all of my beloved heroes, Jack Kerouac, Elvis, Bob Dylan (called the "voice of one crying in the wilderness": well fuckin 'genius, Mr. Rigo!), Hell even now that I do not like Bruce Springsteen, but the most I loved a lot. And Joe Strummer. Fuckin Joe Strummer. Then he also quotes Shakespeare and then Rigo is my man. We find in a lot of great pictures, my favorites are those of an unmade bed, which could be the bed of a motel on the morning after a couple of hours of sleep between a concert and the other, or to his house. That the beds are all the same and always shows the unmade bed of another bloody night in one way or another, in one place or another, we were able to defeat.
He made the book I always wanted to write, Rigo, and that we had not even spoken. It is no coincidence. There is no plot, but flashbacks. Old but new pages of On the Road, tales of rock heroes, the ones mentioned and others, told in a convincing way, as they should always be told that these characters as heroes in a novel. Fuck those fucking biographies from Saputelli heartless. And then he talks about himself, music, trying to fathom the unfathomable mystery of music. Even in the technical talk, and guys who want to make music instead of watching X Factor would be better to read this book. Pardon, Mystery is always written with a capital. And there
also a CD with this book and for how long this CD is like entering a night at the Fillmore West in its glory days and no more out. It 's a long jam, led by excellent musicians and a local Italian, but this is America. His songs here and there shooting classics, such as Papa Was a Rolling Stone, Folsom Prison Blues, Heartbreak Hotel, all without pause, like being in trance, including two guitars (Andrea Garbo, northeast of talent that I would see well in the Black Crowes for one thing) that communicate with each dose of wah wah and misrepresented bleeding, and that bass that throbs unstoppable. And everything. Mystery. Damn, Rigo, I've written my book.
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