One sees Amadeus still there, always there, sometimes with an incorporated wife, the Civitillos called them, one sees him on New Year’s Eve, after having just seen him in the prize game, waiting for Sanremo, but how does he do it? But where does he find the strength? And he wonders with his head in his hands: but how can I think of a new year, a new life? One hears Dear friend, I am writing to youstill that, always that, they managed to make us hate her, and she thinks of writing down a threatening letter.
One sees the evening of San Silvestro Rai and he feels like superimposing it on any one of the last thirty, forty, so much so that he doesn’t notice the difference. Apart from the lochescion, long Matera, for reasons of corridors, now Perugia, “the heart of Italy”, but you can artfully confuse medieval Italy anyway. One always sees those, still those, and thinks that I don’t know elsewhere, but this is precisely the country of climatologists who are like virologists. One then scrolls through the agencies with the unsettling, penetrating statements of “Ama”, and hates it, and after the Ansa he gets anxious: “Sparkling evening”, “Reconciliation evening for Italians towards a 2023 that hopefully will be more serene”. Oh yes? Aside from that the little speech seems to have been screwed over at the end of the year Mattarella (or vice versa, who knows), do the Italians really have to make peace? For what? And why do you expect a more serene year? Because of who, who, who, who?
But Zucchero isn’t here tonight. There are: Iva Zanicchi, 82 years old and not hearing them, lucky her, Donatella Rettore, from Castelfranco Veneto with fury, the Ricchi & Poveri “duo format” (of course, Holy Madonna), a whole roundup of warhorses, the most fresh is 55 years old. To make sure we don’t miss anything, they called Sandy Marton, with the same hairstyle as in 1984, but Orwell hustles him home, unfortunately his face doubled, a hybrid between Mickey Rourke and a ricotta bought in London. People from Ibiza it becomes a kind of grotesque march. As for Tracy Spencer, who those under 40 can’t remember, those who are older would rather forget. The coming year? No, the year that came last year, and the one before, and the one before that, and back, and back, there are also the Modàs, that no one has ever understood what they really were, there is a cryptic LDA, which would stand for Luca D’Alessio and in fact it is son of that one there, the neomelodic. Because here it’s all a family, but I’m not saying it, not because he’s a son, amme, but he’s really good. The songs, however, sucked, like the beans on Trinity. New Year’s Eve prepares Sanremo and the Nasone is the common thread, omnipresent, a continuous present.
In short, the future has a withered heart. How does Rai feel so bad about those who keep it? Why does she give him every year and every year more this eternal return of shameless embarrassment? There is a chilling number of two who imitate those who won in Sanremo last year, Blanko and Mahmood, as if the originals weren’t enough, only that they are more reminiscent of the Righeira who exploded, just to stay in the era (then one thinks irony, but Righeira, only one, really comes out in the end, with a skirt and combat boots, and it’s even more disturbing, not 4 decades but 4 centuries have passed on him). The two will be able to do worse with the parody of Elton John and Ru Paul: the abysmal point of an unreal evening. Why, Lord, why? Because you have to be a hustler in Sanremo who will come and also to his friend Carlo Conti for the usual program of imitators. And also to the Rai talent show, jurors for the two Ricchi & Poveri, “and Antonella is fantastic”, Clerici, all a circular self-celebration, I’m talking about you talking about her talking about him talking about you talking about me: we are all phenomena, cheers.
In fact, the appendix of Ama, Fiore, cannot be missing, which in a registered connection makes the Fiore, that is the festival of clichés but it must be said that it is very good, a monster, between Chaplin, Noschese and Walter Chiari. Fiorello is a dogma, such as the non-binary, Greta and the electric car. And there is a certain Dargen d’Amico who, by the way, is the one who will dominate the Festival because he is the director of the songs like “Ama”, in short, he is in the middle of everything, he makes the pieces, produces them, imposes the – ugh! – Artists, they say he’s a pop genius, but shit he’s mumbling all the time. Then Raf arrives, what else will remain of these 80s, he is left with that accountant air of the old Milan to drink. And there one realizes two things: one, that Raf sings like a pizza maker, the other that the words flow in superimposition, Rai mercilessly reminds that its average audience is deaf due to having reached the age limit.
They even make fun of Anna Oxa, but it’s those parochial imitations that put anguish in your heart. But everyone jumps and cheers and pretends to enjoy themselves, devoted to that liturgy of obligatory joy that kills you like a stab in the soul. At this point, given the standard-event, the standard article should bring up the standard-character, Fantozzi’s Maestro Canello, but I won’t. I swear. May my hands drop if I do. Other welcome guests pass by: Nek, Raf, Ric and Gian were fine too, instead there’s Noemi, all Sanremo stuff, let’s see. Compare the Rector with the cobra which is not a snake, yes but shit, he has the same hairdresser as Sandy Marton, Tozzi and Tiamoti, Francesco Renga who looks like a fat Maradona. Stop! As Bud Spencer said “Child”. But here is Pelù, the masked rocker, pluritamponato and overserato, stuff that must have hurt him since yesterday he tweeted a delirium about Pelù who is like Pelé or maybe it was the other way around. From stone him to balls. In fact, he shouldn’t be on the ball, he pulls out the flag of peace, maybe he thinks he’s at the union Concertone. Sing stuff on sale from three or four years ago, always with those bizarre lyrics. This stuff, beyond the more or less joking criticisms, has a rabbric defect, it is affected by the age of the conductor, it is conceived as one of the classic programs of the sixty-year-olds Amadeus, Conti, Panariello, etc., who have the disco of the ’50s in mind 80-90s and play on a nostalgia effect that no longer has a raison d’être, which is, if anything, a pathos effect.
Minutes go by like thorns in an ordeal and Amadeus, by dint of rolling his eyes and contorting his face, is turning into Jack la Cayenne, the one who swallowed the cups. Instead, the spectators swallow the pans, some from the last millennium, others fresh from Ama, that is the one who sends them to Sanremo, via New Year’s Eve. Everyone here is recommended, what do you think, everyone, with no escape, you knew the maneuvers, the macumbe, the envy of those who don’t make the catwalk tonight because the impresario didn’t arrive at the benevolence of the nosed Moloc.
Dear friend, I’m writing to you, so I’m a little sad, and since there’s “fly, fly with me”, maybe I’ll hang myself. Since you left, there’s big news, the old year is over now, but this other one will be the same. It will be Sanremo three times, equal to New Year’s Eve, this year Madame is back, the Jalisse instead don’t go there. But television, he said that the new year, will bring a transformation and we are all touching each other: if ever these fucking vaccines really have graphene, graphite and the concoctions of Baroness Ursula inside them, which seems to come out of a porno 70’s.
But not laughing and joking a bit, we got there: the Ama-Deus reminds us, “start preparing yourselves”, ahò but nothing, this is what Minister Schillaci thought. Three, two, one, off the cork, another rip on the calendar, another non-refundable toast and those accursed scoundrelsinside the screen, making the when when when and the cocoa is amazing, and then tell him that you want to get Maestro Canello out of me by force, and they make the animal beat and Raf who commands, “hands up!”, and the Big nose doesn’t even seem real as he howls “Auuguuri” and already seems to be at the Ariston, and the VAT Zanicchi out of control, more gassed than Pelù, he also tells trivial jokes, Berlusconi-style and you, with your eyes full of tears that end up in the glass, feel that your whore life is gone, fucked up, gone forever. Fake as a whore. And nothing seems to make sense to you anymore, not the year to come, not the ones that have already passed like bastard trains, full of illusions, not even one that has come true, and you hate all your loves and you hate yourself but that’s it you’re used to it, it’s just that even this New Year’s Eve you feel creaky a little more, but only at a certain age.
Of course, however, they can do all their fucking trains, but if they only try to put greenpass, lockdown and the whole thing back in the middle, other than reconciliation, this time I’ll take up my gun: raise your hand who didn’t think of it. At one o’clock Marzullo materializes and makes a self-parody, complete with abstruse questions, another find and here your reporter gives up. See dear friend, what I am writing to you and telling you, and how happy I am to be here at this moment, inventing ever more ridiculous crap to buffer this ever more tragic life. Mine, yours, that of all those who feel on a boulder more as they see all those Nosferatu parade by and they are horrified at the thought of finding themselves like them, and life has passed in front of them and they haven’t caught it and they don’t understand, they really don’t understand what sense this broken and cruel time machine has, this pretending to hope, to believe that from tomorrow it will be different, but you will see that they lock us up anyway, no this time, no, they can’t, you say they can’t, if they want they can, the Italians are sheep, they never rebel, no, this time the revolution breaks out, I tell you, and meanwhile something rises in your throat, you can’t drink anymore, you feel like crying, you need air, not to be seen, you go out to smoke on the balcony even if it’s freezing cold.
Max Del Papa, January 1, 2023