Mag Aprile 2012 PDF - Mag Magazine

Lucio Dalla
Era da poco uscita “Siciliano”, uno dei suoi tanti successi, ed esibii subito le mie origini
inorgogliendomi e ringraziandolo per l’amore tributato alla nostra terra, e non
solo con quella canzone. Poi quando svelai il mio nome di battesimo, che non mi si
può certo scambiare per un friulano, lo sorpresi e gli rubai una larga esclamazione.
“Ahhh, come il mio Carmelo….”
Canticchiò lì, davanti a me e al mio cameraman, la strofa che chiude il pezzo, battendosi
il tempo con le dita paffute contro il tavolo dietro al quale era seduto.
“…Carmelo dorme ai piedi del vulcano, il vento che aveva tra
i capelli adesso lucida le stelle, negli occhi ha un sogno metropolitano,
e un vulcano piano piano che si accende...sono siciliano,
nord-africano…un pò norvegese…ma comunque siciliano…”
Non so a voi, a me sembra il manifesto poetico di un’identità.
Gli chiesi poi se nella sua sterminata opera vi fosse una canzone,
una su tutte, da isolare come colonna sonora della vita,
della sua vita.
Non esitò.
“…Anna avrebbe voluto morire….Marco voleva andarsene
lontano…qualcuno li ha visti tornare tenendosi per
mano…”
Poi nel bel mezzo del concerto, introdusse uno dei suoi
capolavori con una teoria sulla morte che quella sera,
lo confesso, ascoltandolo dentro a una profonda emozione,
pensai che se mai un giorno, lontanissimo sperai,
mi fosse capitato di dover raccontare giornalisticamente
il suo addio, mi sarei ricordato di quel discorso
e lo avrei utilizzato come testamento ideologico
di un grande artista.
Bologna - the last goodbye
He began singing softly, just in front of me and track, his life in this case. He didn’t hesitate. “… I know I will have to go some day… but
my cameraman, the ending verse of that song, “… Anna wished she could be died… Marco when that day will arrive, I am sure, then, I will
beating the time against the table he was sitting wished he could be faraway… somebody saw come back… maybe my being here is already
at, with his chubby hands.
them coming back hand in hand…”.
a return… but if it isn’t so, I will come back and
Then, right in the middle of the concert, he in-
troduced one of his masterpiece through a the-
the volcano, the wind before blowing ory on death, that, I must confess, moved me
in his hair, now is polishing the stars, particularly that night, making me think that If
he bears in his eyes a metropolitan one day (as far as possible, I hoped) I had been
dream and a volcano lighting little by given the opportunity to write an article telling
little… I am Sicilian, North African, his farewell, I would have brought to mind those
somehow Norwegian… but Sicilian words, using them as the ideological will of a
anyway…”.
great artist. That day wasn’t so distant, as I had
I will be an angel… maybe a little bit taller and
prettier… as the angels are…”.
And then he began: “If I was an angel, who
knows as I would look like… tall, blond, invisible,
how awesome I would be…”.
Maybe Lucio has already come back. Maybe
only his body has gone and he is enjoying him-
-
ved and then abandoned…” just as his dancer
-
I don’t know what it does mean to you, but to in the archives of Mediaset network drawing za Maggiore among the moved crowd and the
me it seems the poetic manifesto of an identity. out the tape recording his concert and interview, people raising their voices to the sky, singing “I
Then, I asked him if among his endless songs remembering too early this great artist with its don’t have a real family, and Piazza Grande is
there was one to be considered as a life sound own words full of foreboding.
my home…”, are still imprinted in my eyes.
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