Orangeskies – Are you Addicted to Life and Music?

This is a period during which I’m not very interested in the world that surrounds me. Call it loathing, disenchantment, boredom or disgust: as you prefer, but at the moment, I think more about myself than about the world. It’s obvious that my choice of music is affected by this, and so I tend to look towards intimate albums, carefree rock’n’roll, or somewhat depressive singer-songwriters.

It’s the same if I’m at work, at home or out on the streets: the one exception, the only minimally “political” album, is by an artist that usually isn’t political at all: “New York” by Lou Reed. The most unpleasant member of the Velvet Underground (and not only of them), usually tells stories about men, women and children at the borders of society, but this time he’s less sadistic than usual, and seem to almost feel for his unfortunate heroes.The album revolves around the city of New York, used as a muse by Lou, compact and essential as the better things by Reed as a solo artist, even if not very innovative: with songs about tormented love, like “Romeo had Juliet”, that tells the story about a Hispanic Montecchi swept away by an elusive and difficult passion, “The perfume burned his eyes, Holding tightly to her thighs, And something flickered for a minute, And then it vanished and was gone” or about fatherhood, as in “Beginning of a Great Adventure”, where he pronounces “It might be great to have a kid that I could kick around, a little me to fill up with my thought, A little me or he or she to fill up with my dreams a way of saying life is not a loss”. But mostly, there are stories of rage, seeing the losers of the Big Apple as its protagonists.This album, with its Vietnam War remnants sung about in “Xmas in February”, the story about Sam who’s had “Half his friends […] stuffed into black body bags, With their names printed at the top”, with the indignation of “There is no Time” or “Strawman” (Does anybody need another million dollar movie, Does anybody need another million dollar star, Does anybody need to be told over and over), is what I was listening to, last Saturday, on one of the trains going to one of the more dangerous outskirts of Rome, at least if you are to believe the newspapers. There I was, in a rather good mood, going to a party held in a park, surrounded by Indian women, Italians from the suburbs and a men of colour. Just as Lou started singing the lyrics to “Dirty Boulevard”, “Pedro lives out of the Wilshire hotel, He looks out a window without glass, The walls are made of cardboard, newspapers on his feet, His father beats him cause he’s too tired to beg”, three ticket controllers got on the train. I showed my season ticket which by the way they did not even bother to look at, not even pressing stop but letting the song go on, “He’s got nine brothers and sisters, They’re brought up on their knees, It’s hard to run when a coat hanger beats you on the thighs”, while the three moved on to occupy themselves with the black guy sitting in front of me. Over the voice of Lou, whispering ““Get to end up, on the dirty boulevard, Going out, to the dirty boulevard, He’s going down, on the dirty boulevard”, I could hear the older one of the ticket controllers saying “this ticket is old”. The coloured guy widened his eyes and starting pulling out more tickets, all old.
Too late, all three of the controllers started harassing him, the before mentioned one asking him if he could read and demanding to see a document of identification. “Give me your hungry, your tired your poor I’ll piss on ‘em, That’s what the statue of bigotry says”, Lou sang, while the chocolate coloured guy opened his wallet. There were no money in it, oh no, just a piece of paper: an I.D? He folded it, “Your poor huddled masses, lets club ‘em to death, And get it over with and just dump ‘em on the boulevard”, and just as the train arrived at my stop the younger one of the three controllers, pulled out his police badge and said “give me that piece of paper”. I got off the train, with Lou lamenting “I want to fly away, from this Dirty Boulevard”; and well, maybe that black man could have been your daughter’s rapist. Or maybe not?

È un periodo in cui non mi interessa molto quello che mi circonda. Chiamatelo disgusto, disillusione, noia, schifo: come vi pare, ma oggi penso più a me stesso che al mondo. Ovvio che i miei ascolti ne risentano, e così ecco dischi intimisti, rock’n roll spensierato, cantautori anche depressivi. Succede a casa, sul lavoro e per strada: l’unica eccezione, il solo disco minimamente “politico”, è di un autore che di solito non lo è affatto: “New York” di Lou Reed. Il più antipatico dei Velvet (e non solo), racconta sempre storie di uomini, donne e bambini ai margini della società, ma stavolta è meno sadico del solito, e per i suoi sfortunati eroi sembra provare simpatia.
Un album che ruota intorno alla città di New York, usata da Lou come musa, compatto ed essenziale come le cose migliori del Reed solista, seppur poco innovativo: con pezzi su amori tormentati, come “Romeo had Juliet”, che racconta un Montecchi ispanico travolto da una passione difficile e sfuggente “The perfume burned his eyes, Holding tightly to her thighs, And something flickered for a minute, And then it vanished and was gone” (Il profumo brucia i suoi occhi, stringendosi forte alle cosce di lei, e qualcosa brilla per un minuto, poi svanisce ed è andato) o sul desiderio di paternità in “Beginning of a Great Adventure”, dove annuncia “It might be great to have a kid that I could kick around, a little me to fill up with my thought, A little me or he or she to fill up with my dreams a way of saying life is not a loss” (sarebbe grande avere un bimbo da poter portare in giro, un piccolo me da riempire coi miei pensieri, un piccolo me o lui o lei da riempire coi miei sogni, un modo per poter dire che la vita non è vuota). Ma nella maggior parte dei casi sono storie di rabbia, protagonisti i losers della Grande Mela.

Questo disco, coi suoi sconfitti del Vietnam raccontati in “Xmas in February”, storia di Sam che ha avuto “Half his friends […] stuffed into black body bags, With their names printed at the top” (metà dei suoi amici […]chiusi in grandi borse nere, coi loro nomi scritti sopra), con l’indignazione di “There is no Time” o “Strawman” (Does anybody need another million dollar movie, Does anybody need another million dollar star, Does anybody need to be told over and over), era quello che stavo ascoltando, sabato scorso, su uno dei trenini che portano nella periferia profonda romana, quella dell’emergenza sicurezza di cui parlano tutti i giornali. Ero lì che andavo a una festa in un parco, mediamente allegro, con intorno donne indiane, italiani di borgata, un ragazzo di colore. Proprio mentre Lou attaccava “Dirty Boulevard”, cantando “Pedro lives out of the wilshire hotel, He looks out a window without glass, The walls are made of cardboard, newspapers on his feet, His father beats him cause he’s too tired to beg” (Pedro vive fuori dal wilshire hotel, guarda fuori da una finestra senza vetri, i muri sono fatti di cartone, ha giornali ai piedi, il padre lo picchia perché è troppo stanco per chiedere l’elemosina), sono saliti tre controllori in divisa per controllare i biglietti; io ho fatto vedere il mio abbonamento, che peraltro nemmeno hanno guardato, e non ho stoppato la canzone che è andata avanti “Hes got nine brothers and sisters, They’re brought up on their knees, Its hard to run when a coat hanger beats you on the thighs” (Ha nove tra fratelli e sorelle, sono tutti cresciuti sulle ginocchia, è dura correre quando un ometto ti picchia sulle cosce), mentre i tre si dedicavano al ragazzo nero seduto di fronte a me. Sulla voce di Lou che sussurra “Get to end up, on the dirty boulevard, Going out, to the dirty boulevard, He’s going down, on the dirty boulevard” si è insinuata la voce del controllore più vecchio che diceva “questo biglietto è scaduto” e ho visto il coloured sgranare gli occhi e tirare fuori altri biglietti, tutti scaduti. Troppo tardi, tutti e tre gli sono saltati addosso, quello di prima ha aggiunto “ma sai leggere?” e chiesto un documento: “Give me your hungry, your tired your poor I’ll piss on ‘em, That’s what the statue of bigotry says” (datemi i vostri affamati, i vostri stanchi e i poveri, piscerò su di loro, dice la statua del fanatismo), invitava Lou, mentre il ragazzo color cioccolato apriva il portafogli. Non c’erano soldi dentro, oh no, solo un foglietto: un documento d’identità? Lo ha richiuso, “Your poor huddled masses, lets club ‘em to death, And get it over with and just dump ‘em on the boulevard” (le vostre povere masse rannicchiate, bastoniamole a morte, facciamola finita e scarichiamole sul viale), e proprio quando il treno è arrivato alla mia fermata il più giovane dei tre controllori ha tirato fuori una patacca da poliziotto e detto “dammi subito quel foglio”. Io sono sceso senza guardarmi indietro, mentre Lou si lamentava “I want to fly away, from this Dirty Boulevard” (voglio volare via da questo viale lurido); beh, insomma, pensate che quel negro poteva essere lo stupratore delle vostre figlie. O magari no?

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