The faded parka sings in the wind like a red flag, frayed but never tamed.
Who knows what material - wool, polyester, esoteric artificial fabrics that capitalism tries to make us accept as "more modern, more beautiful" - his scarf is made of, red that one too.
But it doesn't matter. Bandierarossa (that's what his comrades call young Alessandro) doesn't walk, he flies.
He flies between bebop screams and languid Mahlerian chromaticisms, between the newly discovered numbered basses and the red fury of a blues that is negritude, pain and acid desperation.
Fly Bandierarossa, fly. If you saw Alessandro aged, all money and power, hidden behind the hypocritical rules of a counterpoint that is opium for the pain of living, you would curse, Bandierarossa.
Fly in the wind, Bandierarossa, until he has time. Tomorrow you will have to bow your head.
And fuck the art, fuck the music, fuck you, Bandierarossa.
No comments:
Post a Comment