We've listened to a lot of songs, but some travel with us our whole lives, stuck in our memory for almost unconscious reasons, more related to the accidents of our lives than to past or present musical tastes.
That's why, when I read that there was death of Gino PaoliFor a moment I heard that someone very close, someone I'd known my whole life, had died, and I was transported back to an old family story. Apparently, when I was two or three years old, I used to walk down the hallway at home actingSapore di sale, sapore di madrewhich I must have undoubtedly heard a few times on the radio, but conveniently adapted to my childish cognitive framework:Sapore of mother, sapore of father..."The incident would have been nothing more than an urban legend, one of those told at Christmas dinner parties, if it weren't for the fact that they apparently found it so amusing that I dedicated myself to Italian song without lifting a finger, that they recorded me with one of those reel-to-reel tape recorders, so that, years later, I'm going to watch 1963.
Where music and sociology meet, someone will be able to summarize Sapore di sale Speaking of summer songs, the seasonal romances brought to us by mass tourism, song festivals, and the power of radio music, I'm left with the brilliance of knowing how to create a story with music and lyrics that speaks of a couple, of salt, of skin and lips under the sun—in other words, of any one of us on the beach. How lucky that one of my earliest musical memories is linked to such a warm, elegant, and sensual Italian song.
