"Scegliere il nome di una donna come titolo di un album significa rivolgerle una richiesta precisa, simile all’invocazione delle muse nei poemi classici, affinché si faccia avanti per raccontarci la sua storia. Se Elettra decidesse ad un tratto, senza alcun preavviso, di arrivare fino a noi, concedendosi un viaggio nei nostri poco confortevoli giorni, che cosa avrebbe da dirci? Lei che è stata protagonista assoluta dei sogni dei più grandi drammaturghi greci, Sofocle, Euripide ed Eschilo. Passata in punta di piedi attraverso le sale d’attesa della psicanalisi moderna e le teorie di Jung che la misero sul lettino accanto al suo fratello Edipo.
Una figura del genere, al tempo stesso prefigurazione e compimento di idee sempre nuove, che abiti sceglierebbe di indossare? Quale messaggio ci affiderebbe? Eroina borghese, pazza sanguinaria, matricida e poi, ancora, rivale della sua stessa madre nella descrizione del complesso che porta il suo nome. Un simbolo dal carattere difficile e le potenzialità infinite soprattutto perché dietro di esso è possibile nascondere il vero protagonista dell’intero album: l’amore. Anche in questo caso però si tratta di una ricerca che prende in considerazione mille maschere ed altrettanti modi di essere del sentimento. I ruoli e le passioni si rincorrono attraverso le canzoni fino a vestire i panni della vittima, l’assassina, la straniera.
Elettra potrebbe essere la prostituta protagonista di una canzone. Donna dunque e mestierante. Attrice del sesso a pagamento. Oscar Wilde diceva che è sufficiente dare una maschera ad un uomo affinché egli ci dica la verità. Nel caso di Elettra basterà la “cipria abusata nella penombra” mentre negli occhi riverberano “i bagliori della strada”. La sua verità è una passione imbarazzante, l’amore per un cliente, errore imperdonabile per chi fa il suo mestiere. Ed Elettra diventa nuovamente Eva. La sua missione è redimere l’uomo invece di fargli assaggiare una mela sospetta. Perché spaccando un simbolo a metà lo si rinnova garantendo che ci sia cibo per chi vorrà interpretarlo in futuro. E allora una prostituta può insegnare la leggerezza del sentimento invece della banalità della carne. Davanti alla faccia perplessa del solito uomo impaurito, impietrito, mai cresciuto, Elettra sventola la semplicità delle sue parole, “amore, concediamoci quel viaggio imprevisto” un abbraccio alla luce del sole, un ballo. Ed il mondo intero non può fare altro che guardarla “indignato” e “frenetico” restando con un palmo di naso: Elettra si è presa gioco di lui, un’altra volta. I suoni ed i testi delle canzoni sono impregnati dal sentimento dell’immediatezza: la frase musicale procede per illuminazioni basandosi in modo particolare sulla sensibilità delle parole e delle melodie.
Una finestra dunque, che si apre sia verso l’interno dell’essere umano alla ricerca della sua storia psicologica ed emotiva, sia all’esterno, verso la nostra società. In questo caso ad avere la meglio sono le figure grottesche ed i paradossi con i quali conviviamo da tempo. Non si avverte contrasto tra la volontà di raccontare l’uomo o la donna nella loro nudità mitica ed il bisogno di una giustizia poetica capace di rimettere le cose a posto. La generosità e la comprensione dell’artista nei confronti di tutte le caratteristiche dei propri personaggi permette loro di diventare cantastorie senza aspettative. A tratti sembra che la voce di Elettra renda possibile persino una confessione autobiografica, un ricordo prezioso che Carmen ha scelto di condividere staccandolo dal muro della sua memoria come una fotografia, una dolorosa cartolina."
* tratto da Carmen Consoli - Quello che sento, F. Guglielmi - GIUNTI Editore 2006
Of all the days you had to choose from
Why did you have to leave on a Monday?
Birds are singing and summer is nearly here
Time for sun, sea and lemon water-ices
No mincing of words in the witty
and subtly sarcastic comments you could have made
Up with Italy, soccer and testosterone!
Shady dealings and hormone-ridden sluts!
We like tv rather a lot I’d say
I mean - the actual tv set – on display in the drawing room
Who knows what bitter remarks
You would have made out of a sheer sense of decency
Send us a postcard and a cheerful picture
Of you sunbathing on the beach
Wearing a typical white shirt, reading the sports page
And lingering upon the strand basking in the sunset
Of all the days you had to choose from
Why did you have to leave on a Monday?
Hectic street traffic and arguments at the crossroads
Lots of bad-mannered people in ugly looking cars
Who knows how witty and subtly sarcastic
You could have been in such miserable circumstances
Send us a postcard and a cheerful picture
Of you sunbathing on the beach
Wearing a typical white shirt and reading the sports page
Lingering on the strand and humming a love song
Send us a postcard and a cheerful picture
Of you sunbathing on the beach
Wearing a typical white shirt
Send us a postcard and a cheerful picture
As you linger on the strand
And with a sense of awe welcome a new day
Days fly by in confusion and restlessness
Like flies at the dining table
Tomorrow is a holiday and the whole village
Is excited about the procession
Be generous, madam,
And in exchange the martyr saints will rejoice.
The weather forecasts say
Spring will be late this year
This Atlantic weather front
Is a disaster for my roses
Be patient, madam,
Plants don’t rush or meet deadlines
It’s only a matter of a few weeks
Why worry that they won’t bloom
Through the tangled mess of endless hours of uncertain waiting
Suddenly a flock of swallows sweeps and swoops across the sky
If I close my eyes I get a hot, chafing feeling
The sun in May has never been so close
In good times or bad
I’ll fight at your side, my captain
Be patient, madam,
Plants don’t rush or meet deadlines
It’s only a matter of a few weeks
Why worry that they won’t bloom
Through the tangled mess of endless hours of uncertain waiting
Suddenly a flock of swallows sweeps and swoops across the sky
If I close my eyes I can feel the thrill of high altitude
And a strong lack of oxygen
But I have already caught my breath
And can now breathe again effortlessly
The weather forecasts say
Spring will be late this yea
My love, things don’t always follow the right course
And it’s not just bad weather
That ruins the harvest
It’s funny how time goes by better than expected
Impending panic forces us to tame a fervid smile
And a sudden sense of well-being
Is happiness, perhaps, a remote hope?
Like sunshine in December
Not very far from here it’s snowing
Not very far from here
People devise ways to run around breathlessly
So anxious are they to get back to where they started from
That they forget how much is at stake
And how to follow suit.
My love, it’s not your fault
If you can’t handle joy
And you feel at ease
Surrounded by pain and resignation
And it’s only natural if sometimes,
we force ourselves to ignore the constant cry
of our real inclinations
The margin of error in an endless subtraction
Is happiness, perhaps, a remote hope?
Like sunshine in December
Not very far from here it’s snowing
Not very far from here
People behave in an odd and mysterious manner
Driven by an uncontrollable desire to be amazing
They don their masks but somehow
Forget to wear the one that shows courage
When the stakes are down
Not very far from here it’s snowing
Not very far from here it’s snowin
I’m wearing red lipstick in sign of mourning
And a black coat
My uncle was a distinguished man.
Don’t cry, mother! Just swallow it down and forget
His greedy hands between my legs
He’s in God’s grace now
Good girl, play eenie, meeny, miny, moe
The less shame you feel the better your score
Let’s play Blind Man’s Buff
Your uncle is taking you to the mountains
We pay our final respects to a pure soul
A noble example as a father, brother and friend
And I feel their deep contempt, their eyes on me
I revealed the sordid incest and nobody believed me
Good girl, a little bit at a time
Don’t worry, it won’t bite or run away
Let’s play Blind Man’s Buff
Your uncle is taking you on holiday
Good girl play eenie, meeny, miny, moe
Those who seek sooner or later shall find
Do it again sweetie
Your uncle is taking you to the merry-go-round
Your uncle is taking you to the merry-go-round
I’m wearing bright red lipstick
And nothing under my coat …
In honour of my persecutor
That Sunday morning a sorrowful breeze
Came blowing in from the sea
The thought of Odysseys to far-off places
For pleasure-seeking travellers
I will survive the violence of your words
In the South East, the margins of darkness yield to the sun
And I will wait for the evening dressed in diamonds
Would you like to come and see the stars?
What’s the point, tell me, of longing for summer
And then regretting the coldness of winter
When the sky is clearer
With the taste of winter.
That Sunday morning, without realizing it, I accepted
an invitation to suffering
an eruption of tidal waves shook the horizon
I had nothing but me and my cheerful little boat
I will survive the violence of your words
I will survive
What’s the point, tell me, of longing for summer
And then regretting the coldness of winter
Smells that cannot reawaken the senses
And restricted days that always pass too fast
What’s the point of stubbornly repressing a wish
Keeping it waiting at the door feigning absence
And once more being unable to say, that’s enough!
That Sunday morning, without realizing it I accepted
An invitation to suffering.
Marie has already forgotten all the Christmas carols
My God what has she done, she has already sinned!
People say helicopters scare birds
That we are growing indifferent and insensitive
Marie has already forgotten all the bad thoughts
My God what has she done, she has already committed murder
The celestial body of the moon at night is enchanting but I ignore it
As soon as the sky awakes
The gardens smell of orange blossom and jasmine
Lost codes, secret languages, lost codes
How are you?
Marie has already gone through hell
Let’s kiss her feet, she killed her mother
Oh Marie I love you
Marie has already gone through hell
Let’s kiss her feet, she killed her mother
The memory is preserved in your roots
The memory is preserved in your roots
Stop
I look out of my window all the time and see people in the street
Beautiful, ugly, cheerful, sulky, angry people
People showing off their riches, raising an eyebrow, tightening their lips
“Turi, I’d like something refreshing, like a sorbet or freshly squeezed lemonade”
He replies: “Giusi, when you called yourself Giuseppina you were happy just having the usual brioche with lemon ice”
“Turi, you’ve come a long way but now that you are a big business man you’ve got to learn how to talk with a bit of class”.
I’m always looking out of the window watching people with nothing to do smoking one cigarette after another, sitting sprawled out on benches in the square. People meeting and saying “hi” with a glance. People avoiding one another, hugging and kissing each other. People being thrifty, making sacrifices but never giving in or next winter they won’t be able to make ends meet.
People owning next to nothing and doing almost everything to make sure the table is well laid for people in power.
“What are you looking at? Don’t you have anything better to do?
“Go and get a job!” shouts a spiteful old man “you’re bringing bad luck standing behind the window like that”
I reply “I’m sorry, this is my home and I can stand where I like”
Sunday morning, from the church speakers Father Coppola’s voice shakes the walls of the houses and rattles people’s bones,
“You sinners, renounce the pleasures of the flesh. When the devil knocks wear a second pair of knickers”
Then, beside the church a big car stops.
Saro Branchia, known as the Lion King, gets out.
Father Coppola stammers and cuts his sermon short
Because his majesty wants to receive holy communion,
“What are you looking at? Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?”
“Why don’t you go to the seaside!” shouts a mean old man “you’re as pale as a ghost”
I reply “Excuse me, but why have you decided to stand there and provoke me?”
I’m always looking out of my window and seeing the great civilisation we once were
Where Turks, Jews and Christians would shake hands
And people used to think “diversity means richness”
Times of beauty and poetry, love and wisdom.
What we had yesterday might come back today
If we find good seeds to plant
In this land of fire and water
Today deep in my heart I feel
That things will change
“What are you looking at? Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?
“Go out dancing! Shake a leg and get a life!”
And I reply: “I’d love to. Can you recommend an eccentric dance?”
If separation is like the wind
In the warm indifference of this passion
No more unexpected flames will catch us by surprise
No inflammable dream beneath the ashes
From the highest peak of this restless mountain
The festive blue of the ocean brings a smile to my lips
I hope one day you will stop confusing
Pain with pleasure
Fear with the need to hurt
I am sure one day we will call it
By its proper name
With newly found serenity
If separation is like the wind
It will blow in opposite directions
On the soft texture of unfurled sails
Against any sailing logic
From the highest peak of this restless mountain
The festive blue of the ocean draws a secret from my lips
I hope one day you will stop confusing
Pain with pleasure
Fear with the need to hurt
I am sure one day we will call it
By its proper name
I hope one day you will stop confusing
Pain with pleasure
Fear with the need to hurt
I am sure one day we will call it
By its proper name
With newly found serenity
How shameful! You wet your pants
While everybody’s having dinner. What will they think?
It is rumoured that in their country
Rudeness rules
Ambassador, what a thankless task it is
To represent such a subhuman ethnic group
I’d like to tell you about a recurring dream
Of a woman with a normal body, the head of a dog and
Hands like my mother’s
She was sitting on a bench in a railway station I’ve never seen before
On the board was a date of birth:
October twenty-first two thousand and thirty
Dear gentlemen, I’ll drink to such rough and ready reasoning
Since middle class prejudices amuse me
Why spoil such a joyful atmosphere with tension
Let’s drink to maternal, filial and physical love
Let’s drink to promiscuous, faithful and spiritual love
Ladies and gentlemen
I am sorry to interrupt you
You’re under arrest. I must lock you up
Take off your shoes
Put all metal items and liquid containers on the table,
If you behave I’ll let you have a blanket for the winter
Lyrics and music by Carmen Consoli, except Mandaci una cartolina (lyrics by Carmen Consoli - music by Carmen Consoli and Massimo Roccaforte), Marie ti amiamo (lyrics by Carmen Consoli, Franco Battiato and Manlio Sgalambro - music by Carmen Consoli and Franco Battiato)
Produced by Francesco Barbaro
Artistic production: Carmen Consoli, Massimo Roccaforte e Gianluca Vaccaro
Production assistant: Salvo Noto
Recorded by Salvo Noto and Gianluca Vaccaro at Due Parole Studio, Catania
Mixed by Gianluca Vaccaro at Quattro Uno Recording Studios, Roma, except Mio Zio mixed at Forward Studios, Grottaferrata, Roma
Mixing assistant: Gabriele Di Domenico and Alessandro Rovesti at Quattro Uno Recording Studios - Carmine Simeone al Forward Studios
Mastered by Bob Ludwig at Gateway Studio, Portland
Musical editions: Universal Music Italia srl - Narciso Records sas