Mar 4, 2004
Monday night we went to hear Randy Newman in Milan, on the last date of his European tour. I didn't realize it was the last til I looked at his site just now - he certainly didn't look any worse for the wear of 22 shows in 30 days. This was the Songbook tour, just Randy and his piano; I'd heard about the tour (and bought the CD) thanks to a review in the NYT or somewhere. It was sheer dumb luck that I stepped out of a hotel in Milan a few weeks ago and found myself face to face with Randy Newman on a poster, glued to a fence around the Pirelli tower (re)construction site (this is how I usually learn about concerts I want to go to, usually too late).
The promoters missed a marketing opportunity - I think Rossella and I were the only Americans in the theater. Ross was also very much the youngest person there, but that's less surprising. I watched as the crowd entered, and amused myself speculating on who these people were. My guess is that this concert brought out every old-school lefty to be found in the Milan area: I have not seen so many beards in one room since about 1975. There was even one guy with long sideburns and a gold corduroy jacket - thirty years of fashion had passed him right by, even in Milan! Or maybe that stuff's back in now, and I, as usual, am the laggard follower of fashion.
We hoped not to be subjected to a constant audience singalong such as we had suffered through at the Alex Britti concert. This was a very different audience, but Ross was plagued by the two guys behind her singing along through most of the show, albeit so quietly that Enrico and I didn't hear them. Unfortunately, she didn't mention this til afterwards; she hadn't wanted to disturb anyone else by shushing them, though she might have said something during intermission.
| There was one song that Randy asked us to sing along on: "I'm Dead and I Don't Know It," about all the geriatric rockers still on tour (referring to himself as well). I had recently been thinking about this phenomenon: my daughter is the third-generation Who fan in our family. That's a bit scary, but at least it's something we can share, though my tolerance for her generation's music is limited.
To sum up, the concert was wonderful. If you don't know Randy Newman, or only know him via such pop hits as "Short People" or "I Love LA," or his movie scores, I recommend a closer aquaintance. He writes songs unlike anyone else's: three-minute stories narrated by characters very distant from himself, sad, funny, touching, and often with an ironic punch that gets you thinking.
Songbook Vol. 1 Amazon UK |
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About Randy Newman
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Alex Britti
~September, 2001
This summer we went to a concert by Alex Britti, a singer-songwriter as yet unknown outside Europe. He's popular with the bubblegum set for a few immensely singable songs such as La Vasca (The Bathtub), but he considers himself more a guitarist - and turns out to be a hell of a good one.
Unfortunately, we hardly got to hear him sing during the concert, due to the chorus of teenyboppers who sang along enthusiastically (and badly) with most of the songs. Early on, I asked the girls behind us to stop: "I came to hear him, not you," I pointed out. Their mother retorted: "Lady, if you want to hear the music, buy the CD. This is a concert." |
Defeated by this, er, logic, I retired from the battle, and had to be grateful for the guitar solos: delightfully un-singalongable, and very well played. These seemed to confuse much of the audience, who muttered to each other: "What song is this?" or got up and went for a beer.
Alex Britti must be frustrated. He's made lots of money and gained some artistic freedom thanks to his lighter bestsellers, but his audience doesn't seem to understand or appreciate the stuff that he himself likes best!
Other musical experiences this summer were less than stellar. Roseto, the little town on the Adriatic coast where my in-laws live, used to be a pleasantly sleepy place with nothing to do at night except stroll around, eat gelato, and watch kids on the carnival rides. But now it aspires to the trendy disco status of the Adriatic's hotter spots, so the beachfront establishments all have permission to play music til 1 or 2 am.
This would be somewhat bearable, or at least understandable, if the music was good. However, it was all REALLY bad, mostly youngsters basically doing karaoke with automated music machines - their equipment was far more impressive than their abilities deserved.
One band started out relatively promising, playing real instruments, with an admirable selection of blues tunes and guitar licks ripped off from Stevie Ray Vaughan. But the guitar wasn't quite in tune with the keyboard, and the singer wasn't in tune with anything. After hearing "Pride and Joy" murdered two or three times, we were ready to strangle the drunk who kept demanding encores.
We could easily perceive even that detail, because my in-laws' apartment overlooks the beach, within a stone's throw of two of these establishments (alas, I had no stones). After we finally dropped off to sleep at 2 am one night, I was awoken at 8:00 by a group of retirees just arrived on an group tour. "Ecco il mare!" shouted one enthusiastic fellow - "Look! The sea!" (And just what did you expect to find on a trip to the seaside...?) |
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