Far off, in the supernal realms, the souls of Nino Rota and Robert Schumann collided. (Irving Berlin and Astor Piazzolla delivered glancing blows, too.) Tiny bursts of incandescence showered down upon our dim and feckless earth and brought forth Elegia, the new CD by Paolo Conte.
Children, you can take your Comte Ory and your Want Two, your Pepito-in-bondage and your unbound Prometheus, your raunchiest Bach and your most sizzling Mozart, dip them in Michel Chaudun chocolate and serve them alongside fresh white peaches from Provence, and still they might give less joy than Elegia.
là voglio arrendermi
in braccio a una musica
che chiuda il discorso
forte e petòmane
scritta dal diavolo
in spregio solenne
If you are unfamiliar with Conte's work, I commend to you Barry Singer's fine 2001 article. Be warned that Conte's old smoker's voice crumbles and oozes like Roquefort.
My (short) review of Elegia appears in the 28 April edition of Time Out New York.