Rivera by tram, Milan at night, Jannacci- Corriere.it

It said: Golf? For me a sweater. She said: You have to read to write how you speak. She said: It is not clear why a reporter asks for the discount to buy the palt. He sent Christmas presents back. He was whole and free. He was melancholy and self-defeating. It was Beppe Viola.

Now that 40 years have passed since his death, October 17, 1982, and 42, stroke after an Inter v Napoli at San Siro, the memory softens, the pain confines. Migraines by dint of staying up late, a nice greasy chicken salad, a cigarette between forefinger and thumb, the music of Olivetti, tac, tac, tac, mixed with the sounds of billiards. Milan, that one. A very powerful energy to keep Lucio Fontana and Bistecca together, porter by day, formidable battutista in the evening; Enzo Jannacci and clandabookmakers specialized in giving you a retort passed off as straight, Derby Club, Bar Gattullo, Ippodromo Trotto, where you immediately understood that the dane were good gone.

To learn to be in the world it was enough to go after him, after 10pm possibly. To learn el mest it was enough to observe the rigor applied to the paragraph, an ethics without concessions. Fine of 5,000 lire for each piece of rhetoric. The first three lines to hook the reader, the last as notes of a grand finale. He was a subversive, among others. Language and design, art, songs, comics. Always with inside the perception of the sidewalk, of the factory, the extraordinary lexical stimuli offered by immigration, the desire to find a new way because there were new tics and desires, homes and aspirations. The roots stuck in long post-war atmospheres; the last ones taken up, por sacrament, bearers, as they were, of a need but also of wisdom, of a comic and self-deprecating cynicism. Surrealists all seeing that … reality is a bird that has no memory, you have to imagine which way it goes. Giorgio Gaber, 1976.

He worked at Rai with pride and disenchantment. Yet, right in that Rai had the freedom to express himself, to show the derby of the previous year on the day in which the derby had been a bore, to interview Gianni Rivera on the tram. He had founded an agency to share a complete meaning by working on storytelling, writing, on the precious contents of sport. this above all that remains, within a city, a country that has lost all relationship with that past, made up of concreteness, of non-conformism. Humor and reflection to go into a story, avoiding to put it hard. Making fun of oneself to make fun of the other, one who works hard, makes a bunch of himself like that.

Texts for TV, for newspapers, for cinema, songs. With Enzo Jannacci accomplice, an inspiring mix made up of thugs, intellectuals, acrobats, jazz musicians, Apulian-Milanists. Yes but first, from the morning to 22, as mentioned, try to do better, please. An idea to be discovered, a project to be put down, a lateral vision to be applied. Shopping at the rotisserie, wine to make the goiter laugh. But how is it that the best things are all bad? Perhaps he spent too much on himself for sure. Franca, his wife, a saint, thought so. Called Cianci da Cianciulli, the one that dissolved the victims in caustic soda, to say, precisely, of the cynicism and irony in family circulation. Her daughters, Renata, Marina, Anna, Serena think so, rummaging through a chest of memories so big, filled with those who were and still are. Guys like Giuliano. The day after Beppe’s death he gathered his wife and daughters, he made them sit on the sofa. She said, in dialect: If someone disturbs you or muddies Viola’s memory, raise your hands and say: halt, it is no longer my competence. Warn me and me el mazi. Never been warned. Come on, Beppe, only good stuff. Therelet’s put on the mocha, let’s chat a little more.