Luciano Ligabue: «No book can contain someone’s life. But the memories that matter yes “

“No book can contain someone’s life. But the memories that matter do. With those you can try », word of Luciano Ligabue, 62 years old, struggling with his first autobiography. Is called A story (to be released on May 3 for Mondadori), and inside there is an entire universe, circumscribed and infinite. Sixty years of life which, by virtue of a writing in a state of grace, rise to a real story, to be read, to be relived.

The rocker tells his story, the most intimate, personal and familiar one, but he also tells a wonderful story that embraces the Italian province, from the sixties to today. From the first baths with the mother Rinato the first songs, from marriage with Donatella Messori until meeting his current one wife Barbara Pozzo. Then the most painful chapter, the loss of a child: «They showed it to us. I found it in my hand: a little thing weighing a kilo. I had him buried in a cemetery which has a corner called angels ». Then Some nights, the success. Liga, as usual, does not make discounts and does not make discounts.

Here, a preview of an excerpt from the chapter «WE SAY NOTHING TO ANYONE».

Three days after that broadcast and here I am marrying Dona. Being together convinced us to take that step that she and I both vowed never to take. But here we are, in front of the mayor, at thirty and at the dawn of the shocks that my new job can bring. He says a lot about the intensity of our feelings. La Dona, while happy for me, immediately set the record straight: she never, ever wants to appear in any newspaper or television program or anything like that. Above all else she doesn’t want to be called “the wife of”. I don’t know how I can avoid it, but I will give it my all. For the avoidance of doubt, we organized the ceremony in great secrecy and set it at five on a Friday afternoon in the town hall – “Come on, who will ever notice?” – because it is only the hasty formalization of a promise that we have already made in abundance. We like to regularize it because yes, but it has to be like pulling a swinging baby tooth with a string. Only presences: my brother and sister of him as witnesses, our parents, the mayor to celebrate and point. Friends, when we talk to them about it once it is done, they will understand and forgive us.

However, we have not come to terms with one aspect: the publications of the civil ceremony are mandatory. When we found out, we crossed our fingers and toes, but that posting didn’t go unnoticed. It was enough for anyone to read it for the news to pass from mouth to mouth in an instant until it reached local radio stations. And those, thank you very much, then announced the event of this January 4th in which we expected that they were still all absorbed by the parties, or maybe skiing or in the Maldives or wherever they wanted as long as they were far from here. The ceremony is going as fast and informal as we hoped. She is beautiful in her cheerful and original dress, elegant but not pompous at all, I put the jacket over my usual jeans. Despite the hasty ritual, the emotion still circulates among the few present. We say goodbye to the mayor and head towards the restaurant booked outside the village to toast. As we go down the stairs we hear an increasingly diffused and distinct hum. “Ok, there are people” we tell each other with our eyes. But we still don’t know how much. As soon as we reach the threshold, a thunderous roar starts. Corso Mazzini is full of friends, friends of friends, friends of friends of friends, acquaintances, onlookers and fans. Each menacingly holds their handful of rice in their hand. Here and there, among all those heads, cameras stand out alongside which there are those who take notes in the notebook. At an unspoken “go”, we are hit by a rain, as well as rice, even long pasta, lasagna and tagliatelle. Some kids, hired by who knows who, set off firecrackers that seem like bombs with the echo of the arcades. Our friends, to take revenge for the failure to summon, have hired the band, which is now singing folk songs at full breath. Some hold up a couple of banners: QUIET, WE SAY NOTHING TO ANYONE and THE HONEYMOON WILL BE EVEN WORSE.

For the kiss to the bride and the hand to shake the bridegroom, there is a completely unmanageable crowd. The one that I can now call “my wife”, after a first annoyance, lets herself go to her usual cheerfulness, and so Donàmafesta reappears, screaming, cackling and laughing like everyone else. TV and local journalists respect our moment by shooting only from afar, none of them approached with the microphone. I’m glad to notice that. Also because, if they did, “my wife” would have eaten them. The outcome of this afternoon makes it clear that there is not much I can do to protect Dona’s confidentiality. Nor mine. Everything will depend on how we will be able to take it from time to time. If nothing else, now, we can try it together. “You really don’t remember that day I slapped you in the face? We were, well, nine to ten years old. We were playing hide and seek. ” “No. Did you give me a slap? ” «Yes, but without wanting to. Come on, imagine if you don’t remember … you started crying. ” “No.” “But you never cried. That time she was different from the others. ” “Well, no … I don’t remember.” “Don’t worry.” It is not true.

(…)

Luciano Ligabue, A story in bookstores from May 3, Mondadori, 480 pages, 22 euros.

* Luciano Ligabue (Correggio, 1960) with twenty-two albums, three films and six books (Outside and inside the village, The snow does not care, Love letters in the fridge, The sound of empty kisses, Excuse the mess, It’s gone so, written with Massimo Cotto) has been keeping us company for more than thirty years.