It happens to find discs where they don’t have to be. Someone has moved them, badly classified; he took them to buy them but then changed his mind and abandoned them in a random department. My latest experience with this is not a record store, but the music department of a club in Brooklyn called Public Records. Among various anarchist booklets and disappeared magazines, between reissues by Yoko Ono and special albums by William Burroughs, in the Punk / Rock section I found Saturday afternoon by Claudio Baglioni.
I looked around for a phantom salesman to ask about, then put it back in its place, thinking that someone must have slipped it there for the release date, 1975, or for the cover, with that burning sun. crush a city that could also be New York.
I believe that Baglioni ended up there for an aesthetic fact, a mistake of form, and this made me think of a different interference, linked to an omnivorous, almost cannibal figure: the story Joanna Silvestri by Roberto Bolaño republished a few years ago in Tales of cinema (Einaudi 2014). This is the poignant and romantic outburst of a 37-year-old porn actress, Joanna Silvestri, who speaking to her lover at one point reveals: “I began to walk the streets of Los Angeles under the mantle of night as in a Nicola song. From Bari”. How Nicola Di Bari ended up in that text I don’t know yet, but sometimes the talent also lies in killing any statistical improbability, in the ability to be found everywhere. u
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