I like Morgan because in his periodic outbursts of ego I see the shadow emerging, the dark part of us we try to remove, which instead regularly explodes when it doesn’t get the recognition of its supposed greatness from others. As a solo performer, Morgan has only written one memorable song, “Elsewhere,” and has a somewhat graceful voice: he’s far better at acting and revealing. And yet he feels like a misunderstood genius and a great artist, like so many in this era without geniuses and artists.
But who am I to deny him the right to call himself a phenomenon, to despise the more popular singers than him and to anger the carefree spectators of the Selinunte festival who just wanted a few catchy Battiato songs from the genius to dance to to be able to? in the audience “like the gypsies of the desert or the Balinese on vacation”? The only criticism I dare to voice is the discrepancy between the artist’s self-confessed genius and the language with which he expresses his moods. From a genius I expect swear words from the author, perfidious allusions, succinct insults. In this sense, I didn’t dislike the nickname “bifolchi”: somewhat archaic, but thick. But to give the «br. Saying “di m…” to one disruptor and yelling “Get out of the f…” to another isn’t necessary to be an artist. It’s enough to visit any stadium or traffic jam, at least a talk show, but where no redneck pretends to pass as a genius. Oh yeah?
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