Enter a zip code
CD
| 1 | |
| 2 | |
| 3 | |
| 4 | |
| 5 | |
| 6 | |
| 7 | |
| 8 | |
| 9 | |
| 10 | |
| 11 | |
| 12 | |
| 13 | |
| 14 | |
| 15 | |
| 16 | |
The surprising international success of Italy's Paolo Conte is testimony to the power of music to transcend language. You need not understand a word of Italian to grasp his appeal. The gravel-voiced septuagenarian effortlessly conveys the kind of dissolute languor that seems ubiquitously European, from the rain-soaked streets of Paris to the shadowy alleyways of Greece, but utterly unknown in America. The closest this country comes is Tom Waits, to whom Conte is often superficially compared -- but the Italian shares little of Waits's affectations or quirks (except for his occasional tootle on kazoo, that is). No, Paolo Conte charms for the same reasons Serge Gainsbourg and Leonard Cohen do: They are men who look back on life through the lens of experience, through the glass of regret, and in chops-licking anticipation of more games to come. Leading a swinging jazz combo that moans dark and low, Conte rasps in Italian and occasional English about age, travel, trust, and desire (the excellent liner notes translate his impressionistic poetry). Idiosyncratic moments punctuate his reflections -- in "Aguaplano" he spies a grand piano floating in the sea, while "Come Me Vuoi?" asks for "a sandwich and a bit of indecency." Such urbanity comes easy to Conte, as does a spirited, swinging tune with the occasional Gypsy-jazz accent. These are songs warbled by a spirit at once mysterious and inviting, leaving their mark long after -- like a lively café conversation with a grizzled roué who spins yarns for hours, then slips quietly into the night. Mark Schwartz, Barnes & Noble