Tiziano International

May 19th 2010

I won’t punish myself with the exercise of reliving the details of a really nice day, today is not such a day at all, so I’ll only write down a few flashes of what happened yesterday in the surreal setting of Monte Carlo.

I had arrived with the air of someone who, looking sharp, feels out of place and out of time: jeans, a crumpled shirt, and sleeves rolled up in careless way, as I promised myself to fix it once I arrived at the hotel. After all, I was going to receive an award at the World Music Awards. I always toy with the idea of arriving badly dressed in a place where everyone feels obligated to dress nicely. Then I repeat to myself: “Ah, I am a singer!” So then I always have time to tidy myself up before going on stage.

Anyway, everyone was there. Jennifer Lopez, the Black Eyed Peas, Paris Hilton, Andrea Bocelli. I saw Kelly Rowland again and met Pharrell Williams. And later, there was my award. Best Italian artist of 2009.

Normally in this situation, someone of my age would have admired all of those stars with eyes wide open, hoping to meet them, or enjoying being one of them at least for one night, thanks to the ALL AREAS pass that authorizes you to believe that you have the right to dine at the table next to the Pussycat Dolls.

But I don’t normally do what others normally do.

After having accepted the award from the hands of Roberto Cavalli and Asia Argento, I cleared my throat, gave my thanks - in the most composed English that I could manage - descended the steps of the stage, tracked down Fabrizio and forced him to slip away to the hotel, avoiding security and exiting stealthily from the back of the theater. And while my shiny Dolce & Gabbana shoes got dusty on the dark path that led directly to my shelter, I already felt better.

I was finally at ease, and the further I got away from there, the better I felt. I enjoyed this departure into the twilight of that nameless path more than making my entrance on the red carpet, invaded by microphones and questions in various languages, blinded by the flashes and constricted by a black tuxedo, while I tried to stand firm in my new D&G number 46.

The most absurd image that I remember now is that while performing Breathe Gentle, I notice will.i.am (of the Black Eyed Peas) in the middle of the audience who’s watching me and, while continuing to open and close my mouth, I tell myself: “But what is he thinking? Is he frowning at me? Or is it a look of disgust? Does he understand my English? Is he thinking that I’m just a big European trash bag?”

And then the arrival at the hotel, the meeting in an elevator with one of the Gibb brothers - that is one of the Bee Gees…  I don’t know if I’m making myself clear! - and he is eager to tell me that in the UK my song would be a hit and that if I haven’t already released it in the UK I should do it as soon as possible.

Gone into my room, I repeated those words in my head, getting out of my role of someone who feels at ease and leaving it in the basement - in view of future occasions in which it will be useful - the last remnants of my ability to adapt. I thought only of sitting down, returning to myself, pulling out my stupid face, turning on the webcam, grabbing the silly golden thing that I received as award and taking a picture of myself that I sent to all my friends.

Meanwhile, at the Monte Carlo Sporting Club, for the “real” stars the party was just beginning.