Raoul Casadei — died Saturday, March 13, at the age of 83 — it was carefree Italy, and the music of his uncle Secondo’s orchestra first and then his was the soundtrack of Italia della Ricostruzione, of that of the economic boom, and also of the restless and rebellious one of the seventies.
Guccini announced that God was dead, By Gregory added the killing of Santa Claus, Elders galloped all night to Samarkand to meet death, From he made his characters say we are black cats, we are pessimists, we are bad thoughts, and we have nothing to eat; and he it went smoothly, between Romagna beaches, grape harvests, ships of the sun, Sangiovese, musetti soap and water, loves or at least sympathies.
Born before the war, raised in the pre-television era, Casadei made Italy dance of the industrial miracle to the rhythm of the music of peasant Italy, which gradually went out everywhere except on its always open stage, in any season, even twice a day, first concert in the afternoon and second in the evening.
We kids listened to songwriters and found it a bit embarrassing; also because in every family there was an uncle who in the postprandial heat brought out the accordion or a cousin who knew all Casadei songs by heart.
But perhaps they were right, that from Romagna – the true navel of Italy, a place where they are as efficient as the Lombards and as warm as the Neapolitans – they had brought the sounds of the dance hall, of summer nights, of filarini, tight tight dances.
Raoul Casadei – later joined by his son Mirko – was our little Charles Trenet, who to the ill-love of songwriter contrasted the joy of a heart that goes boom-boom. It takes more than a virus to really stop it.
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