Andrea
Crowned with hair,
That is that not-so-white shade of snow
Piled up by a city street,
A shade as difficult to describe
As skies before a summer storm.
If distinguished can be described as a colour,
It is his.
With the grace of an accomplished politician
And the air of a casual George Clooney,
He symbolizes chic cool
Whether in a tuxedo or jeans.
With a voice that projects the strength of a lion
Yet tempered with the gentleness of a lamb,
His words are honey-rich
Speaking hauntingly to his lineage,
The very reason Italian is called
A Romance language.
Not with Pavarotti’s extravagant flair
Nor with the depth of Lanza
But with a voice that brings
Instant pleasure and
Haunting breezes from Italia
To the ear.
When first arriving on the scene
He seemed a longish-raven-haired bohemian type
More associated with Soho coffee shops
Than the stage of the Met or la Scala.
His unassuming presence captivated
The stage around him
Reaching out and beyond the audience.
Impeccably slim,
Appearing to walk arm-in-arm with
His vocal partner,
Who discreetly ushers him onstage
And seamlessly to the microphone
Acting as his eyes.
His down-turned head and
Nonexistent gaze seems focused Elsewhere,
Not lost but sure,
Almost bashful and guileless
As if, so deeply immersed in his performance,
He is transported to another world.
Yet his non-gaze captivates audiences.
Never overpowering,
He entices subtle attention by his solitude,
An aesthetic who has renounced the visual world
To contemplate his music.
He is Andrea.