He is 78 now, so it’s only reasonable to assume that, at some point, Paolo Conte will give up touring. What on earth will we do then?
It may be a cliché to describe an artist as unique, but in the case of the Italian singer-pianist the label really does fit: no one else combines such sprightly tunes with famously opaque lyrics and sensuous pre-war jazz and tango rhythms. Without speaking more than a few words — he is content simply to announce the names of his long-serving sidemen — Conte still holds an audience spellbound.
If this concert didn’t quite reach the heights of his last visit — the first half had a tendency to meander — it still reached white-hot temperatures by the close, those old favourites Max and Diavolo Rosso topped by an encore of Tropical, an irresistible number from the latest album, Snob.
Sceptics like to complain that his newer compositions have not broken new ground. There is some truth in that. Yet Conte has amassed an enormous repertoire over the years and there is no end of pleasure to be had in seeing how he adapts and recasts vintage material. Even Max throbbed to a slightly different rhythm this time.
Conte has an Ellingtonian touch as an arranger of distinctly human voices. His band is a living organism that constantly changes shape and size, the musicians insouciantly switching instruments, from saxophone to accordion and percussion and back again.
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As for Conte’s singing, it sounded gruffer than ever, but that very quality added an extra layer of mystery and pathos to Gioco d’Azzardo or Alle Prese Con Una Verde Milonga. Sometimes standing next to the piano, beating his fists against his hips, he had the air of a shabby, careworn poet. The music, however, was as sleek as the Brylcreemed hair of a gigolo.