Presse
Gianfranco Buffa: the Breath of the South
Raspy voice, natural exaggeration, and a passion for the stage — this baroque Italian is Friday’s guest at the Cargo.If there is one Mediterranean trait — that ever-so-fashionable “concept” which, in the end, means almost nothing — it must be the art of excess.The kind that leads to deep tears, endless talk, exuberance, latent fervor, and seduction elevated to a way of life — excesses that, somehow, feel “natural.”One might say that this art of saying too much — to hide absence — or of laughing — to mask modesty — never fails to strike its audience.Gianfranco Buffa is one of those Mediterraneans.Sicilian by birth, a former ophthalmologist disillusioned by a short-sighted clientele, he has recently settled in France, having fallen under the spell of the Camargue and his most natural passion: music.A successful songwriter in Italy, he now sings in France, blending Sicilian, Neapolitan, and a kind of “creole” — a colorful tongue born of all encounters and understood by everyone.Armed with a deep, broken voice that brushes against jazz, a sharp sense of rhythm, and a musician’s sensitivity, he is also a man of the stage. Which means he never performs the same show twice — making it impossible to predict a concert like the one scheduled at the Cargo de Nuit, this Friday at 10 p.m.Billie, of courseWhat’s striking about Buffa is that he seems, at first glance, the perfect distillation of every Italian cliché: seduction, love of women (to whom he entrusts the cult of voice and of Billie Holiday), a taste for grass, for black, for Paolo Conte’s melancholy.All this would be unbearable were it not for the poetry of a musician who can still sing in the great jazz halls, in the popular Neapolitan idiom, for the sake of something genuinely original.In that light, Paolo Conte himself seems less unique: the stage becomes a theatrical celebration, the piano a source of songs drawn from the earth and from tears.A small effort toward Platini and the revenge of the “rats” — the humble, moving landscapes of ordinary lives.Beyond words, Gianfranco Buffa’s music is not merely heard — it is lived, in perfect resonance with the audience.Without hesitation, he throws knowing glances toward Boris Vian, Léo Ferré, and the inevitable Paolo Conte — making them suddenly familiar, as if one were meeting them again in a small Provençal village, around the family table.And whatever his excesses, this tragicomedy of the South remains vivid, raw-skinned, alive — carried by a sensitive piano that seems to embody a daily life we forgot to sublimate.A devil of a seducer!
Gianfranco Buffa, baroquissimo!
Sicilian, born in Marsala, a direct heir to maestro Paolo Conte — he has chosen to live in our region and to sing in France.
Paolo was a lawyer; he gave his final bow to the bar.
Gianfranco, for his part, dealt the same fatal blow… to ophthalmology.
Tired of telling his patients “A me gli occhi, please” (“look me in the eyes, please”), he decided to stop altogether.
He left for France — six months in Paris — and then, as he likes to say, “The Seine always flows in the same direction.”
So he moved south, to Montpellier, drawn by his love of nearby Camargue.
He has been singing in the region for two years now, living out his own personal rebirth.
He composes both lyrics and music, paying talented homage in Italian to Léo Ferré, Jacques Brel, and — inevitably, at the start of each recital — a knowing wink to his mentor, Paolo Conte.
The organizers of the ODAC, together with the OMA of Montagnac, had the good idea to program him on Wednesday evening.
It turned out to be another memorable night in this nonstop week of Mediterranean Encounters.
An exceptional, vital partner for the singer — a beautiful baby-grand piano provided by Jean Servel — stood beneath a makeshift canopy where, only two days earlier, the rain had poured down.
The warmth, wholly absorbed and essential to these “enchanted evenings,” again fostered a spirit of perfect conviviality.
An utterly Mediterranean style
He left his job in pursuit of stronger sensations — and he knows how to pass them on to the audience, supported by an evident musical craft, touched too by the inescapable spirit of the Camargue.
Clear sky, strong wind: the Mediterranean is plainly in his blood.
This young man, at heart very baroque, delivers work of remarkable quality.
At Montagnac, conditions were far from easy — children running about, people more in a party mood than in a concert one, a constant coming and going — the usual hazards of open-air shows.
Yet the second half of his performance was exemplary: a true crescendo, with clean melodic lines and perfectly tuned tones.
The scents of sea, orange, and jasmine blended with his favorite verses — everything that is beauty in life.
And his hands — those Italian hands — tracing notes, then rising into the air to draw curves… or to end a phrase.
We were there again, as always, as if walking through the streets of Naples or some other warm city.
People stopped to laugh and applaud the artist, who alternately offered tenderness and flashes of “furtive humor.”
The gentle melodies sometimes went wild; jazz would suddenly burst in, and the nearby synthesizer added, now and then, an extra heartbeat of life.
Long instrumental passages, without words, reinforced the melodic strength.
Suddenly Boris Vian in Italian, Ferré — and always that refrain: “the immortality of poets.”
The guitar, sometimes leading the piano; Antonio, his Sicilian friend, joining him for one brief song — sharing talent and friendship alike.
The voice, a little broken, continued its seductive ravages; yet unlike time itself, it infected us kindly.
Perhaps an aspirin, or a dive into the sea, might restore you — to the sea, not to the world.
Again, and ever more so.
Those lingering final gestures, the Italian hands, the poses — they carried us away once more,
until, along their traces, the rain finally fell.
– G.C.
Titre 1
AZIMUT – Art, Music and Literature
An Armchair on the Water
Montpellier
I met him in the street. I think he had just arrived from Italy.
No — it was Sicily he came from, that sun-drenched island just below Naples.
He said it was only for a holiday… and then, I think, he stayed.
But you shouldn’t ask too much of artists...
For him, stopping in France was “fun.”
“Funny” — in Italian that’s Buffa.
That was simply his name: Gianfranco Buffa.
Yes, his stay began rather well, wandering through the streets of a southern city.
I think he stayed on… to make music.
He once said, “One South is as good as another — and sometimes, even better.”
“The Marquis” — that’s the nickname his friends give him.
I saw him again later, at a place called Mayflower, just a few meters from the beach.
More focused, dressed in a tuxedo, hands bound to the piano keys.
It was close to the open sea, yet still on the sand;
and he sang portami via — take me away — as if for the first time.
Yes, the sea was there, but it wasn’t the first time he sang the way one loves —
it was part of the show.
I had come with friends; it was good,
and we stayed until morning.
Isabelle Serena