A room, a book and Bill
It was 1989, I was 13 and I was already a musician. At home I shared my room with two sisters, so I felt a bit of envy when I visited a friend of mine who had a room of his own. That privacy had something magical. Or simply different. The fact is that in his room he had a bookcase and, on this one, a new new book that someone had recently bought. On the cover was the image of a paper boat that was about to end in a disturbing manhole. The book was really voluminous, over a thousand pages! He would make any adolescent escape. But the cover – good marketing! – did not escape the curiosity of a teenager. And then, as I said, the atmosphere was different in that room. I felt different.
Starting the trip with Bill Denbrough
I began to read the first page and I was immediately captured by the boat that sailed between the accidental rivers, on a rainy day in Derry, Maine. It was surfing and I was reading.
I found myself reading dozens of pages all in one go. I, who didn’t consider myself a great reader until half an hour before.
For the following Christmas, I asked to have this book, “IT” by Stephen King. I devoured it. It was then in the Christmas of 1989, amid the reverberation of the colored lights of a decorated tree, that I met Bill Denbrough for the first time and took the first ride on his Silver, that bicycle too big and yet so fast. Bill, so imperfect and so real, was not only the leader of the Losers’ Club, but also a friend who accompanied me for several years. Silver’s speed, along with suffering from the loss of her little brother Georgie, made Bill a complex drawing, with an extra detail to discover every time.
My own Silver, the music and the coffee stains
I started writing music and songs practically since I remember learning to speak. It was therefore inevitable that my readings particularly influenced everything I did. My own Silver was the piano, too big for my small hands (I started playing at 4) and yet so comfortable. It was my room.
After so many years, I felt the need to do something to recreate that atmosphere of anxiety, but also full of promise, that a room and a book can create everything around our existence. A life full of coffee stains, often indelible, incidental, unwanted, but that make us what we are. Bill taught me to keep these stains, to turn them in a picture and to hang and look at it like you do with a child. Here is the song that tells all this with only 8 words. Inside you’ll find not just me, but also Bill, the Losers’ Club and all of you. So, now wear headphones, press play and close your eyes with me.
Let me know what you think and tell me if you too have coffee stains in your life.
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