There is a season when the grass smells of evening, feet want to be bare, the night promises a tremor. In that season on the horizon, if you half-close your eyes a little, you can see a nuance, a mist, but lighter, a line, dense. That is the line of stories, a thin mist that carries memories, voices, caresses. It happens that when it hits you you can find yourself naked, there, suspended… and then, and then it is immediately evening. You have to go away. Sometimes, just sometimes, on your skin, it remains like a saltiness, humid. Those, yes, those, are the stories to tell. Those that remain on the skin.
This is a meeting of music and words that wants to restore that smell. It starts from Torre Guaceto, a timeless corner of Puglia, from the stories of its farmers, from the voice of the stars, from the beat of its waters: there is the first thresher that from the fogs of the great north arrives in the flowery crowd of a dazed country village lost in the wheat, there is Angiolina, who one fiery night her father takes her to see the lime kiln, there is Lino who plays and plays to his love who has been pinched, there is an entire village that at night sets out on a journey under the stars to reach the top of the hill where, also tonight, the whale will appear.
These and other characters in a fresco of an ancient time, of innocence, a round of fairy tales under the stars and sometimes it happens that by dancing for a long time, you end up really flying away.
