Altare Thotemico
Sogno Errando

And if only you could hear the murmur of such a dream

you would not want to listen to any other noise

(Gibran Kahlil Gibran)

It seems to echo something we do not fully understand. Energy drawn from quantum fluctuations of our consciousness, to which a true soul is given. It is the dream where the soul and body find a physiological meeting point.

Sogno Errando is a non-objective reality created each time by listening, always in search of a metaphysical equilibrium between new worlds that we cannot manipulate but are deposited on our skin, sunk. Just tune in to different quantum states to migrate into a sonic multiverse lying parallel to us. Then, in the gurgle of the dream, the fibers of our very matter crystallize. Dark matter. Luminescent matter. As luminescent are the musical scores that oscillate over the shadowy recesses of abrasive texts.

The dream projection of this work should be savored and metabolized in its entirety since individual parts live in osmosis with each other. The whole is stitched together through changing passages where new sounds give birth to new visions.

Even the cover already projects us a three-quarters cut-off face suggesting the absence of a mechanistic vision of the cosmos in favor of a more sensory and perceptual opening.

We are on shifting coordinates that sink onto the skin without touching it, like <<an underground current that unites spirit and matter>. The poetry that emerges is this tension between wandering and dwelling.

A dream that seems like a breath where dilated violins and foamy saxes sometimes seem to freeze on the eternal and circular moment. Compressed times, breathless, seemingly discordant between slapped bass notes marking the pace in a boundless magma. An ebb and flow of percussive thrusts in cohesion with authentic lyrical explosions. Free-floating forms on monologues, polyphonic acrobatics, surreal texts, and much experimentation. Gianni Venturi sows verses that are not prayers but hoarse and dense cries <that free the soul and make it a song>.

The periplus becomes increasingly errant, spiraling along perspectives without definite geometries. Numerous are the leaps from liturgical phrases to electro-acoustic forays.

An Ariadne's thread always ties the notes ejected from strangled saxes and violins before soft piano embellishments and pulsating rhythms turn into a hypnotic mantra.

There is also space for love, split love, betrayed <of the withheld embrace and the suspended kiss>. A cutting caress emerging among liquid notes and vaporous bass lines that hover like applause without hands.

It's like looking into a purple sky that, like a throat, swallows and ends with motionless motion.

The time of a startle (like a REM phase), and then the keyboards bubble within a frantic time change leading to an orgiastic finale, without escape.

Through the dream, we realize ourselves.

In the dream is beauty, art, music, and poetry.

Poetry dressed in notes.

Notes that whisper poetry....

.....and without the dream, probably, we would be nothing.