Anatrofobia
Tesa Musica Marginale

LA RECENSIONE

<<Most events are unspeakable, they occur in a space no word has ever crossed, and more unspeakable than all are works of art, mysterious creatures whose lives, alongside ours which fade away, endure>> (R.M.Rilke)

It may have happened to someone. Not to me!

The peculiar name of the Piedmont combo is inspired by a Gary Larson comic strip where it tells of the terrible fear of being watched at all times by a duck...

Frankly, the curiosity to understand what was sprouting under the duckling project intrigued me to the point of captivation.

The proposal in question breathes across seven tracks that, for the spirit that animates them, could be condensed into one. The unconventional dynamics aspire to creatively coagulate rigor and improvisation. Thus, a music outside the box is sealed, a gymnastic exercise for neurons, a mere discipline of the mind.

It searches for fragments to place side by side, calibrating their beat and breath. Occasionally, moments of absence and minimalistic strokes arise among the grooves, which sculpt more impetuous electro-acoustic moments.

But nothing is there by chance.

The alien jazz that emerges is permeated with multifaceted counterpoints that stand as metaphors of themselves. The individual intuitions seem to derail from a linear path to a circular one, always ending up reallocating sounds and noises in the right spaces.

Beside the emotions. A journey in reverse, a penetration into oneself.

But here the humus becomes hyperbolic with continuous citations of contemporary classical or avant-garde echoes interspersed with schizophrenic and visceral polyrhythms. It almost always involves bloody visceras generating sample effects, forays of wind instruments, bursts, and distorted secreting of the six strings, often with an anarchic flavor.

Even if the art of sounds usually lends itself to a logical structuring, to speak of anarchy may seem absurd. Music is mathematics, an indissoluble bond of Pythagorean memory. But here the calculations do not add up. There is no defined direction, and the equation has its hypothesis and its demonstration, which interchange relentlessly, without respite.

The message is sometimes intimate and nocturnal.

A tide of electronic spirals rages in sobs on which electrified bass sine waves and overdubbed arpeggiated guitars rest.

The percussive rhythms are varied and functional, advancing slowly only to explode into frantic whirlwinds. Sax and bassoon, always in the forefront, regain the upper hand, dictating the rules in a to-and-fro of ambiguous, dilated, or stripped-down solutions, always teetering between restlessness and reflection.

It's catharsis. There are no texts... But it is the soul that speaks, beaten and then returned.

A slight flutter of wings. Brief moments. And then silence.

A diaphanous silence that envelops and expands until it becomes a dwelling.

A twilight glow beyond which passes the distant noise of others.