•
Rating: Elegiac and Spartan, that's how Branduardi, at the end of the ninth decade of the lost century, offers a handful of primroses and violets, unfolds timeless tales divided between the neighborhood market and medieval epic.
Work as always, never a child of its time, sounds of distant Highlands, bagpipes and accordions, refined studies, graceful texts by a comedian who acts comically, made of small sweetnesses and counterpoints, pastel-colored sweetnesses always in contrasts, elegance of the minimal and of the highest simplicity, charm of moonlit nights in the shadow of stony castles. Branduardi is like that, an ethereal being out of time, his music is composure in the purest sense, sophisticated, far from today's clunky complexity, like the voice, it comes to us from far away, from times now lost. It is the green metaphor of the game of life on the plateau that leaves with cowardly contrasts and fleeting dichotomies, of childlike enchantment, a smile is born.
And the work becomes more and more inclined to host the wonder of small opposites: the gesture that speaks, the love that cannot be learned, the existence understood only in farewell and absence, the feather that rises pushed by the wind and then will descend, the roar that makes room for silence in the square, the snowman who finds life, alas! melting in the sun.
A work of artisan nobility, which teaches something, once again, about the longevity and transience of things, yet so distant, two sides of the same shilling. There is no boundary to this work of fairy-tale poetry. The charm of freedom springs forth, the spring allure of setting off on white paths and simple events and losing oneself in unknown and enchanted worlds, enchanting in their poetry and restorative in the escape into art.
“Beauty will save us” someone stated, it will offer color to the walls, a safe haven for our tried imagination, a shelter for our torn spirits.
Tracklist
Loading comments slowly
