Angelo Branduardi
La Pulce D'Acqua

Darkness. 

A distant lament. Crescendo. 
Drums, the inexorable march of death. Faded.

"I am of all of you lady and mistress", the warm voice of the minstrel. Death is inevitable, and so I am cruel, so strong I am, and harsh. Sometimes anticipated, surely looming.

The harpsichord. Dance. "Come, lay down your scythe and dance with us, you are the guest of honor at the ball we play for you".

Angelo Branduardi gifts us this medieval dance of great charm at the start of what is, in my opinion, his best work: released in nineteen seventy-seven by Polydor in its bare cover, “La pulce d’acqua” contained within itself nine sketches, nine glimpses of as many tales.
And “Ballo in fa diesis minore” is nothing but a superb introduction to a world where latent melancholy and fleeting joy bind together, weaving patterns now sweet now cruel, colorful kaleidoscopes of stories and characters narrated by water, source of life and death, of anguish and joy.

Much more than a predictable chiasmus could the minstrel, with the faithful presence of his musicians. A head analysis would not be beneficial, far from it. This is Angelo's great gift: music that arpeggios the heart and moves the senses as the hairs pluck those strings on his shoulder. And so, close your eyes and begin to listen…

Do you hear the sea? The waves dissolving into crystals on the rocks, wetting the feet of the woman who waits in anguish? Sit calm and await your man, who returns tomorrow if the sky wills. The warm, slow, and sweet voice almost seems to console the melancholy woman, who gazes at the sea awaiting her sailor. She does not lose hope, he will return, the man she loved never lied. But many shadows – a superb arpeggio – are lost in the water, often stolen: a man without a shadow is unhealthy, flies and serpents he crushed – pressing pace – will not forgive him. And then you must sing long to be forgiven; and the water flea, who knows, will return the shadow to you. Chilling violin. But you shiver from the cold, look how pale the face you have is, it seems you have fled from beyond… The sitar is an obscene lament. The one who also stole your life, is her, the beautiful lady without pity.  The voice is heart-wrenching, not even a bird dares to sing. When she then leaned at my side, I gave her my soul and forgot time. Even the waters of the lake stand still, aware of the pain of the woman who gave them life. But the powerful sorcerer, gnawed by anger and love, has always watched over it from the white tower. He would have made a blossoming tree of her and watched it until it withered.

Cruel, life: even a hare was betrayed by its own friends at the arrival of the old man, while it carefree ran through the meadows. Now it plays on the Moon; an old sad tale, events from the night of times: perhaps a court poet told it, sweet with the lyre and merciless with his mouth. Do you hear it? The crab has arrived: at its mouth, it will wait to be able to steal its soul with the last breath. Sublime lament of the musicians, one single time will not suffice for the vulture to devour my body to silence my heart forever.

The heart now belongs to a man left by his last flower, on the verge of winter. She was the most beautiful I had ever seen. She said to me: “I must have those cherries, for soon a child I will have”. I replied for her to ask the father of her child, and only to him did I bend the highest branch: the father of her child thus satisfied her. Happiness, for once, but to joy there is always the counterpoint of despair. For three nights I do not rest, I remain to listen: it is the viper that hisses, that hisses near the water. The young man mourns the beautiful bride, removed from him and stolen with deceit in a shiver-inducing song. The player turned: he took a single step, then heard her scream in the water that suffocated her.

Darkness.