Angelo Branduardi
Pane e rose

Some time ago, during one of those evenings when you don't know what to do, I turned on the TV to Rai Tre just at the moment when Fabio Fazio, the likable host/creator of "Che tempo che fa," was introducing Angelo Branduardi, a guest in the studio. With a thick mane of (gray) hair, medieval minstrel-style pants, shoes halfway between naive and surreal, good old Branduardi, halfway through the interview, prodded by a surprisingly sassy Fazio, assertively claimed that "many musicians today can't tell a C from an F." Oh, good Heaven! Have we come to this? Do we need Branduardi to step in on television to open our eyes: come on, even children know that the vast majority of our musicians can't distinguish a C from an F (and some, perhaps, can't even tell a papyrus from a sheet of music). After all, it's no secret, our musical culture is stuck in the times of Claudio Villa and Gino Latilla. When someone in Italy (think of the very first De André or the mature Battisti of "Una donna per amico") tries to introduce less banal and more imaginative musical atmospheres, they often receive negative reviews, only to reclaim the scepter of genius through tenacious and stubborn reevaluation by intellectuals, music critics, or simple lovers of the most ingenious use of sheet music.

That said, I would like to remind all DeBaser users (I love you DeBaser!) that Branduardi is neither a legend nor a genius. A little phrase, however shocking, growled between the teeth on a Rai broadcast is not enough to be considered 'well-rounded authors.' Sure, agreed, the "Branduardian" discography is certainly curious and colorful: after visiting "Alla fiera dell'Est" and buying "La pulce d'acqua" he did not hesitate to pick "La prima mela". A nice way to live life: there's no denying it.
And yet, after ten years of fiddle playing and fake-medieval sounds, even Branduardi has started to become tiresome. The eighties left no significant mark, and in the nineties, the vaguely mystical ballads gave way to songs of very low value ("Il giocatore di biliardo" or "L'apprendista stregone" are both signed by Branduardi and Giorgio Faletti: yes Faletti, the one from "Minchia signor tenente" I apologize if "Io uccido").

"Pane e rose" was released in 1988, and I, as an old nostalgic Branduardian, went to buy it immediately. Despite eight years of disappointments, I thought: "This will be the one." You see: I buy (and bought) records, today CDs, in a luxurious little shop on Via della Moscova (Milan, Corso Como area, anyone knows it?) and I always trusted the owner of said luxurious little shop. That time, wisely, he advised me: "It's not in my interest, but I want to confide a secret: 'this Branduardi record is quite crappy." Despite everything, despite the trust I had in the shopkeeper, I bought the record anyway.
When I had the pleasure (or the terror, you decide) of listening to it, I realized two things: 1) the shopkeeper had maybe intentionally exaggerated in his judgment; 2) Minstrel-style Branduardi was dead, finished.
"Pane e rose" is not a horrendous record, and it doesn't even stink. Simply, it is not assembled as it should be: melancholic and vaguely dramatic songs alternate, without a real reason, with funny compositions or, in some cases, even comical ones. The violin is always warm, always on the edge: when Branduardi drags the bow across the strings of the instrument, it's impossible not to hear, at least for a moment, a kind of feline shiver climbing from the spine to the brain. The music is always exciting, at times perhaps a bit predictable, but still grand.
The lyrics are banal, irritating, sometimes ridiculous. Strange, very strange: when Branduardi sang "Alla fiera dell'Est" he knew how to brilliantly mix archaic sophisms with elegant 'Italianisms.' "Pane e rose" seems like the slightly unbalanced work of a lazy and incapable student. It's no coincidence that the only truly successful text is that of "1 aprile 1965" in which Branduardi reads an emotional farewell letter that Che Guevara wrote to his parents ("Father I hadn't written for a long time / years have passed but I've never changed / sending kisses to all of you / and remember me, and I'll make it").

But one song out of ten, for an old-time Branduardian, is little, too little.