Banco del Mutuo Soccorso
Io Sono Nato Libero

The ambiguous term "Progressive" indicates a rich and probably unrepeatable flowering of musical ideas, expressed in ambitious and elaborate compositions, sometimes true "suites" with a classical setup. To be honest, even the 3-4 minute song structure has classical origins. Some trace it back to the Lieder, which were essentially songs for piano and voice, lasting more or less the duration of a current "canzonetta," but featuring in some cases (Schubert above all) melodies so inspired that they can easily transcend the centuries. Be that as it may, by the late '60s many musicians began to find these constraints a bit tight, which consequently led to the birth of "Progressive." And in Italy? Even though some on TV try to portray us in the heart of the '70s still toying with Cugini di Campagna, Alunni del Sole, and the like, the reality, fortunately, is a bit more varied. Without bringing up Area and Perigeo, which remained niche phenomena, it's enough to mention Premiata Forneria Marconi, Banco del Mutuo Soccorso, and Le Orme to assert that, even with a few years' delay, something indeed moved here as well.

The city of Marino (Rome) besides its delightful and sweet white wines, can boast of being the birthplace of brothers Vittorio and Gianni Nocenzi, respectively keyboardist (organ, synthesizer) and pianist, both with classical training. This is the first core of Banco del Mutuo Soccorso, which in 1971 assumed its (almost) definitive structure by incorporating guitarist Marcello Todaro, bassist Renato D'Angelo, drummer Pier Luigi Calderoni, and (dulcis in fundo) Francesco Di Giacomo, a kind of "nightingale" weighing over a hundred kilos, endowed with an unmistakable metallic and penetrating voice, ideal for interpreting the texts he wrote, very poetic, sometimes overflowing with emphasis and theatricality.

"Io Sono Nato Libero" (1973) is their third album and in my opinion, the unsurpassed peak of a long parabola. The lineup is the basic one, even though guitarist Rodolfo Maltese, who appears as a guest, in fact has already replaced Marcello Todaro. The album opens with a massive 15-minute suite: "Canto Nomade Per Un Prigioniero Politico." Those who fear "engaged" songs need not worry: politics is only in the title. In reality, it is an intense and emotional hymn to freedom, contrasted with the protagonist's imprisonment, and the music fully lives up to it. Initially, Francesco Di Giacomo's sorrowful singing is accompanied only by melancholic piano trills on a synthesizer carpet, but soon the entire band comes to the fore with a frenetic outburst in perfect Emerson Lake & Palmer style, and from then on it is a succession of ever-changing scenes: duet of voice and acoustic guitar, synthesizer solo with fast rhythmic base, flamenco guitar accompanied by tribal percussion, placid guitar arpeggios, distorted percussion with noise effects, new outburst with keyboard solos... until the abrupt closure, which leaves space for the most famous track: "Non Mi Rompete." Another misleading title: no bad words or venomous invectives, just the sacred claim of the right to dream ("Why do you want to disturb me if I might be dreaming of a winged journey on a wheel-less cart pulled by mistral horses, in the mistral... flying."). Without offense to the "Progressive" purists, it can safely be said that this, due to its immediate catchiness, is effectively a song, a splendid acoustic ballad supported by impeccable guitar, even though lively variations of the initial melody appear both in the middle and at the end. Dark piano chords and an irregular and sinister rhythm accompany "La Città Sottile," a treacherous metropolitan nightmare, with the powerful singer at times "reciting" his verses literally over a spine-chilling keyboard background. A theatrical and not easy piece, but very captivating. The same goes for "Dopo... Niente è Più Lo Stesso," the drama of a soldier returning from war "with his infinite fatigue" and sees his land reduced to a heap of ruins. The deeply anti-militarist verses are worth being framed. The music perfectly accompanies them with its spectral despair, to which the Nocenzi brothers' keyboards contribute greatly. "Traccia II" is a compelling and triumphant motif with a somewhat baroque flavor that begins quietly from the piano, gradually joined by other instruments, in a masterly crescendo that ends in less than three minutes.

The classic cherry on top of an already very substantial cake.