Baustelle
L'amore e la violenza

I had put Baustelle aside. Partly because I mistici dell’Occidente had shown its limits after a while, partly because the single La morte (non esiste più) sounded tired to me, and partly because I automatically linked them to memories I wanted to erase. In short, I didn't listen to Fantasma at all and hadn’t revisited their other tracks for quite some time.

But with L’amore e la violenza they got me. It might be that I've been listening to less metal lately and have been getting more into synth pop and eighties rock. Actually, the main culprit is the single: Amanda Lear caught me off guard and now I can’t do without it. It must be said, it's extraordinarily clever, but it also demonstrates a great ability to reinvent themselves: the verse sounds excessively like a typical bianconiana chant, but then a nice airy and fresh bridge begins, and that chorus in Bastreghi’s falsetto has the makings of a guaranteed earworm. In fact, the song is cleverly subtle: the use of foul language at decisive moments to counteract excessive melodiousness and prick the listener; the construction of the lyrics, which showcase a very different pessimism from the past, colder, almost pacified, resigned to life's unfortunate truths. But smiling, deliberately grumpy, unafraid of being a jerk; “I’ve become a monster.” Then all the nuances and the synth packaging work very well, certainly indebted to someone, but well articulated and embroidered with strings and other chic details.

The whole album roughly echoes these elements: synth pop freshness, arrangements that are carefully crafted but never pompous or grandiose, capable of a dry pleasantness that seemed truly unthinkable, given the direction the band had taken. And yet one of the greatest qualities is in knowing how to limit themselves, in never overflowing with ambition, with pretentiousness. They are content, and it's a beautiful contentment, in managing to create a dozen tracks with memorable choruses, well-varied and effective music. An album to listen to with lightness, yet fully savoring the selection of sounds and tones, not to mention appreciating here and there some phrases of value.

The construction of the lyrics is decent, though it stumbles here and there with passages that are difficult to interpret: it's unclear whether they are pure banalities or examples of realism mimicry inserted by Bianconi to tease everyone a bit. Lists are not absent either, somewhat moralizing and facile shopping lists: “Syrian refugees, forced to vomit. Gunshots, construction site sweat,” “Hordes of strangers, in the fountains. Children's gloves, queues at the swings” (Il vangelo di Giovanni). These lists get tiresome after a while, so better certain delicate, nuanced images, like in the same track: “There’s something at the end of summer, I’m not sure what it is. And I can't breathe.” Even Betty deals with the same old issues, of bad life, of decay, etc.: a verse clogged with Bianconi's timbres and worn-out images gives way to one of the most dynamic and effective choruses in their entire discography, and also more pleasant in the lyrics. The words in Eurofestival are among the least convincing, marking another list: “Interventionists, jihadists, and swingers in the distance. Nazis and Jews, demons and gods.” But Bianconi can also deliver beautiful moments, full of maturity, overcoming the viewpoint of the other albums. In this sense, La vita is one of the best moments: “I know, life is tragic, life is stupid, but it’s beautiful, being useless. Think of an image, an ornament: thinking life is nonsense helps to live.” These are sensible words sung with a heavy cadence and bittersweet tone, suitable for the topic. But Lepidoptera is also remarkable and intimate: “I no longer want to hurt you. I’ve never been so much a slave to the world and attached to life. A moth to the drug light. I swear I’ll change. I’ve never felt such a desire to live and hunger and thirst. A moth to summer nights.” Beautiful. Less fresh are the words of Musica sinfonica (“Living is staying young,” “Being happy isn’t easy”), but spread over an irresistible chorus. Irresistible and “obscenely pop” is also the chorus of L’era dell’acquario.

On a musical level, as I said, the album is particularly fresh; the evaluation of the vocal timbres and melodies differs. The alternation between an increasingly affected Bianconi and an increasingly ethereal Bastreghi is calibrated in a truly precise manner: the male voice never becomes annoying because it's always promptly alternated with the female one. Indeed, if we want, in these continuous alternations is contained a bit the essence of the album: the fusion between the wonderful pop of La voce del padrone and certain moments of Fabrizio De André, in terms of vocal style and the mellow slowness of the singing. Here, a criticism arises from the fact that in some passages the resemblance to the two sources of inspiration is excessive, seeming like imitation: see the chorus of Eurofestival (Battiato) or the verse of Ragazzina (De André).