Carmen Consoli
L'Eccezione

THE REVIEW

"The custom of smiling has been too often unfamiliar."

The gaze is one of those deep ones; large eyes, penetrating abysses of a doe in the pout of her face. Black and white, of course; clear as the thoughts of certain September evenings, when the midsummer bardic is now behind. I don't know what Carmen Consoli's voice conveys, a clear mix of Sicilian cannoli and well-worn Devoto-Oli. I only know that since I discovered I don't hate her, I adore her.

"L'Eccezione" comes out beautifully in its dazzling fuchsia CD - a stark contrast to the grayscale case - on a fine day in 2002. I bought it - partly still unaware - for two reasons (essentially), one of which was indeed latent: on one side there was that beautiful song, "Fiori D'Arancio", which was taking the stage at one of my last festivalbars with its petite author and her peach-blossom-colored guitar, while on the other, like a sorceress's spell, there was a sort of enchantment for that voice so caustically sweet. A voice that sometimes stumbles on the notes to then get up and start treading steep paths where the arrangements cannot follow, beyond any musical metric.

"Inadmissible condition, the questionable urgency by which it is indispensable to conform to the people."

The work of the Sicilian artist unfolds through twelve emotional mosaics, often intimate and reserved, sometimes exhaled in tremors of passion. Some will maintain their clear colors, sparkling in their preciousness; others will be corroded by time.

"Cold northern winds tell me about a late and nostalgic November; I can hear them from my hideout."

In this case, they intertwine, as if to complete each other, the moving story of "Moderato In Re Minore" and the angry rage of "Matilde Odiava I Gatti"; the Galilean delirium between science and religion of "Eppur Si Muove" and the instrumental sweetness of "Carmen". It is undeniable that a chiasmus, however emblematic, is not enough to recount a poem, and yet - forgive me, patient reader - I cannot do otherwise; who would benefit from a single analysis, in these contexts?

"Found the omnipotence cravings in very bad taste [...] indiscretion, gratuitous ramblings."

However, there is a but, as in any essence of imperfection. Something I cannot help but remember.
The imperfection is what I am writing. The but is actually a song, delicate as a gentle cry of newborn life. "L'Eccezione" is a wonderful ballad as intense as it is impenetrable; those violins, that melody, those words are pine needles and drops of resin, scents and colors of a land and a soul.

"Do you think it is an admirable choice to escape the severe and vigilant gaze of your own conscience?"

 It is not, the conscience remains the true milestone of the fence of serenity, forgive me mine for this clumsy tribute.

"In the end, all that remains is to dismiss the feelings of guilt; [...] greetings, my most heartfelt respects."