Cluster & Eno
Cluster & Eno

A blue landscape, a microphone pointed at the sky...

Miniatures, illuminations, fried small fish...

Ah, “fried small fish” is something that, once upon a time, Sancho would have said.

Sancho...

Sancho was someone who sailed in a cloud of disgust. Endowed with a sharp tongue, he was perhaps the most contemptuous among our deviant gurus. He had fun imagining us all in a pit of shit and periodically updated us on our horrible situation: there were those who floundered and at least had their heads out and those who, like me, were rather at the bottom with no chance of seeing the light. It wasn't his problem, he just displayed his sneer from the edge of the pit.

Super coarse musically, with avant-garde flares, he fluctuated between Dead Kennedys and Residents, between Skiantos and Faust'O. “Welcome to the garbage” he always cited, and the sneer turned into the smile of Disney's Cheshire Cat. And in dancing "California uber alles" he exhibited a style that made Belushi look like a pale diva powdering her nose.

I still remember, and I can't help but laugh, a militant of Democrazia proletaria who, exasperated during a discussion, shouted at him (perhaps intentionally misspelling the name) “Kennnedy dead, kennedy dead !!!!”

“You have to choose between Willy brandt and Pol pot, assholes”

“Kennedy dead, kennedy dead!!!”

“I, of course, have chosen...”

“Kennedy dead, kennedy dead”

“I have chosen Pol Pot”

“Kennedy dead, kennedy dead!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

That militant was one of those who listened only to Guccini, Vecchioni, and similar company. Seeing him so transfigured and almost bloodthirsty was a great joy.

Sancho loved politics, but soon abandoned it. During a march of Autonomia Operaia in Bologna, he saw his comrades beating each other bloody. Besides, it wasn't better for the young vampire in the terrifying summer camps of the young communists, among tragicomic excursions and evening views of Bulgarian films.

He was a fabulous guy, Sancho, capable of transitioning from Jena Plissken to Shakespeare. He was a horrible guy, Sancho, capable of farting in the dead of winter in his fiat 500 and imposing on us (“it's my car and I decide”) the listening of AC/DC, a band we preppy kids hated.

“You and your faggot genius of a fuck!!!”

But now I have to tell you about professor Balthazar. Who was a genius and nothing else, not a fag genius.

And he lived in a dreamlike Balkan village... imagine, I don’t know, the alleys and buildings of a very naive Eastern Europe drawn by a sort of Altan Pimpa oriented.

Imagine a delightful little place full of simple and sweetly surreal people.

What did our professor do all the time? He solved problems. And to do so he used a very colorful machine of his own invention, a variegated ensemble of tubes, ladders, umbrellas, clocks, numbers, spires, alembics, records, spheres, and giant ears... everything, once started, became a topsy-turvy and playful psychedelic swirl and it was that wonderful mechanical juggling that I always awaited.

Eventually, a magical liquid always sprang from that machine. You just had to pour it on the ground and puff!!!... There were flying shoes... musical hammers... an alarm clock that refused to wake people...

But, you may say, wasn't this supposed to be a review? Oh yes, it's just that, as usual, I’m taking a bit of a roundabout way...

And anyway, regarding Eno, Moebius, Roedelius the machine of professor Balthazar comes handy, since they used a similar one, even if not noisy and maybe not even colorful.

But let’s not anticipate too much. And let’s get back to our Sancho.

Sancho hated Brian Eno and always cited the terrible Red Vynile, the one who instead of stars or balls used dicks and who had the bizarre habit of writing three or four-word reviews. I still remember one, who knows about which record, that next to five flaccid little dicks said only “death throes.”

But, beyond the little dicks, just so you know, we’re talking about someone who, for at least a couple of weeks, was the best music critic in the world. Well, to the great dismay of us pretty kids, he had written something like: “Mr. Brian Eno and Mr. David Byrne those fucking prerecorded tapes could shove them up their ass.” It was the time of the ghost bush, and these are more than three or four words; evidently, our guy was really pissed off.

Imagine Sancho’s sneer.

Then one day when we were all at my house, I put on my tape of “Cluster & Eno.”

I saw Sancho’s expression change...

“Who is it?”

“It's the fag genius”

“The fag genius?”

“Yes, with two German guys.”

(Long pause).

“Those two must have found professor Balthazar's machine.”

He said it with the utmost seriousness... or no, with the utmost gentleness... or no, with an almost lisping voice, as if he wanted to imitate a child.... but he didn’t want to imitate a child, that was his voice... and I had only heard that voice one other time... we were in the park, stoned out of our minds... I had skipped school... we were quiet... and he was watching the ducks...

“The ducks are nice” he said at a certain point...

“Yes, they are nice” I replied.

But let's get to the record.

“Cluster & Eno” sits in a corner between east and west, almost always in the sign of the most ecstatic hypnosis.

And with an almost unreal delicacy it unfolds a lot of stuff...

Mystical and tinkling piano lines wrapped in their own light... raga refractions... infinite synth phrases to awaken the sounds of the unconscious chamber... landscapes that, almost in a gaseous state (it would be called sublimation), seem as if returned to their purest essence…

And then clouds passing by... faint toy symphonies... fried small fish...

Ah, no, “Fried small fish” Sancho would have said if he hadn’t liked the record. But damn, he liked it!!! “Those two must have found professor Balthazar's machine” he said.

And we all liked the idea that such essential music could have been born from a magic machine. Eno, Moebius, and Roedelius thus became the Balthazars.

But there is much more to say, only I can’t... the only option is to borrow some of Eno’s memories.

The other day at the bookstore I skimmed the first pages of “Before and after Eno,” discovering some of our oblique strategist’s childhood fascinations.

The mechanical piano of his grandfather, the essentiality of Mondrian and the revelation of how few elements can produce an incredibly intense effect, bike rides exploring the small beaches and surroundings of the river and the “happy and transcendental” sensation that ensued.

Beyond that I would have Mondrian at best decorate the bathroom tiles, I’d say these few elements are more than enough to understand a good half of the album.

For the other half, maybe knowing that Dieter Moebius and Hans Joachim Roedelius are the last descendants of an ancient lineage of wizards and alchemists that gets lost in the mists of time is enough.

Then, yes, of course, they half-invented industrial (or so they say) only to then make music for toys.

And they were there lost in a little house in the German countryside, a place maybe not as magical as Balthazar’s naive village... or maybe yes, who knows?

A place, certainly, with ducks.

Ah, I can see those three, stoned out of their minds, watching the ducks. Just like me and Sancho that day.