Diaframma
Preso nel Vortice

First! Finally, I manage to put my signature on a Diaframma album review! - it's a pity, though, that the opportunity arises with the release of the album that has convinced me the least in the recent history of the Florentine band.

A small step back, therefore, compared to the trend inaugurated by “Difficile da Trovare” (from 2009) which, without making us shout a miracle, marked the beginning of a sort of new youth for Federico Fiumani's creation: “Niente di Serio” did more than that, delivering a lively, authoritative Fiumani, inspired in both lyrics and music, with a well-oiled band behind him. From that release, we will undoubtedly remember a handful of tracks destined to enter the band's history: “Madre Superiora,” one of the most beautiful contributions that Italian songwriting has given us in the last two decades; “La Botta di Energia del Rock,” as vibrant as Fiumani hadn't been for some time, also a track destined to become a classic of the band; and “Grande come l’Oceano,” simply a masterpiece, in my opinion one of the most emotional autobiographical descents that the poet and singer Fiumani has ever given us.

“Preso nel Vortice” (the title and the cover already made me smirk; the announced guests, then, were quite tantalizing!) could have been the alluring appendix of a happy season for the Florentine author, when instead it seems that he arrives short of breath to celebrate his sixteenth studio album. The first signs, alas, come with the lackluster opener “ATM,” which from the first notes (embarrassingly evoking the sneaky progression of “Absurdo Metalvox,” not to be counted among the most exciting moments of the excellent predecessor) reeks heavily of déjà vu, as do the other thirteen (many, too many) tracks that follow, so that reaching the end of the fifty-eight (many, too many) minutes duration of the disc becomes an exhausting experience even for the most devoted fan.

It's painful to speak in these terms about Federico Fiumani, for whom we have immense affection: an artist we admire for what he has given us, for his compositional qualities, for his intellectual honesty and artistic integrity, and whom we will always follow with affection and passion, and always support, a man/artist whose limits and flaws we know, flaws and limits we are willing to forgive. But this time, despite all the efforts we can make, despite there being no talk of a disaster, the balance needle ends up leaning towards a vague sense of disappointment. If not boredom (which is worse!).

And it's not because something has changed: Federico Fiumani, the “canzonettaro” Federico Fiumani, always suspended between the cheeky spirit of Joey Ramone and the childlike one of John Lennon, the Federico Fiumani with a gloomy gaze still nostalgically fond of the times when the Sex Pistols, Clash, Wire, and Television were reveling, more in mind than in fact, to be honest, given that by now both feet are firmly on the ground of an eccentric songwriting that, aside from the sparks and masterstrokes of someone who has made the history of Italian new-wave, seems quite canonical to us; the stubborn and indomitable and capricious Federico Fiumani, as was being said, continues to play his cards with sincerity, but perhaps, this time, appearing a bit more tired and enfeebled by the passage of time.

Already from the cover, as from the photos taken that we can find in the booklet, emerges a Fiumani older, more tired, and frowning than usual, despite the cheeky contrast between the T-shirt with its cheeky head butting against the white hair streaking through the rebellious tuft. A fatigue that does not just reflect at the level of writing and execution, which at times borders on an amateurishness a bit too flaunted, even for a rock craftsman like Fiumani – take the simplicity of certain passages or the various off-notes that our protagonist cheerfully allows himself behind the microphone. A fatigue, as it was said, that is also expressed in the form of a more pronounced melancholy than usual. The vortex that captures Fiumani is not just the whirlwind of musician life that sees him constantly on tour up and down Italy in bars, pubs, modest-sized venues, and festivals, or producing records on a conveyor belt, or the eternal emotional centrifuge of “his” women and “his” loves; there is also the merry-go-round of memories swirling non-existent, and with each turn, the amount of regrets, missed opportunities, what was, what could have been becomes bulkier. All the more considering that youth is now behind, while what is to come is unknown and not very reassuring, wrinkles and white hair increase, and doubts with them: this seems to be the true “hidden” theme of “Preso nel Vortice,” the obsession that lurks behind the carefree and disillusioned Fiumani-esque poetry of this work. It's obvious that Fiumani doesn't envy the reassuring and gray bourgeois life he has always shunned, but the indomitable Peter Pan of the Italian alternative music scene asks himself a few questions: “Who am I? What do I do?”, especially “How much longer can I go on?" And he admits he lives in anxiety and that only the awareness of having founded a group, of being a musician, gives him the strength to continue, or at least the sensation of feeling less alone. Nothing new, you might say, but all, I add, expressed with less cheerfulness than usual.

Hence the dedication to the historic friend Piero Pelù in “Ottovolante.” Hence the desolate lyrics in “I Sogni in Disparte,” the triumph of regrets/remorse, and “Il Suono che Non C’è,” a declared tribute to that sound so loved in youth, but like many beautiful things, it is no more, tracks that not by chance feature the presence of old friends like Alex Spalck (Pankow) and Marcello Michelotti (Neon), comrades in arms from those good old days (the dazzling Florentine new-wave scene of the eighties). And since we are talking about illustrious guests, how not to mention Max Collini’s (Offlaga Disco Pax) cameo in “Ho Fondato un Gruppo,” and the various contributions provided by the handyman Enrico Gabrielli (Calibro 35 and much more), on keyboards, sax and even harmonica: contributions that, to be fair, have little impact on the final result (also due to a somewhat sterile mix that doesn't play much on nuances, rendering the sounds less full and substantial than in the past), where Luca Cattaneo (bass) and Lorenzo Moretto (drums), by now effectively part of Diaframma, can do little, despite their commitment, professionalism, and constancy, to support their leader's faded talent and the project's deus ex machina, where, as is known, in a Diaframma album the only man who can make the sun shine or it rain is Federico Fiumani.

So, a Fiumani not perfectly in focus (it should have been his blurry image on the cover, not that of his diligent collaborators) and at times unmotivated, both behind the microphone and on the guitar, is the one who takes us at intervals through this hour of morbid and merciless self-analysis: however, some successful moves are not lacking, and occasions where Fiumani can show that he still has what it takes to be a champion. “Clauda mi Dice” presents, for example, an entertaining text and an ending where he suddenly seems to remember having been the most authoritative pen of alternative Italian music; the aforementioned “Ho Fondato un Gruppo” (nice Clash-style bombastic progression; clever intervention by Collini, which probably wants to say more than it seems) succeeds in mixing melancholy and lightheartedness as only he can do; the same sensation is encountered with “Il Suono che non C'é,” while the top is reached with “Infelicità,” certainly the best instance of the album, for which I report the complete text:

I swim in this unhappiness

Lake, forest, unhappinessTomorrow I change: I do volunteer work, I donate blood

Tomorrow I change, I cannot continue like this

I buy records I never listen to

to remind myself of when I used to listen to them

inside a store.

I look for doors to escape

and to find again the desire to play more, me.

Hand in the shadow, caresses me.

Hand in the shadow, doesn't leave me.

Unhappiness

One of the most sparse and depressing texts ever written by Fiumani, which in its brutal simplicity stretches, through a dragging baritone voice, over a disturbing arpeggio, for a perfectly realized piece that rediscovers the author's most exquisitely dark vein, which seemed to have been dormant for some time: a masterpiece in a sea of “niceties”. Niceties that accompany us without much other excitement (“L'Amore è un Ospedale,” with its chorus sung in “double voice” is, all in all, another memorable moment, as is “L'Uomo di Sfiducia,” another ironic ballad with a bitter aftertaste in typical Diaframma style) up to the concluding “Venisse il Sole,” where finally a truly punk'n'roll virulence is dug up, and “Voglia di,” a typical message of carefree resignation with which Fiumani often likes to conclude his works.

“Preso nel Vortice,” in conclusion, is an album probably longer compared to the actual amount of ideas available, but for the most diverse reasons, might not displease many, as it offers the multiple facets of Fiumani the artist/musician/poet, sounding like the compendium of a career (or at least of its most recent portion): a work that lends itself to the most subjective interpretations and in which everyone will be able to identify with and benefit from the moments that will (even involuntarily) create greater empathy. An album that ultimately manages to satisfy despite its undeniable elements of weakness, and this (seems a paradox) because there is no thing in the world that thrills us more than a rogue that sings and plays.