Edgard Varèse
Amériques

Varese is an Italian municipality with a population of 78,301, the capital of the province of the same name in Lombardy. It seems that the music of Varèse is not exactly "common".

Edgard Varèse was born in Varese on December 22, 1883. I guess Victor Achille was born in Paris.

Edgard Varèse discovered "America". I guess Columbus discovered it, they say.

Edgard Varèse was born the same year as Kafka (he also discovered America) and died the same year as Le Corbusier. Hypothetical soundtracks for the "novels" (call them novels...) of the Prague native and a multimedia soundtrack actually made in '58 with the Swiss architect and with another unidentified object which is the Greek composer-architect Iannis Xenakis.

Edgard Varèse lived in Turin between the ages of ten and twenty and did not go mad when Juventus was founded in 1897. Friedrich Nietzsche lived in Turin from September 21, 1888, to January 9, 1889, and he lucidly went mad seeing a zebra, not a horse, an omen of future black and white systematic thefts.

Edgard Varèse, at the beginning (1934) of his long period of crisis, wandered in the center and the west of the USA but not in Tennessee where Battiato will wander.

Edgard Varèse neither disorganized sound nor organized noise. It's the third one... and I'm not telling you, Pappappero!

I have always built things without desire. The insubstantial shack of life deception holds on to a double encephalitic axiom of "will is power" and "the end justifies the means"
where real life keeps drifting away as we have given tokens to move to the next level to entities whose induced possessions make us flounder in a damn ephemeral. And what "end" then, since there isn't even a beginning. We don't even grasp a handful of flies, choosing that path there, we wander in the stalemate of not having understood a damn... Let alone if this "varesino" arrives and presents us "varesotti" this mixed fry of arcane (and arched) deserts in the mind, drenched by (co)ionization annihilating melodic toxins. Edgard gives you America, indeed.

And I was saying that all the things that came to me came without me feeling "desire" to have them. The "protect me from what I desire" as a universal prayer opens up experiences where everything we thought was necessary to unlock and bend to us the malevolent destiny that we think persecutes us, turns out to be only vanity that as we move forward, we don't give a damn about given the glaring backtracking it triggers in frequenting miserable "wills to power".

And so real life presents itself immobile in its eternal turbo acceleration, in short, all this frenzy of "arriving" is not worth a damn when we continuously ejaculate outward our cry of the call of the species, calling it Love.

And then Monsieur (he was, after all, born in Lutèce) Varèse arrives with his nauseating serenades that straighten well our sentimental-auditory scoliosis by torturing us with an unanticipated harmonia mundi by the bastard-making factory that we are.

And so why, through this sacred pandemonium, not immerse ourselves without lies in the alchemical pool of our monstrosities and evolve our aesthetic sense from visual to psychic? Eh, it is a tough nut, I know, it seems easy, but I say, do we want to give a bit of androgenous fry to consciously participate in the game of cause-effect where in reflecting ourselves we only see light, and the "shit" turns into gold?

Indeed, there is a need to completely reset, more than the brain, the Heart, my children, the Heart. "And so here's to love," said Mastroianni in that film there, that the Paradise Life is anything but sweet. It is also grandiosely incinerating, in the face of that big horned one, this essential solitude masked by contemporary symphonies.

"Shall you come for a stroll with us?" Edgardo invites us with his pluralis maiestatis... you'll hear some wonders.