Fausto Rossi
Exit

How long does it take a man to learn that he must,
he cannot want what he "wants."

W.S. Burroghs

Lysergic journeys that take us to the boundaries between good and evil.
Vision of the world as if from another planet.
Sharp guitars on seemingly banal lyrics.
Exploitation immigration media power.
Everything turned upside down and vomited in a single liberating scream.
"I wake up and I'm disgusting!"
Unreal journeys between delusions and firm stances.
The definitive choice.
Finally understanding which side to take.
The squaring of the circle.
The desire to be oneself.
The need to feel like God.
The absolute need to shut oneself in.
Eliminate radio TV newspapers and thus free oneself from monsters.
Monsters that nonetheless always return in our dreams.
Vultures rotating in the sky.
The sky and the earth constantly shifting.
And the strange thoughts in front of millions of hungry.
Shifting oceans and mountains.
No one can stop them.
Hatred for power.
Defense of one's SELF.
Freedom from every human or divine law.
The unreal thought that is art.
Dreamlike flight trials.
The machines cry.
Soft machines.
Writing beautiful words.
Realizing you have lost your name.
Your own voice.
The delirium.
Watching you and watching themselves die.
Strange love when it truly comes.
Outside of everything.
Out forever.
And then comes autumn, how can one not cry?

All of this is:

EXIT     1997

The last astounding album of the good Fausto who, like wine, improves with age.
When this work was released, I had not yet recovered from the wonder of the previous album. L'Erba had quite surprised me, but Exit literally knocked me out, the first listen lasted only three songs.
Too harsh, too many lacerated guitars, too many hallucinatory lyrics, too out of the box. You have to trust this work, let yourself get involved; rummage through the booklet of lyrics, search for the songs scattered randomly, without titles. Finding a Fausto who, almost, stands as God.
Rediscovered and rediscovering himself, almost at peace with his past where, perhaps, he wanted to be a star. The voice is almost mumbled between the lips, the sound is homely in low fidelity, noises offstage, screams and clinks.
Almost a total abandonment of electronics and a return to the most classic rock formation (bass, drums, guitar) make it a sparse but intense work, there is never a solo, a refrain, everything is designed to highlight the voice and the harsh words. A ruthless invective against the world we live in, cleverly masked in the hallucinatory and hallucinated journeys that Fausto takes, if on one side we see the man high who mixes colors, sounds, and visions probably due to LSD. On the other the same man is lucid in judging himself and others.
The apotheosis in the dreamlike and lysergic denunciation that is Blues, fourteen minutes for a clear stance towards the world’s evils.
Finding the solution to everything in the final line
"It's like telling the truth about oneself without feeling lost."

This is an album that requires strong nerves and a strong stomach.

August 2006

Now Fausto is thinner and thinner, his bones seem to explode out from his shoulders, his dark, lively, and attentive eyes question me as, timidly, I inquire about the new work. It seems ready, let’s hope. Fausto is back, less hallucinated and more available, perhaps finally at peace with himself.
The new work will be released in days, maybe not, what does it matter? We have his old works left, true loose cannons amidst the void of certain Italian music and not.

Welcome back Mr. Rossi.