Franco Battiato
Fisiognomica

THE REVIEW

Battiato’s last album recorded in Milan (before his return to Sicily) may not be a masterpiece, but it comes very close, as well as being one of his most famous and celebrated works. Its release came as something of a surprise: Battiato had been “absent” from record stores with an album of songs since 1985 (“Mondi lontanissimi”), his main focus having shifted to writing theatre operas, including “Genesi”, which debuted at the Teatro Regio in Parma in April 1987 to considerable success. Set on writing a second part, “Gilgamesh”, he realized that much of the material composed seemed better suited for a pop album, and thus “Fisiognomica” was born—an album arising from (almost) irresistible needs and one that “flies by” in its 31 minutes, sweeping through Arab-inspired atmospheres, classical music, and choirs that betray its original operatic inspiration. Equally evident are the spiritual and transcendental themes typical of Battiato’s nineties production—but here, much more sharply focused, so much so that, when all is said and done, “Fisiognomica” seems to me the last truly great album by the Sicilian songwriter (not to say the following works are to be discarded) with a tracklist that, perhaps with the exception of one minor misstep, is perfect across its 8 tracks.

The clear standout is, of course, “E ti vengo a cercare”, which fans (here I am!) of Nanni Moretti will immediately associate with “Palombella rossa” (1989). Love song? Some say so. I, instead, believe it is a song in which the desire for union with the divine is expressed with a very gentle language, contrasted by an electronic-symphonic arrangement that at times is downright majestic. The interpretation that this might be the most accurate is evidenced by Battiato’s own live performance in 1989 in the presence of Pope John Paul II, in which, according to the artist himself, the verses “...emanciparsi dall'incubo delle passioni/cercare l'Uno al di sopra del bene e del Male/essere un'immagine divina/di questa realtà” resounded with a particularly, let’s say, “spectacular” effect. But there are those who see it differently and consider it a (splendid) love song, as Luca Sofri says: “La canzone d’amore più limpida e semplice che gli sia mai venuta. Certo, non è ‘ti amo, mi manchi, senza di te non vivo’, naturalmente: ma è la versione di Battiato di ‘ti amo, mi manchi, senza di te non vivo’” (Playlist - La musica è cambiata). The song propelled the album to the top of the hit parade (something that hadn’t happened to Battiato for quite some time), and by the end of the year the album was the 15th best-selling record in Italy. In 1995, the CSI did a beautiful cover of “E ti vengo a cercare” with a “Battiatesque” touch.

The title-track is pure spiritualism (“...Ma se ti senti solo/rivolgiti al Signore”) whereas “Nomadi” (which opens side B) has a story all its own. Released on this album by Battiato, it was previously recorded by Alice in 1986 and the following year by the Sicilian author himself on the Spanish album Nomadas (“Fisiognomica” would also have a fairly well-known Spanish edition over there). The track, written by Juri Camisasca (who would also see Giuni Russo cover it live in 2002), is one of the finest examples of songwriting as a reflection of a (later abandoned) life choice. “Nomadi” fittingly includes the verse “...E me ne andrò/dalle città/in attesa del risveglio”, which Camisasca intended as the beginning of his personal “initiation” into monastic life—a path he renounced not long after. Battiato’s rendition is masterly, but it’s also fascinating—and surprising—when he narrates his Sicilian roots (“Veni l'autunno”) blending them with the Arabic language (two cultures that have often “traveled” parallel historical tracks) with small mysteries in the lyrics, later clarified over the years (it’s hard, for non-Sicilians, to grasp the meaning of a line like “è inutile ca 'ntrizzi/e fai cannola/lu santu è di mammuru/e nan sura”, which roughly translates into Italian as “è inutile che ti fai bello per quello o quella lì, nemmeno ti guarda, come il santo che è di marmo e non suda”—“it’s useless to dress up for that guy or girl, they don’t even notice you, just like the marble saint who does not sweat”).

Mysticism is even more explicit in the closing track, “L’oceano di silenzio”, perhaps the true masterpiece of the entire album. A work about silence, meditation, the human need to be (and to seek) something beyond the physical aspect of the individual, it was explained by Battiato to Franco Pulcini as follows: “...La meditazione è uno stato di totale rilassamento [...] nella meditazione l'aspetto centrale è stare fuori dal circolo meccanico dei pensieri”. The piece features soprano Donatella Saccardi, and the ending includes verses from Fleur Jaeggy’s Wasserstatuen. Over time, it would be covered by Morgan and Eugenio Finardi. Equally mystical is “Il mito dell’amore”, with its tales of seaside love and Brahms, though less “powerful” than the incomparable Oceano di silenzio.

“Zio Saiman” strikes me as the least interesting piece, but personal preferences aside, the album, in its brevity, is truly one of Battiato’s masterpieces, the last of an unrepeatable decade (the 1980s). As usual, the faithful Giusto Pio (who conducts the Italian National Orchestra) performs miracles with the arrangements, while Michele Fedrigotti’s Hammond organ makes it clear that in music—and in Battiato’s music above all—electronics can indeed be paired with instruments usually far from the genre, such as the Hammond, the symbol of 1970s prog.

A young Battiato appears on the cover.