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People who have seen the sea can be recognized by their eyes because they retain the wonder in their gaze and often keep them wide open even in sleep, when the bed of horsehair or corn leaves becomes a placenta in which to swim, dreaming of what will come after death.
(Salvatore Niffoi - La vedova scalza)
Yes, Niffoi is right in describing the endless surprise that lives in the gaze of those who have seen the sea. But it's not always the case, because there is also another sea, which does not arouse wonder, but which is prison and hope at the same time. It is the sea that divides us from lands of misery lost beyond our horizon, the sea crossed day and night by the boats of stowaways, who often find only a death at a high price in its waters. For years, dilapidated wrecks have been leaving and sinking in the middle of this sea, amid indifference and different . . . conflicting indignations. Having left behind his native Langhe and fog, Gianmaria Testa talks about it today in this concept album with the gaze of someone on the other side of this sea. He tells with all his delicacy about hopes, disillusions, cries, daily life, despair. These songs, however, were not written for them. Gianmaria Testa says he would not be able to. For whom then? For himself and for us. Perhaps only to try to understand better. So we see this sea of hope and death, but will we be able to keep our eyes raised?
A migration always begins with a departure ("Seminatori di grano"). Men and women "with slow, silent, careful steps" gather to leave seeking "what was not there behind the binoculars of the police". The guitar and cellos melancholically accompany their steps at dawn on the plateau, while Testa's voice carefully measures emotions, writing the chronicle of a sadly everyday story, as Gabriele Mirabassi's clarinet plays a theme that bitterly sounds of abandonment.
The embarkation and journey ("Rrock") is made of unexpected astonishment for the waters bathed by the night ("but it wasn't like that they told me about the sea") and the first thoughts for close relatives left ashore to "chew the road". The music paints a picture that hints at oriental themes outlined by the dialogue between Mirabassi's clarinet and Bill Frisell's incisive electric guitar in a crescendo of agitation, like the waves of the sea, supported by Enzo Pietropaoli's double bass. The anxiety, however, fades into the calm of the splendid following song - "Forse qualcuno domani" - where, with the support of Luciano Biondini's beautiful accordion, the guitar and voice of Testa evoke, with slightly nostalgic forms, the first memory of the land left behind, talking now of a light, now of a voice, now of a forgotten name.
Between nightmare and dream, the crossing continues at night and the thought of the souls on the boat sways and is lost to the song of a siren, addressing the inhabitants of the vessels resting on the seabed, shipwrecked while chasing at times hopes, often chimeras ("Una barca oscura"). The dreamlike atmosphere of this passage is given by the soft colors of the clarinet and accordion, but also by Testa's calm voice which contrasts with the bitterness of the words ("at the bottom of the deep sea/ I leave my song/ that does not console/ for those who have left/ and is lost to the world/ at the bottom of the sea").
The awakening is the promised land, but not kept ("Tela di ragno"). The music becomes rough and the voice dusty like the road. To Bill Frisell's guitar - reminiscent of some blues excursions by the American guitarist - Paolo Fresu's frenetic trumpet is added to accompany equally abrasive words, but clear in describing our annoyed gaze towards those who "extend a hand at the red light". Testa's humanity then finds further expression in the next song, "Il passo e l'incanto", in which it is understood how memory and imagination can pervade the lives of those who have been overturned on the other shore of the sea not to go back ("but I've already been here/ in some other enchantment/ I've already been here/ I recognize the step"). The current sense of déjà-vù becomes palpable along with the awareness of what has necessarily been left behind. Perhaps one of the most intense moments of this story in songs.
Up to this point in the album, we discover a Gianmaria Testa a little different from his previous works. Sure, some elements typical of his musical poetry remain unchanged, but musically a particular refinement is noticed alongside the search for a sound that is not homologous to that of past records. Perhaps much is due to his ability to work with other musicians, seeking their personal contribution, but the hand of Greg Cohen's production is also felt. However, in the subsequent passages, his original sounds seem to momentarily prevail again, especially thanks to the acoustic guitar and the words that continue the story of the stowaways, sometimes forced to separate body and mind, one uprooted, the other turned to desires and regrets, perhaps because those who change sky do not change soul ("3/4"). Bittersweet passages then flow into the colorful and ironic vitality of the ballad/nursery rhyme "Al mercato di Porta Palazzo", which, among "females from boys" with black skirts, lines of "men with canes" and documents to show, tells the story of a child who is born "on the public municipal ground" of the crowded public market with diverse people.
The three final tracks move from different perspectives to close the circle of this story. The first - "Ritals" - represents the maturation of awareness related to the difficulties of the immigrant ("we knew it too/ and a language to unlearn/ and another to learn quickly") in a musical context once again of stunning refinement and apparent simplicity, with cellos still in the background giving depth and the guitars in the foreground supporting Testa's warm and involved voice in the interpretation.
"Miniera", on the other hand, is the only song that does not belong to Testa, being written by Bixio and Cherubini in 1927, in a period, therefore, when it was Italians who had to leave their own land ("a song comes from afar so heartfelt/ it's the dark miner emigrated there/ his song is the song of an exile"). Thus, a parallel is drawn between stories distant in time but close in substance, highlighted by the rediscovery of a simply splendid song.
Different, but equally fascinating, is the finale of "La nostra città". It is the point of view of the narrator. Gianmaria Testa remains alone with his guitar to leave us with a small Impressionist song that tells of a small city where trams do not pass, but instead, the river flows. It is from this city, from this small city with its river crowded with dry leaves that Gianmaria has cast his gaze far as perhaps he had never done before. And he did it for himself and for us who are on this side of the sea.
Let's think about it.
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