Ila Rosso
La bellapresenza

La bella presenza was released on January 13, 2012, almost a year ago, eagerly awaited by those who, like me, have had the fortune to cross paths with the artistic career of this lanky young man with bangs who answers to the name of Ila(rio) Rosso. And I was there, on the evening of the first vernissage of this album published by INRI, a small and courageous Piedmontese label. It happened in the intimate and familiar setting of the Petrarca brewery in Turin, a venue for many evenings drenched in beer and noisy with more or less passionate chatter, as often happens in this city so steeped in music and talent. I was there and to be on the safe side, I bought three copies, to listen and hum along while driving to work and to gift to some precious friends, to explain to them that I am lucky to have someone who makes a living as a singer-songwriter. Yes, Ila Rosso is a real singer-songwriter. He started telling his music and stories in various venues in his city, which is also mine, before giving them the elegant and refined form of this beautiful debut album.

Ila Rosso is accompanied by the cello and accordion of Gabriele Montanaro, the bass of Sergio Maiandi, and the drums of Valter Piatesi, in a very pleasant and impactful acoustic ensemble, also live. And then there's Ila, with his trusty classical guitar, stroked with a very straightforward fingerpicking that suits his voice, the melodies, and the colorful rhythms that animate these ten tracks (plus an inevitable ghost track) well. Ten tales, ten slices of life ranging from the most popular stereotypes of city life to the unstoppable and Dantesque nightlife of the now overexposed "club to club," from suburban decay to the wounds of more or less recent history, from the most romantic lyrics to the harshest cynicism.

The “linguistic issue” is what strikes me most when listening to Ila's work: years ago and in another life, he and I were walking on a mountain path and met a stray dog that followed us for quite a while. He promptly named it Wedra. I often think of that day while imagining the two “marusa che si fanno un pezzo nell'auto chiusa” with the protagonist of “La Bellapresenza” or when I picture the young man who “domani se la può stercare” in the routine without a tomorrow of “I Giovani” or still the disillusioned viveur who in his nocturnal wanderings realizes he has ended up in yet another “brasa” (in “La Ballata dell'Ubriaco Moderno”). Colorful and evocative expressions of a slang that contribute to painting the characters and the atmosphere clearly and confirm to me that this Ila is the same from that walk many years ago.

The arrangements of this album are the most pleasant surprise for those like me who were used to listening to these songs with the imperfect acoustics of a crowded venue or in some self-produced EP. And so it is that “La Francia” becomes a wonderful song, for me the most beautiful and inspired of the entire album, with that accordion opening and the elegant vocals of Carlot-ta, a young singer-songwriter from Vercelli (carlot-ta.com) who grew up with Ila in that talent factory called Minoranza d'Autore. Even the amusing “Figlio di Papà” dresses in rock tones while describing the misadventures of a frightening punk who, having reached “alla soglia degli enta,” blandly sells his rebellious soul to stay afloat.

I would like to tell you how many and which echoes I heard in making Ila's music my own and I will: Capossela, Ferretti, Gaber, De André, Tom Waits, Brassens, just to name a few. And I do so because not for a second did I sense Ila's intention to mimic even a single note of these wonderful artists. But we are the music we listen to and if we have the will and capacity to propose our own, we can never disregard that heritage of melodies, content, and emotions from those we have chosen as masters. I am sure it was like this for Ila, in constructing piece by piece this small masterpiece which I hope preludes a prolific career rich with great successes. This happens too. In Turin.