Ivano Fossati
La pianta del tè

This is the album that definitively establishes Ivano Fossati as a first-rate musician. The clearest evidence of the departure from the angularities of his early work is the comparison between "La costruzione di un amore" in its convoluted and tormented original version and the crystalline and impeccable one on this record, which is overall perfect in orchestration and alternates original and cultured ethnic elements with more classically Western compositions, all supported by an inspired creativity and an almost obsessive attention to detail. It's more than enough to compensate for certain overly hermetic lyrics, which are and always will be typical of this artist.

 If we were to find the masterpiece within the masterpiece, I would say "La pianta del tè" (parts I and II), whose nocturnal, lunar, and mysterious charm is due to the contrast between the velvety Andean flutes and the persistent and unsettling, yet non-intrusive percussions. The first part is already stunning, but the second reaches chilling heights, with Una Ramos's flutes unleashing all their magical power and truly taking us to the peak of some Chilean or Peruvian summit. "La volpe" has a similarly nocturnal setting, a dark nursery rhyme where even the typical bleat of Teresa De Sio doesn't clash, used here as an appropriate counterpoint to Fossati's dry voice. A moment of deep melancholy is "L'uomo coi capelli da ragazzo," where the atmosphere of solitude and illness is conveyed more by the extreme tension created by a persistently buzzing bass and the relentless repetition of a keyboard note at fixed intervals, an "effect of a drop" that overlays the entire piece. "Questi posti davanti al mare" is built on an elementary melody, but is opened and closed by a bright fanfare of keyboards, possesses a complex yet irresistible rhythm (it's hard to keep your hands still), and as if that weren't enough, it is elevated by the participation of no less than Fabrizio De André and Francesco De Gregori. Fossati's other guiding spirit, Paolo Conte, doesn't appear in person, but is more than evoked in a delightful French-style vignette, "Le signore del ponte-lance," for piano and voice, worthy of certain similar compositions by the lawyer from Asti. Even the slightly less inspired tracks always contain some embellishment that makes them unmistakable: this goes for "Terra dove andare," with its daring combination of accordion and reggae rhythm, and for "Chi guarda Genova," whose elaborate, always Caribbean-inspired rhythm is also punctuated by an unusual flute accompanying the usual drums. Yet in both cases, the result is not only extremely original but also very enjoyable. The brief closing, "Caffè lontano," is also worth mentioning, where the clear sound of the Celtic harp softens a somewhat plaintive voice. It also contains an illuminating verse à la Paolo Conte: "I londinesi sono ombrelli in pena..." Brilliant, like this whole album.