Lucio Battisti
Hegel

THE REVIEW

Perhaps a style too anachronistic for human tastes, excessive for purely natural mindsets, exasperated for anyone, like someone who could never grasp those imperceptible sophisms that linger between the abstract and the concrete, wrapped in a sonic fusion, itself anachronistic if compared to what has always been and up until now has been called "music", where intellects of this type are persuaded by a multitude of meanings and a confusing array of sensations in which imaginations and preferences imposed by one's experiences lead to a convoluted and dissuaded syntax of meaning.

Taking advantage of and considering mental fragilities, Lucio Battisti and Pasquale Panella indulge in conjectural reasonings that arbitrarily wander in the fragility of the human psyche. The result of two mentalities so evolutionary as to create conceptual barriers between producers and consumers. But despite this, the primary theme of all its production emerges as never before from the infinite hermetic schemes that initially seem to mean nothing. From the opening track: “At Least the Beginning”, the character of the woman surfaces with such a lively personality as to bring to mind ancient lyrical atmospheres where the man-woman relationship was almost always rhetorical and crystalline. Under a pounding sonic base that completely spontaneously involves the listener, one can easily perceive the female vanity and narcissism in the figure of the woman. “You said no, I still want to see myself again, and if not all, at least the beginning”, a figure accompanied by the usual masculine presence in the role of the victim or at least someone who suffers each of her attitudes. And what about the electrifying “Rooms like This”, extraordinarily unique, unclassifiable, a room more hermetic than space, space in which the two sexes make an imaginary journey, breaking down any mental barriers, observing palaces, crossing black forests, surpassing endless bridges until reaching none other than Alexandria, only to find themselves back there, where thought finds its limits. “The place is here. Here is the work of the grass similar to thinking”. And then the finale, a spine-chilling finale, the pinnacle of a genius's human maturation, a concluding act that only someone like him could have imagined, “The Voice of the Face”. The peak of hermeticism, the last but perhaps, indeed certainly the clearest of all. So clear as to become inaccessible.
Everything is enclosed within the soul: emotion, suffering, joy. Everything sealed hermetically. The only way to bring them into the world is the face: what chills, what dazzles, and the body instead, indispensable, what nourishes, the sense of nutrition, but it is not with it that one falls in love.