Lucio Battisti
La sposa occidentale

There's nothing else to notice but harmony and melody.

The rest, the rhythm, is so constant that it's like breathing, which, after a while, you don't notice anymore. But the rhythm holds everything together. The lines on a notebook on which to write fantastic stories.

I don't know if it has ever happened to you, when you're about to fall asleep, that you start hearing your breathing almost as if it were someone else's. A moment and you are far away on the edge of your first dream images, far from that always constant rhythm, almost like an out-of-body experience.

Only images, and sounds, and voices, that chase each other, that change constantly, that don't seem to know where to go, difficult to grasp, yet they are still reworkings of images, voices, and sounds, experienced in the past of your life, ultimately familiar.

Then, every now and then, you find the rhythm of breathing again, you feel it for a moment still foreign, but immediately after you recognize it as yours and you can control it, but only not to completely lose the way home, to then start again.

That's the right way to listen to the songs from the white albums of Lucio Battisti, to listen to La Sposa Occidentale, is precisely this.

The old Battisti, his old songs, his harmonies, his melodies, shattered and recomposed, told in many little dreams to the rhythm of an “always constant rhythmic breath”.

The words of dreams, if we want to say something about them as well, are never remembered, puzzles don't need explanations.