Lucio Battisti
Lucio Battisti

In 1967, L. Battisti "lands" in Milan, rents a small room in a hostel in the Zara area, and begins knocking on the doors of all possible record labels. By chance, he meets Mogol who, as he himself admitted, doesn’t see anything in Battisti, but that curly-haired 24-year-old stirs some tenderness in him. They write some things together and give them to others (Equipe 84, Dik Dik, Riki Maiocchi, i Balordi): some things work, others less so. But those who know him, spend time with him, realize that Battisti has something extra and a distinctly uncommon voice. Over time, even Mogol understands this, and he struggles to find someone who will give the talented 24-year-old a chance to record an album. Ricordi gives in, and on March 5, 1969 (coincidentally, March 5 is also Battisti's birthday), his first album, titled with little originality, "Lucio Battisti," is released. In simple terms, that's how it went, but there's a bit more to say.

Battisti had achieved his first major success the year before, 1968, at Cantagiro with "Balla Linda," which had introduced the singer-songwriter to all of Italy and had secured him a surprising fourth place behind Elio Gandolfi, Mino Reitano, and the Showmen. In 1969, just before the album's release, he participated in Sanremo in a duet with Wilson Pickett with "Un'avventura," and they finished ninth. The critiques were fierce; Battisti's singing went against every voice or tone heard up until then in Italy (and he, extremely emotional, was off-key) so much so that the newspapers of the time mocked and ridiculed him, some declaring his end, and Natalia Aspesi irreverently wrote in the Messaggero that "Battisti has nails in his throat." Such was the picture, and on March 5, the day of the album's release, no one at Ricordi expected much. Instead, it was the beginning of triumph.

Battisti, intelligently, releases an album where no song is new; they are his songs previously lent to others, which he reclaims. Perhaps, excluding the first two songs, side A is indeed a bit weak, while side B is a continuous fire of hits that, over the years, will become absolute classics.

The beginning is entrusted to "Un'avventura," which will become the trademark of the Mogol-Battisti duo: a classic for every season, a beach classic, a true classic. One of those songs we will still be singing in 500 years, but, as someone once said, we won't be there. It continues with "29 settembre," already recorded by Equipe 84. The story goes: Vandelli, leader of the Modena group, was casually passing by Ricordi, located in the Corvetto area of Milan at the time, where Battisti was, whom he barely knew, strumming this song to a particularly innovative Mogol text (I'll explain why later). At first, Vandelli didn’t think much of it, but when Battisti hit the refrain, Vandelli felt as if the entire beat era philosophy was summed up in a single song, and he wanted it. Battisti and Mogol ceded it to him; Equipe 84 was one of the most famous groups in Italy at the time. It was Paolo Ruggeir's idea, Ricordi's production director, to include the newsreel voice. The version by the Emilia group is undoubtedly airy, pop, very much embedded in its era. Battisti's version is more nuanced, ethereal, probably closer to the original: in my opinion, better. Mogol's lyrics might seem simple and naive today, but in reality, at the time, they were shattering all the moral logic of Italian pop songs up until then: infidelity was always seen as something culpable, something to atone for, to be ashamed of; in "29 settembre" it's something light, that happened, it's over, goodnight, everyone goes on their own way, maybe still together, without anyone finding out. Even today, interpretations about whether the text actually talks about real infidelity are inconsistent: did he really cheat, or did he just dream it? And, given the era, was he high as a kite or just asleep? A memorable song from various points of view.

Side A continues weakening, alas, with three somewhat forgotten songs: "La mia canzone per Maria" (perhaps Battisti's worst song); "Nel sole, nel vento, nel sorriso e nel pianto," which was entrusted to I Ribelli, who could boast at the time Demetrio Stratos as a new member in the band; "Uno in più," much forgotten, given to Riki Maiocchi who, it has to be said, after a trip to London, recruited the Trip and recorded the song with them, with guitar parts entrusted to Ritchie Blackmore, future member of Deep Purple. The real billiard shot is "Non è Francesca": it was recorded by I Balordi, with an extremely beat arrangement (if you don’t know it, recover it, it's totally different from how you know it): the Nomadi were supposed to sing it, who refused, and it was also proposed to a young Francesco Guccini, who also refused. In fact, it begins as a short song, well under two minutes, which would become more than double thanks to improvisations during recording by drummer Gianni Dell’Aglio and the arrangement by the legendary Gian Piero Reverberi, who removed the rock components that characterized I Balordi’s version.

Side B opens with "Balla Linda," followed by the very first song ever written by the Battisti-Mogol duo, "Per una lira." I Ribelli played it, from the Celentano clan, and it was proposed to Celentano himself who didn’t want it because, he said years later, he didn’t understand it. (Years later, even Cristiano Malgioglio recorded it in Spanish). "Per una lira" fascinated, at the end of the Sixties, a very young Massimo Ranieri who tried to record it without success. "Prigioniero del mondo," which is, in my opinion, beautiful is a unicum: the music is by Donida, and not Battisti. It was a very modern song, and it was the song with which Ricordi wanted to launch the young Battisti, but the more radio-friendly "Balla Linda" was preferred instead. The track is fascinating for the great space given to the guitars and that original twist at the end with a (strong) whiff of rhythm’n’blues that was so un-Italian. Franco Battiato took it up years later, but, with all due respect, it wasn’t a great idea. "Io vivrò (senza te)" is a classic Battisti piece, recorded by the Rokes as the B-side of a totally forgotten record, later becoming famous in the version by the singer-songwriter from Poggio Bustone. Personally, I skip quickly; it's an extremely dramatic song that, despite a good use of horns, leaves me indifferent (but, let’s face it, it's my problem). "Nel mio cuore, nell'anima," already Equipe 84 (always them, damn them!), is a nice beat song worthy of its era, very aged but with some remarkable musical and, above all, vocal insights (the final little chorus, yes, I was talking about that). It closes beautifully with "Il vento," recorded by Dik Dik: it’s a marvelous piece, with those Mogolian lyrics so fatalistic, which in some ways existentially contrasts with "Prigioniero del mondo," and which retains, in the chorus and in the end, some (semi) drum solos that are worth, alone, the ticket price. The pathos with which Battisti sings is worth memorizing, by the way.

A dazzling debut, with some things not entirely focused, which will be the antechamber to the great success of the subsequent "Emozioni" (another collection of 45s, better structured and thought out) and the great original albums of Battisti-Mogol of the ‘70s, in all their periods: the pop one of "Il mio canto libero," the experimental one of "Anima latina," the west-coast one of "Io tu noi tutti," the dance one of "Una donna per amico." It all starts here, baby.