Mauro Pelosi
Al mercato degli uomini piccoli

Let me get this straight, they reprint works of any Tom, Dick, and Harry and there's nothing available from Pelosi? This is pure premeditation. Then another thing, I've always liked Rabarama's work (I even met her at an exhibition) because I thought it was unique, and now I have to change my mind seeing the cover of this LP?

Piercing is the only word that encapsulates listening. Abandoned houses where in the living room we find a late 1800s style baby carriage. Spectrally intangible is the journey Mauro offers us without considering us, of course. The piano, also abandoned, plays by itself in a void that suspends even the discomfort of not understanding the fear we are immersed in.

Photos from the seventies: my father in a pinstripe suit, mafia style, elegant, leaning against his white Volkswagen Beetle, with a carousel behind and horses with golden harnesses; myself as a child near my uncles showing off sideburns, shirts with implausible collars, and shiny polished brown boots, Vallanzasca style; my mother packing the vacation suitcases that will be tied to the roof rack of the light blue Fiat 124, a nightmare.

The monotony of normal things is horrified by an invisible that the author requests and proposes in the form of sensations that are a time machine for a revisionism of our human condition. The result is one of clarity at first disheartening but that opens to a vision that life is infinitely sad when one continues to measure everything in terms of its duration and consumption, feelings included.

The musical contribution is significant, also masked by hints of prog that evolve into frightening litanies for our psyche. There's a hypnotic regression that throws in your face those moments you missed for your happiness and realizing it, you look around and feel surrounded by biological vehicles far from reality.

The flights of fancy of the tracks find their strength in being simple in unmasking the alienating limbo that deviates us from the straight path. Essentially, Mauro is conscious of being alone, and in solitude, he plays and sings for himself.

A wave of cosmic discomfort grips us in that slow-motion of the advancing shadow, of the gloomy sky of soul pain. "J’aime les nuages… les nuages qui passent… là-bas… là-bas… les merveilleux nuages!"