Paolo Zanardi
I barboni preferiscono Roma

Rome at the center of a "bestiary" of international characters and places; just as varied is this album, in its sounds, ways, and intentions. Paolo Zanardi, never predictable, maintains his edge in his second album, "I barboni preferiscono Roma," a varied and complex work, almost disorienting, centered on the mature, ironic, and original singing of the singer-songwriter from Puglia.

As already mentioned, in contrast to the prevailing indie-rock and electro-pop, Zanardi paves the way for a style of making music that, though not unconventional, is at least personal, hard to define, full of references and musically astute. Less electronic and dark than the debut (the beautiful and unknown "Portami a fare un giro"), the album becomes more complex while retaining certain characteristics: the driving and compelling rhythms of some tracks, the hyper-polished arrangements, the clear sounds. There's also Zanardi's descriptive, playful, slightly surreal flair to uncover ever-new characters, at times resembling those told by Baustelle (equally cursed and poetic, perhaps these less modern and healthier), yet described in a profoundly different way.

The first part features engaging rhythms (though interspersed with melancholic pauses) and ethnic sounds, with Caposselian winks. The chorus of "Piazza Vittorio" is remarkable, Rome flows by like a hypothetical everyday carnival, with no one claiming protagonism, the track never bores; from the fake magic to the real one (or vice versa?) of the fascinating and suspended "Houdini," the leap is short, just as real is the sensation of being underwater, breathing nothing (like in Capossela's "Canzone a manovella"); as are the clear Slavic folk roots in the lovely and sweet "Tatiana." Between the two, "Isola," an electric outburst of 1'30", nice attack, sustained rhythm, but that's it, perhaps the album's only subdued moment. Then comes "I barboni preferiscono Roma," the title track and a consistent poetic manifesto, a look at a melancholic and ruinous Rome (yet still a hypothetical caput mundi), softened by gently distorted guitar. Followed by "Zazerkaljie," a playful and dance-worthy piece, with a smooth text and hammering rhythm: an ode to essentials.

Then comes the first turning point. With "Gli ultimi giorni di Pompeo," backdrops become indeterminate, protagonists recognizable, the sounds more nuanced and intimate; and it's a very beautiful piece, with a voice that's harsh yet understanding. It paves the way for a lovely trio of characters: the sad "Lady Lazarus," with a nice (and unexpected) retro guitar mid-track (yet it's just a well-used simple reverb, see how simplicity works?); the fascinating (1980s-esque) "Playboy," the most Baustellian of characters, and the strange "Rapina ad un distributore di benzina," a classic-chronicle scheme for an exciting track that, however, doesn’t completely take off (a pity because the structure allowed for some intriguing electronic risks).

Before an extraordinary finale, yet another turn from the unpredictable Zanardi: if "Salsedine" intrigues (the transition from distorted guitar to piano is wonderful) yet remains a beautiful entryway, the last two tracks freeze the heart and reveal roots in tradition-rich, passionate songwriting and, at the same time, in refined and varied sounds. The wonderful "Torpignattara blues" (a jewel!), with concise and perfect words echoed by a deep and melancholic guitar theme, paving the way for a journey into memory suspended in an original blend of essential blues cues, electronic paths, and Eastern evoking sounds. While the musically modern conclusion "Suite" chills the heart, with its rough and abrasive, bitter and suspended sounds, supported by a recitation (yes, Zanardi also recites...) which could be compared to Massimo Volume, were it not for the more damnably Fiuman tone, in the description of an immense vital rush toward the inevitability of the future.

Here you have it: Zanardi, just when you think you've met and known him, slips away immediately after.