Peppe Voltarelli
Ultima Notte A Malà Strana

This is the nocturnal song of a wandering shepherd through Calabria, Canada, the Czech Republic. Peppe Voltarelli returns on a donkey, dressed in wolf skin and armed with a guitar, as seen in the artwork (beneath the CD inside the case). Daring and loyal Sancho Panza to himself, balancing his Don Quixote side. Peppino at times clouds his visions from an intoxicating dream, crafting an atmosphere where Pindar does not soar, he reaches the leap but remains trapped. It’s a perpetual state of mocking melancholy, of reflection brushed with joy and tears, shaped with the poignant simplicity of someone who can tell you stories just as they are. The artistic stature grows significantly at this stage of his career (April 2010). "Ultima Notte a Malá Strana" – of which I rewrite the review because the other was of few words that didn’t quite convey the idea / see DeCasi, if you want – makes the solo debut seem smaller (equally of exquisite quality), definitively embarking on the unique path of life as a crooner that, in the previous episode, probably still felt the detachment (more psychologically than anything else) from Il Parto delle Nuvole Pesanti.

This is a strongly singer-songwriter album, living in a mood that has become Peppe's signature, anchored to Caribbean-Andean references (monsieur Manu Chao teaches, but without all that global no globalism in the sound) and to the heritage of great Italian singer-songwriter music. This time not just Modugno (at least interpretatively), because in some episodes I heard the late Pierangelo Bertoli singing, and in others (in truth only one) the contemporary Capossela. But this should not lead to the easy conclusion that Voltarelli cites (a foul word!) anyone to please everyone. A Voltarelli album is a Voltarelli album. There are too many distinctive and characterizing traits of his identity. If his music manages to live in the underground and almost lifeless world of serious and unsponsored Italian backstage, it is precisely because the music of our protagonist is a chanson that sings a specific, intriguing, and unusual personality, with music filtered through the critically dry eye of the protagonist. The improvement (in my opinion) of songwriting is increasingly marked by a lyricism that is not a pantomime, but is southern with a controlled designation of origin and to be protected. In the standout track from this release, "Quando Ni Vo", a guitar-plucked ballad worthy of Daniele's best pieces in this style even though it's distinctly Calabrian and not Neapolitan, it’s the heart that writes and sings, without pretense. The lyrics are always direct and divided between the author’s visions and the analysis of some well-focused realities. The poetic text of "Marinai" emerges, which without rhetoric recounts the consequences on the life of those who tame and are tamed by the sea, as remarkable are the words of "Sta Città", a place lived between head down and up, appreciable for the disgust and pleasure it provides. A song of opposites, those in which perhaps Voltarelli is used to living since the age when he realized he was living in "Il Paese Dei Ciucci", another bitter but clear track in saying "non ci voglio vivere più nel paese dei ciucci iih oh iih oh", a track directed at a numbed country, deprived of critical sense. His Calabrese returns prominently, a rugged and sharp dialect with musicality suited to the singer’s vocal emphatic embodiment. In pronunciation, a tough and soft "r", Greco-Italian, round and resonant, stands out again. Sometimes words are yelled à la Giancarlo Giannini in "I Picari". In short, there’s a lot of thought in touching the vocal cords and in the lyricist activity that takes the listener also to Montreal (Coup De Coeur in Montreal) and to Prague (with the title track), where the textual interweaving is in French and Czech. The musical level of the work is very valid, with the author primarily engaging with the guitar, but also with the accordion and percussions (these are truly rich and evoking of poor locations in the Mediterranean). The abundant contributions signed by Bandabardò (Finaz, Bachi) take care of guitar and double bass. There is also Enriquez duetting on the vocals of "Leo Ferré Les Anarchistes", entirely translated into Italian (Gli anarchici). Perhaps the most heartfelt point of the album.

The music embraces the lyrics accompanying them on this journey of a shrewd man who has lived everywhere, a bit of a poet, a disillusioned dreamer, a charming drunkard who never gets intoxicated, a clear-headed social analyst. The musical transhumance responds to that of the lyrics in an absolutely coherent manner, presenting a stand-alone figure in the landscape of Italian singer-songwriters. Without trumpet fanfare, once again, a credible and intelligent album comes out, which makes authenticity its key. Perhaps it’s so authentic (just consider the Calabrese singing, genuinely arduous for those who don’t understand it) that at times it seems like an album written for himself, like a logbook in this long solo journey that sees Peppe Voltarelli return to the same old – but this time wider – circle of bookstores, associations, clubs, festivals that in Italy still live, despite everything. Abroad calls him, and indeed shortly he will be again in Germany. Italy, fortunately, notices him more and more. Exactly him, a discordant note in a national musical scene divided between pathetic and fake alternative. J’accuse. The word to the defense. Or to those who love Voltarelli, without sterile controversies.