Perturbazione
Pianissimo Fortissimo

Uh-oh! We are informed that this review also appears (in whole or in part) on ilcibicida.com

There's something about the songs by Perturbazione that stretch something inside you, some mysterious little string or nerve that sits between the back of the eye and the brain... no, wait, it's lower. It's further inside. It's difficult to pinpoint this point P, but they manage to do it. You can't just cut out pieces of words and paste them randomly here; it would be an act of violence. But it is an indisputable fact, this great gift of theirs to be simultaneously universal and intimate, to be one because they are the other and vice versa. To have something great because they know how to be small, to be unique because they are just like all of us.

"Canzoni allo specchio", their previous effort dated 2005, was an oasis of tears/valley of smiles unheard of like the infinite; if I found its cover among the most beautiful records released in Italy in recent years, I would cast a satisfied yet jealous smile against that square that I would feel is mine alone.

"Pianissimo Fortissimo" continues to strengthen that voice, theirs, which was precisely the voice that was missing in our generation. A bittersweet voice that creeps in gently (in fact, "very softly"), like very few know how to do today, without using unnecessary violence in any case. Like a small sweet germ that makes its way under the skin at imperceptible speeds. And you don't feel it. But it's there. And how it's there! And it changes you. And... yes, it's still their voice, small and great. There are things called "On/Off" and "Nel Mio Scrigno" that have moved that fateful little string I mentioned before. Leaving metaphors in your pocket, these are two beautiful songs. Melancholic and honeyed pop, guitars and sounds with a neo-Anglo-Saxon flavor and warm, trembling whispers. There's the bossanova-like "Leggere Parole" and the vanilla-flavored lullaby of "Casa Mia". There's "Qualcuno Si Dimentica", with its little piano that remains scorched around the synapses. There's "Brautigan", with its words that remain fused like resin around the mastwood of the soul. Bitter honey. It seems as if you see a pierced heart and it seems as if you see me.

I don’t know if they read inside us. Or if we are the ones who read inside them. Perhaps, indeed without a doubt, both. They must be thanked, in any case. For being there, for moving, for making us move. Pianissimo. Fortissimo.