Robertina & Gatto Ciliegia vs il Grande Freddo
Cuore

Robertina & Gatto Ciliegia vs il Grande Freddo, “Cuore”, Casasonica/Cosmo Dept., 2006

In the seventh book of the “Republic,” Plato, a just theorist of censorship and the state according to justice (rigidly hierarchical, founded on philosophical asceticism: strictly opposed to the situational salon culture), has Socrates enunciate the irreconcilable dichotomy between shadow and light.

In this case, among the many shadows of Italian music, a few glimpses of light emerge. Robertina gives voice to Gatto. A cat that sings, at this level, is already news: one might say we are almost out of the cave. If the cat then draws freely from the undying Italian tradition, it is evident that the operation changes sign, integrating unconventional aspects of rounded melody and polished experimentation.

We are faced with a moderately avant-garde interpretation, never academic and tending toward minimalism, of 11 standards from the Italian melodic tradition. The fine reinterpretation that “updates” classical materials presupposes the careful selection of sonic, textual, hypertextual and metacultural microcosms that have guided the history of song and customs of our poor homeland (and beyond): a diachrony also characterized by betrayals, as is a constant practice among the people of September 8th.

The pieces, here subjected to a surgical (but not aseptic) restyling are all contemporary to the so-called “anthropological revolution”: which, as has been variously written and testified, transformed the Italian lineage into an amorphous hodgepodge perfectly homologated to globalization from the age of the wolf.

Now we move on to the “track-by-track,” which some do not appreciate. We didn’t understand why; nevertheless, we apologize and proceed without delay.

“Nessuno” (Capotosti-de Simone) was performed at the Sanremo Festival in 1959 by the duo B. Curtis-W. de Angelis, and later reprised by Mina. Gatto's rendition is academic, with interesting, cataleptic bass lines and disorienting effects. The use of the baritone guitar is of great European taste. The sentimental text is somewhat disjointed: the female intervention is noticeable. The best is yet to come, little one.

The reinterpretation of “Senza Fine” is masterful, written by the surly G. Paoli inspired by the exhausted boudoir lover O. Vanoni, who first performed it in 1961 (followed shortly after by the Genoese companion, who already then appeared dazed). “Ricordi” wanted to relaunch Vanoni's image, already colluded with uncommendable environments, by declining it in a “sexy” key: it has never been understood whether the attempt was successful, or rather if it was conducted seriously. A fundamental track of Italian song, “Senza fine” has an initial passage in E-flat that is respected with almost liturgical devotion by Gatto; however, not the final nuance of the original, which seems incongruous, as does the guilty neglect of the accordion, which inherited the classic styles of the transalpine chanson de geste. We've taken the long way around, we concede. Dreamy arrangement, syncopated and fine brush work, synths and programs skillfully understated; here the master stroke is nevertheless the use of the wurlitzer, stylistically impeccable and well integrated with the rest of the semantic-sound architectures. Incidentally, we recall that even the thug M. Patton performed the track, in one of his many moments of dazed stupor.

“Bugiardo e incosciente” is almost Manichean, by the degenerate P. Limiti, who later recycled himself as a presenter of knick-knacks, and the Spaniard J.M. Serrat, who first sang it in 1967; interpreted by Mina in 1969, then by the omnipresent Vanoni and the very annoying R. Pavone. Remarkable filtered voice; here the instrumentation is skeletal, and the drum machine barely manages to wiggle through clouds of hermeneutic obstacles; therefore, eventually, a disciplined and linear drum enters. Lysergic synth, almost catacombal; the brief noise break of the bridge is incomprehensible, while the final “spoken words” reminds us of the ancient adage vanitas omnia.

One of the two absolute masterpieces of the album is “Il tempo passò” (1962), written and sung by the greatest of all: L. Tenco, dead by seppuku in a hotel room in Sanremo (we are not sure; moreover, it has never been clear whether it was a simple room, a pied-à-terre or a suite), and one could say musically rewritten, translated and even betrayed —but who can ever deliver without corrupting?-- by Robertina and Gatto. Text from an uneasy but sober twilight poetry, of the Corazzini type returning half-dead from the Indies; two verses by Tenco thrown there alone demolish the entire production of any de André, risibly crafted at the table for the so-called music-loving masses. Splendid reworking by Gatto, with the brushes again and Robertina's whispered voice in the foreground; fully effected, in the final verses the guitar draws cosmic doodles for minute inner apocalypses.

Superb the subsequent “rendition” of “Cuore” (Pa “The Time” first performed it in 1963, we must admit with a certain zeal), which gives the work its title; here the initial rhythm ascends to certain obscure ramblings emanating from the Equator. Minimalist and almost martial the rendition, although the entry of the ivory highlights a scent of quiet storytelling. The “climax” is restored with great, almost Central European taste; dizzying stratifications sublimate the original, with lap steel and reversed piano contributions. The coda is a bit confusing, between vocal reverbs and clanking guitars à la “My Bloody Valentine”.

Interesting but not indispensable is “Il barattolo”, from 1959, also performed by G. Gaber. Too many iterations and overdubs, and a use of the kratom synth (it is not an Indonesian volcano) that leaves one puzzled; relatively banal the rendition of the central solo, based on a slightly mithridatized electric guitar, and tediously long. The fil rouge of the work returns, to sanction, almost Pascalian, the reasons of the heart.

“Io che amo solo te” (1962) is a very lucid homage to the great gentleman of Italian song, the withdrawn chanteur of Pola, S. Endrigo. Obviously forgotten —he did not frequent the good salons where one drinks from the word of chicken thieves like Sartre or Moravia—, but certainly not from Gatto. An intricately and elusive rhythmic section, as if chasing parallel and convergent lines at the same time. Among the subsequent performers, again Vanoni to break the balls, and then Mina, Pavone, the brain-damaged O. Berti, the sublime court jester Jannacci, Baglioni, and two among the worst evacuations of Italian song of all time (not only musically): Nannini and Mannoia, may God forgive us for even naming them in such an erudite and citationist context.

“And then” (1973) is the other chef d'œuvre of the album. Ingenious the intertwining and integration of electric, acoustic and programming, with the wurlitzer in great, acclaimed condition. The sumptuous arrangement by P. Presti at the time rendered a resounding success an otherwise indigestible theme to the people, in Mina's performance, with the acrobat T. de Piscopo on percussion.

Of great intensity the subsequent “Until the last minute”. Almost ritualistic the refrain, while the text is a manifesto of disillusionment: “Making love, then/What's the point?”. Needless to say, the track was brought to success by one of the most sensitive rogues of all time, P. Ciampi, in 1963 (“Piero Litaliano”), before fleeing to Japan. In Gatto's rendition, the amazing backup choirs seem to outline unthinkable and almost futuristic digressions; while the final guitar phrasing is, literally, from an anthology.

“Tied to a grain of sand” brings us to a theme that must have influenced, in some way, certain escapes à la Felt, with the Indian sitar (therefore not in contrast with a certain “sense of the tragic” of Indo-European coinage: fate and form). The mysterious instrumental incipit is a heartfelt, poignant tribute to the great N. Fidenco, author and performer of the seminal track in 1961, then mercilessly raped by G. Morandi. Gatto's voice here is particularly inspired and distinct.

Closing in great style with “Ti voglio cullare,” which takes up from the title the immemorial archetype of the cradle: sea, womb, home. This is an “original” reworking of the previous track. Ingenious use of choirs, almost doo-wop, in a sort of music box for broken hearts. Heartfelt coda, with slight clangs, delicate sirens, and dreamy phones; concluding with effected keyboards, which seem taken verbatim from “Nada” by DIJ.

Human existence is often a matter of looking at shadows and mistaking them for reality.