Windopen
Quando i baci erano fiocchi

The birth of the new Italian rock has been said and written about a lot, maybe everything. Whether it was under the porticoes of Bologna or sometime later in the alleys of Florence is of relative interest; it's not a matter of primacy. What matters is that, in those years, now eons ago, under the propulsive push of a punk that swept away all the references of traditional music, a new and independent spirit also made its way in Italy for the first time. There was definitely great enthusiasm, a desire to do and overdo. But no one was afraid of making mistakes, because the important thing, in one way or another, was to try. I am aware that thinking back on those years now can be dangerous, exactly like thinking back to one's adolescence. It can easily result in an altered and amplified vision of a reality that was probably much less extraordinary than it might seem in memories. The recently released album by Windopen, however, "Quando i baci erano fiocchi," inevitably forces us to reflect on this.

It's 1979, and punk in London has ended up in the boutiques of King's Road, scorned by those who played it and repudiated by those who loved it. Here with us, in the distant province of an imaginary empire, the influence of punk arrives late but with force. In a (Beautiful) country still shaken by the political turmoil borne from '68 and the economic crisis, music stagnates in jukeboxes, between Alan Sorrenti and Umberto Tozzi. In Bologna, right in those days, arises Italian Records by Oderso Rubini, whose historical and strategic importance is so tremendous that if you don't know what I'm talking about, you might as well skip the rest of the review. The new philosophy is that of "breakaway" music from the system; the new approach is that of free radios, self-managed concerts, and opposition at any cost. Bologna, a rebellious university city, immediately adopts this trend, and an initial group of interesting bands coalesces around the visionary Oderso's label. "From the cellars to the pavement," thus read the poster of that mythical event that on April 2, 1979, unexpectedly gathered more than six thousand people at the Bologna Palasport: a concentration of the punk scene, demonic rock, and new wave that was finally blooming even in Italy. Nobody knew the groups, and they had improbable names like Luti Chroma, Bieki, Naphta, Frigos, etc., but it wasn't important. The fundamental thing, for the first time in our country, was "to be there," even just to throw a few tomatoes in Freak Antoni's face. The new Italian rock was born, metaphorically, that day.

Among the emerging groups of Italian Records, there were also Windopen. Their first recordings for Harpo's Bazar, immortalized on the cassette "Windopen Rock!", are raw but splendid. They show us a band far from the fierce experimentation of the early Gaznevada, uninterested in the avant-garde of Confusional Quartet or the electronics of Stupid Set. Windopen are simply a band that, without forcing the classic music schemes of rock, manages to be innovative, expressing itself simply through a different attitude. At times, the group formed by future Litfiba Roberto Terzani recalls in compositions and lyrics the demonic nature of Skiantos, without however fully embracing their mocking and provocative approach. Windopen instead play a kind of all-Italian pub rock (bar rock?), direct and muscular. The band's creative vein is brilliant and not exhausted exclusively with the debut cassette, recently made available also by a beautiful reissue by Spittle Records. Indeed, Windopen found the time to record other songs in the early eighties, compositionally more mature than those of the debut. No one bothered to publish them then, and such recordings took on the mythical form of a "phantom album," as handed down to us by their record company. However it may be, remained for over four decades in a drawer, the demo of those alleged last songs of the band has been taken up by Windopen, who have deemed it to publish it now, widely posthumously.

And here it is, the album, ironically titled "Quando i baci erano fiocchi," like the title of the opening track of the vinyl. The album's opening is interesting, the audio account of the police's "live" raid on the headquarters of Radio Alice becomes the text and chronicle of an instrumental that defines the sound of the album. For those who expected to find themselves listening to the original demos, full of vintage sounds and youthful impetuosity, for those who expected "the sounds of that Bologna," there's a bit of a bitter aftertaste. The original songs are indeed heavily manipulated. Indeed, in my opinion, and irrespective of Spittle Records' circumstantial statements, they seem to have been re-recorded yesterday. This approach ensures that on one hand the album flows very well, the versions are very clean with lyrics that do not forget to remind us of the glorious past. But on the other hand, it almost sounds like listening to one of the many fake-indie groups of our days. Thus a clear mismatch is created between the angry lyrics, children of a unique and unrepeatable moment, and the music, which is nevertheless considerably softened by a too "polished" production. It must be said that the band's vibrant and contagious guitaring, freed from the technical limitations and instrumental inexperience of days gone by, still works well. A sign of a musical talent that was not common. The album is therefore pleasant, full of immediate and enjoyable songs. However, it completely lacks the grit of the old days, it misses so much that sax that ran through the early Windopen songs and made them so original. Several episodes still deserve praise and mention. The lively "Brutte Storie" that still has that Skiantos back-flavor, the electric and contagious "Ancora sotto shock," and the brisk little punk of "Le teste dure." No trace of the blues veins that shaped the trajectory of many of the debut songs, nor any concession to instrumental bridges and guitar-sax duels that made their live shows special. Nevertheless, the recovered verve is good, that of "Mi han detto di stare lontano da te," for example. And also the demo, which doesn't seem like a demo at all, of "La notte è tua in città," their last interesting single, released in 1986, now out of time limit by CGD which sought a belated relaunch of the band.

Ultimately, "Quando i baci erano fiocchi" is an album I dreamed differently, maybe because I'm an incurable nostalgic and I deluded myself into finally being able to listen to the original tapes recorded in the cellar of Via Vitale 13. Even if it had been just farts, I would have been more excited. Or perhaps because "Quando i baci erano fiocchi" paradoxically sounds too current and politically correct, in a present that, musically speaking, seems to me more stupid and desolate every day.