Songs, writings, drawings, sculptures

To you it does not happen that sometimes the internet is not enough? To me, yes, sometimes I find it hard to be satisfied with the avalanche of links that I am returned by a search engine. It is, of course, a question of quantity of information, because of their consistency. Maximum respect for the environment, but I feel that certain important things to tell me I need to keep the paper in my hands, with which printed words have a physical contact rather than read the back holding a plastic shield. That said, I felt like there was a book on Herbert Pagani: when I learned that I was taken out immediately, and I read and reread many times. This thirst for knowledge I had on, some time ago, Alessio Lega that has it tried hard to convince me to listen to ferry some of my favorites on this side of the Atlantic and English Channel. A thirst that I could not turn in front of the PC. A thirst that I could not turn in front of the PC. Web site maintained by enthusiasts who try to take the memories alive there, not so many with no date or exhaustive, but there: are, in fact, sites of fans who do what they can. Other books that tell the story and the stories of Pagans that I know it came out a couple years ago, now unavailable. Today to get a used copy of "The Writing Life" by Arturo Schwarz and used to "Oeuvres 1963-86" by Paul Levi Spirit and Aldo, two hundred-and-switch are not enough euros (postage included). But now a book of Pagan and finally there: read it intrigued me, no doubt, but I put a little 'uncomfortable. Let's see why. "Songs, writings, drawings, sculptures" (published by Barbes, 25.00 euros), edited by Rosanna Castellani, has almost three hundred pages thick, dense texts and translations, and clippings (which I though would be appropriate to publish in full) and drawings and photos, and there is also a CD enclosed with within an hour of songs, decent and fairly representative selection. Yet despite the volume and consistency of the first and lasting impression is that I'm missing something. On the contrary, that something is missing. Pagani missing for twenty years all over, and when I speak of a void that can not be filled and I am not referring only trivially to premature death, a disease caused by fast and ruthless, incomprehensible to those who remain missing, a forty year old who had been a said, thought, and singing and just as he could. He was a known frequenter of television and radio pioneer. Now him and his work lacks the echo and the smell, the lack of reverb and their proclamations by air, all that remains vague memories of television exaggeration and lack of persistence, hand gestures, the smile. One word, heavy: it has been forgotten.
I can not justify the memories blackened by time, nor excuses the weight of time, the fog that builds up and away. I can only sketch the case: I think it's a survival instinct that we forgot who dared get too close to our deepest secrets, our stop. He, Pagani, was often successful: young, had permission to translate the plain of Lombardy Jacques Brel painting it gray like the fog and how the poison air and broken promises. That's him, that was a junction of roots born somewhere else, an alien force, had been allowed to sing out loud to the people there that way there. Those people there that we are, what we gather in the family as a den of wolves, as our masked out in public wearing a smile while inside, the soul, we design partitions and fantasize horrors prohibited. We had taken a piece of soul, like a photograph stolen, unannounced and without asking for anything, much less a permit, license: we found a stranger in the house and ran to tell apocalypses at breakneck speed that we thought our exclusive possession. A caricature for each edge, those three minutes long just to make your mark: the Pagani is a songbook of scoundrels and murderers Zoo, beggars and convicts, stray dogs, and comedians.
Maybe they're better in the shade, those texts, in this time unfit to distribute songs, verses do not share, to be read by sitting alone. Yet behind every story black, bitter behind every note, Pagani sketched threads of hope. He knew springs to see in a whole daisy, distant horizons and had a guitar slung over their shoulders to reach them. I read somewhere that those who worked with him as a perfectionist (when it was good) and a pain in the ass (when he was less well). Also I like to imagine some 'way, with agitation around, the nervousness, the frenzy that belong to those trying to match under your fingers the things you dream with those who grasp. I like to imagine that collects wood and plastic pieces thrown ashore from the sea, like it too. It was a strange presence in my youth, a singer, tall, thin and curly, smiling and curious, who was intrigued by my parents while I was dreaming teen beast lost just go away, the two of them stood there listening to the radio, neighbors, silent together. It saddened her stories of immigrants and young suicides, and humming to make fear go away.

Far

Writing about music is like dancing about architecture. That is, writing about music is like dancing architecture. It is a phrase that has been around for thirty years, heated debate over who said it and who has mentioned: it was Elvis Costello? Or maybe Anderson? But he had said in an interview with Frank Zappa? It matters little, in my opinion: anyone imagined or desired, however, has brought this phrase to emphasize the absurdity of putting into words the work of the musician, especially if you took it out some more press attention to advertisers and now unable to listen. This phrase, and especially its second part, I came back loudly in the head while listening to the new job in solitary Roberto Dani "Away", which announced last fall, was released only now after a few unfortunate technical incident. Sound on sound as a stone upon another, layer upon layer, gesture after gesture, Dani has built a cathedral of silence, whispers, rubbing and noise. It moves around this creature dancing around like a cloud. Figure atypical percussionist who focuses on silence and small lights, Roberto Dani in his work seems to accompany the listener on an excursion in the mountains to appreciate the sound of the heart and breath mingled with those of the wind, footsteps, rocks and grass. In this we find ourselves in heights and views are always different every listen, and they are all wonderful short distance from home: Roberto places are to be addressed trained eight thousand times and complete, but the Dolomites with the bottle, a little before starting dawn from a shelter on the mountain, to descend a scree slope at break-neck with breathless excitement and laughter and chopped together. "Away" tells the close quarters, and lost in distant thoughts, work simple and transparent as water and as complicated as a sudden snowfall, where no two snowflakes alike. Contact: www.robertodani.com.

The red spring

The soundtrack of my April 25 this year were the gang with their new CD ("The red spring," ed. Latlantide www.latlantide.it). Read it if you like, to be blasphemous, but Marino and Sandro Severini have the ability to move my heart to the left: they sing of red flags and red springs in a manner that takes me. It is because I know them for many years, there is respect and esteem, and I feel well for them. I love the way they get their hands dirty with the words struck me as sort and bundle them together, even those before and after the songs themselves, when they explain the roots and wings and tell stories. I always did think their way to travel, to enjoy the road. It moves me when you are not ashamed to talk about work and resistance to boys who are now twenty to thirty years, which could be personal data of their children, and that the workers and supporters have been able to see maybe a few band on television. It moves me when you mix the Clash and Stormy Six, Billy Bragg and Fabrizio de André and weeders, and instead of a dough comes out of a huge joy, a smile and a beating heart without resignation. It 'was a beautiful April 25, because there were these songs in the air. Thanks, thanks again. In turn, published always by Latlantide, also found the testimony of the reading of Daniele Biacchessi "The country's shame" (2cd, 2011) with the songs of Gang wonderfully embedded in texts, and "Tribe's reunion" (CD, 2010) with the recording a live concert in Recanati during which the brothers have offered generous handfuls of the clanking of his early repertoire. Contact: www.the-gang-it.

Marco Pandin
stella_nera@tin.it