Newsgroup: italia.genova.discussioni
Titolo: Per chi ama Battiato (almeno uno c'e')

BATTIATO - FETUS reviewed by Julian Cope!!!
 
http://www.headheritage.co.uk/unsung/albumofthemonth/
           Side One 
           1. Energia (Energy) 
           2. Fetus (Foetus) 
           3. Una Cellula (A Cell) 
           4. Cariocinesi (Karyokinesis) 
           5. Fenomenologia (Phenomenology) 
           Side Two 
           1. Meccanica (Mechanics) 
           2. Anafase (Anaphase) 
           3. Mutazione (Mutation) 
           Note: Back in the 70s, this record was
originally released on the
           influential Italian label Bla-bla. While
most of Franco
           Battiato’s output was released under his
own name, the albums
           Fetus and Pollution were released by just
‘Battiato’, in the
           heavy rock-style of that period. If you
enjoy Fetus, you really
           should make an effort to get a hold of
Pollution, too. This
           second album of 1972 has a far more
spaced-out quality, in places
           sounding like the Walter Wegmuller’s epic
double-LP Tarot. 
           Throughout my early-90s re-appraisal of
Krautrock, umpteen
           records were pushed my way, accompanied by
the comment: "If you
           like so-and-so, you’ll love this lot." It
was the manner in which
           I discovered the ambient genius of Russia’s
Mikhail Chekalin, the
           rush and roar of Gunter Schickert’s G.A.M.,
Italy’s Warholian
           freakouts via Le Stelle di Mario Schifano,
the monochrome
           psychedelia of the lost Czech refusenik
‘ensemble’ M.C.H., plus a
           whole other raft of strange European bands.
I even rediscovered
           the middle-period genius of Magma’s Mekanik
Destruktiw Kommandoh
           and Kontakosz, both of which I had loved
during my pre-punk teens
           but never thought to re-visit. But my
dedication to defining the
           lost art of Krautrock meant that many of
these other non-German
           pioneers got lost in the shuffle, as their
albums slipped out of
           pole position and back into the racks
marked ‘undefinable’. 
           It was only when this amazing 1972 record
by Franco Battiato was
           recently issued in its English language
version that I dusted off
           my copy of the original and realised how
much I’d once played it.
           Bloody hell, I knew every note on the
album; and I knew it’s near
           neighbour, 1972’s sister album Pollution,
almost as well. 
           With the added excitement of this new
English version, I decided
           to turn Fetus into an Album of the Month.
It is a stunningly
           catchy but impossibly strange record which
inhabits that nether
           world of pop music, electronics, politics
and experimental rock;
           a 70s nether world which I grew up with,
yet one which takes so
           many chances that it makes the whole work
sound quite timeless. 
           Fetus is an album beyond all definition.
It’s a masterpiece of
           daring and almost stupid risks that work
every single time. Some
           of my forthcoming descriptions of these
songs will appal you – no
           way can it sound good with the elements
he’s describing. But it
           doesn’t sound good; it sounds great. In
little more than
           half-an-hour, Battiato takes us through
eight uniquely
           super-detailed songs that tug at the heart
strings as no other
           experimental record ever could. 
           Fetus is an entirely studio album,
audaciously psychedelic and
           sonically estranged in the manner of
Kalakackra’s mysterious
           Voyage to Llasa LP, Witthuser & Westrupp’s
Trips und Traume, and
           the first album by Dalek I Love You. Out of
nowhere, acoustic
           guitar songs reduce themselves to
unaccompanied solo piano licks,
           horde nations of backing vocals rush to
agree with the lead
           vocalist, whilst even the most hoary
classical tunes will be
           commandeered to accompany famous events.
Its mystery is in its
           unashamed use of clichés juxtaposed with
thee most un-obvious
           elements. The best example is surely the
Stephan Grapelli-style
           "Georgia Brown" violin which is used to
orchestrate a
           drum-machine driven psychological song. 
           From his use of such wide-ranging musical
influences, Franco
           Battiato, is a real mystery, too. Indeed,
from the sheer volume
           and wide range of his output from the late
1960s onwards into the
           1990s, Battiato most reminds me of myself.
Beginning as an
           Italian pop singer, Franco Battiato moved
into the 70s on the
           crest of the progressive rock wave, which
is where we find him
           for the recording of both Fetus and
Pollution. Battiato was
           briefly signed to Island Records, and it
was during this period
           that the English language version of Fetus
was made. Franco
           Battiato had plans to make it big in
Britain, and played two
           fairly high profile shows at London’s
Roundhouse, supporting
           first Magma and later Ash Ra Tempel. And it
was at this time that
           Frank Zappa, on hearing Pollution, famously
called Battiato’s
           work ‘genius’. 
           Unfortunately for us all, the British
period of his trip was
           brief and unsuccessful, probably because of
the car crash, which
           forced Battiato to return to Italy for
hospital care. Further
           British shows with the Japanese artist
Stomu Yamash’ta had to be
           cancelled, as did a proposed tour with John
Cage. Indeed, the car
           crash so affected Battiato’s career that
the English language
           Fetus was shelved indefinitely and he was
forced to return to
           Italy full time. 
           In the light of Battiato’s subsequent
change of musical
           direction, whether this temporary
relocation to Britain could
           ever have worked with a little more success
is a moot point. In
           the long run, Battiato was far too excited
by the musical
           possibilities thrown up by Stockhausen and
the Krautrock scene to
           stay in song mode for very long, and he
soon submerged himself in
           electronic works such as the more
experimental sound of the
           instrumental LP Clic. Several other such
releases saw him in this
           guise, until he appears to have rejected
this method entirely and
           returned to his first love – the role of
pop singer. 
           Taking a look on his website recently, I
was impressed to see
           that Franco Battiato has sustained a huge
output, which has
           latterly extended into classical releases
and even an opera! But
           the Franco Battiato whom I know and love
occupies a narrow seam
           of early 70s experimental rock, and it is
to this period which we
           must now return. 
           Fetus begins super-dramatically with
"Energia (Energy)", in which
           multiple recordings of babies crying and
goo-goo-speaking fade in
           stereo through the murk, as a backwards toy
room music fades in,
           reminiscent of Sparky’s Magic Piano meets
Sammla Mammas Manna’s
           classic "Astrids Vision." Then a
synthesised and pulsating
           electric piano announces Franco, who sings
to us about all the
           women he’s bedded and all the babies who
have been lost down the
           drains of Europe in his quest for a good
life. Sounds desperate
           but it’s melancholy in a tragic and
uplifting way. Like
           "Wilhelmina", Peter Hammill’s
embarrassingly frank and frankly
           absurd-to-the-point-of-being-laughable
lullaby to his growing
           daughter, "Energia" employs a chord
sequence so obvious that it’s
           like the first thing you would play as a
16-year old, then
           probably dismiss immediately. Tom-toms and
electric rhythm
           guitars are accompanied by brassy and
out-of-tune polyphonic
           synthesizers in a mawkishly emotional
blitz. Indeed, being
           out-of-tune elevates the whole fucking
thing. 
           Next comes the short title track. An
unaccompanied and heavily
           reverbed heartbeat introduces "Fetus
(Foetus)", as Battiato’s
           lonely melancholy voice sings, in a single
verse, a heart-rending
           story from the point of view of the
unwanted unborn child: 
           "I wasn’t yet born, and I felt the
heartbeat, 
           And that my life was born in hate, 
           I drag myself slowly through the human
body, 
           Down through the veins, going to my faith."
           As the verse unfolds, understated wa-wa
guitar chords and plucked
           piano strings shudder in the stereo
distance. A brutal edit into
           incredibly beautiful music cuts us short.
It’s another lost
           child’s toy room, this time with a mind
manifesting sound akin to
           that of the Residents’ "Edwina", from their
definitive LP Not
           Available. The music builds quicker and
quicker until it is
           frightening and overpowering, as wailing
and howling monophonic
           synthesizers annex the mix and kidnap it
screaming and
           blindfolded into the mystic night. In two
and a half minutes,
           Battiato takes us from silence to
slack-jawed incomprehension.
           It’s incredible. 
           Next up comes the cliché of clichés. "Una
Cellula (A Cell)" is a
           Mediterranean sob-fest of mawkish
sub-chicken-in-a-basket chords
           unfit to be outtakes on a Demis Rousos LP.
           Forever-and-ever-and-ever-and
ever-I’ll-beeee-with-you! Or is it?
           No, it fucking is not. This time in under
three minutes,
           Battiato, rapes our sensibilities with his
unholy combinations.
           He takes a chord sequence reminiscent of
true drivel and lends it
           dignity by playing it in the manner of the
truly experimental.
           It’s here that Battiato enters that
shameless Dalek-I-Love-You
           territory located in outlands so far beyond
twee that only the
           most confident truth seeker may go. By now,
he’s the Igneous
           Fatuus, the Foolish Fire, a Morris dancer
who cares not one jot
           that he appears to the outside world to be
line dancing in a
           stone circle. 
           "Cariocinesi (Karyokinesis)" is the crazy
Stephan Grapelli-styled
           violin & drumbox-propelled I told you about
earlier. What could
           be more incongruous than a two-minute Gypsy
jazz song with
           staccato Beatles piano about a nucleus
splitting itself sung with
           by a singer who sounds as though he’s
saluting the sunrise? Nuff
           Said. In either English or Italian, this
song is unlikely. That
           it works probably has more to do with its
novelty than its being
           great art, but I ain’t never got bored of
it yet because it says
           its piece then sods off. And pronto, Tonto.
           Side one then concludes with the longest
song so far, and even
           this is less than five minutes in duration.
"Fenomenologia
           (Phenomenology)" is a dramatic epic in
multiple parts, beginning
           with portentous minor chorded acoustic and
Spanish guitars over
           which Battiato hums wordless ‘da-da-das’.
His voice tells us that
           he’s living lost and in a fog, until the
guitars drop away to
           reveal a tragic reverbed
lonely-mountain-top solo piano and fuzz
           bass accompanying Battiato’s admission: 
           "I’ve already forgotten my dimension, 
           And I have no power standing away from
myself."
           But Battiato’s fog is clearer than most
people’s sunny day. He’s
           on Carn Ingli living with the angels of the
Preseli Mountains,
           and a squall of Enochean synthesizers comes
down from the heavens
           to meet him. Then more acoustic guitars and
plainsong vocals
           mourn some dreadful recent event and the
angels of Carn Ingli
           wordlessly lament him in a harmony of
rhythmless and touchingly
           formless beauty. Like the deeply felt
themes of Acid Mothers
           Temple’s La Novia, the stereo mix is awash
with different voices
           squeezing deep meanings from
‘da-da-da-da-das’ until the mystery
           of the mix consumes the human sounds and
wrings them out through
           a sonic mangle like your old grandma use to
have in the kitchen. 
           Similar to the rest of this mystical LP,
time has no place in
           this song. In under five minutes, Battiato
has sent us on to the
           moors where the Triple Goddesses weave and
spell. In under five
           minutes, he has created a timelessness that
lesser artists would
           claim needs a double-LP. In these fifteen
minutes of side one,
           Fetus has greedily gorged itself on more
emotions than many
           modern guitar bands approach in a career.
Fuck ‘em all, I say.
           Fuck their self-pitying inexperienced
asses. But then compassion
           kicks in and I can only wish that every
musician could glimpse
           the moments that Franco Battiato captures
here. 
           Side two opens with the hugely stereo FX
pianos of "Meccanica
           (Mechanics)", in which a ludicrous
instrumental piano theme is
           hammered out with fuzz guitars, screaming
synthesizers and high
           pitched wordless voices all singing the
same moronic tune. Until,
           that is, fast strummed 12-string guitars,
more Gypsy violin and
           obvious/dumb bass propelled by
pitter-patter drumbox shoot out
           over the horizon. This new theme continues
at a real pace until
           dropping right down to 5 miles per hour in
order to allow a dryly
           recorded and claustrophobic Franco to have
his say: 
           "My eyes are mechanical – my heart is made
of plastic 
           My brain is mechanical – the taste is
synthetic 
           My fingers are mechanical – made of Moon
dust 
           In a laboratory – the genes of love."
           Perhaps I’m just more moved than most by
translated lyrics, but I
           do find the extreme brevity of these one
verse Battiato songs
           truly moving. His economy of sound and
lyrics is stunning, and
           the way he juxtaposes moods is
breathtaking. 
           In a move reminiscent of the Moody Blues,
this whole shebang
           fades into a banshee choir of female voices
which themselves give
           way into the voices of Apollo 11’s Neil
Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin
           at their most childlike and excited. As
they delightedly scoot
           around the Moon’s surface, they speak aloud
whatever comes into
           their minds through telephone quality
microphones. Over this
           moving exchange, Battiato audaciously fades
in J.S. Bach’s most
           famous musical piece, here put through
delays and given an
           otherworldly quality possibly through being
passed through (I
           would guess) a VCS3 synthesizer, or
something very similar. I
           know what you’re all thinking, punks.
Sounds like cliched
           doggy-do on paper, don’t it? Well, babies,
believe me it’s a
           truly moving thang! 
           "Anafase (Anaphase)" begins as a
Latin-Bowie-by-numbers exercise,
           again with the now typical Battiato
one-verse’ll-do-me approach
           to lyrics. Over lonely acoustic guitars, he
sings a tune
           reminiscent of the Bach piece which has so
recently faded: 
           "I will go far away beyond the limits of
the air, 
           Towards the immensity… 
           Above the astronauts – towards the
interstellar stations."
           "Space Oddity" meets "Starman" for a few
moments, fades out, then
           fades back in accompanied by military
clatter-drums which bring
           us to a huge piano/explosion. Then we’re
catapulted into that
           low-hum Music-concrete ambient world which
Battiato is clearly so
           fond of. Juddernaut synthesizers stereo
trip across the speakers
           looking for the Clangers, who are staying
in their holes, thank
           you very much. A space ship captained by
Pacman lands and brings
           us the mastertapes of Florian Fricke’s most
brief church organ
           piece ever! Battiato kicks him clean into
touch with more
           ponderous ‘da-da-das’ over pensive acoustic
guitars and he’s
           going going gone. 
           Fetus finishes with all the hope of a
Utopian priest, as the
           three minutes of the four-chord "Mutazione
(Mutation)" build
           gently around deadly obvious strummed
acoustic guitars. Again
           he’s a Latin Ziggy hovering above planet
Earth waiting for his
           moment. It’s a post-Christian and Von
Danikenised still-Christian
           worldview. But just because that’s
ultimately the same as viewing
           a Picasso from behind a garden fence with a
peephole drilled in
           it, this doesn’t stop a truly visionary
artist such Franco
           Battiato from striking chest-beatingly
uplifting possibilities in
           all but the most cynical of us. I rarely
print lyrics in album
           reviews because they rarely have anything
to say outside the
           music. But, once again, the translated
words of "Mutazione" are
           indisputably poet and true: 
           "Thousands of years of sleep have blocked
me in my cradle, 
           And now I return. 
           Something changed. 
           I’m not aware of signals of life, and yet
I’m aware of
           vibrations. 
           What will my eyes see next" 
           There will be stone bodies… 
           I hear them coming 
           I hear them coming 
           I hear them coming 
           I hear them coming…
           It’s the classic Lost Daddy of the
Universe-story which has
           permeated our Patriarchal consciousness for
so long. Of course it
           would be nice to discover that all the
world’s problems were just
           caused by Dad fucking off, and of course
it’s highly romantic and
           unbelievable. But just ‘cause it ain’t true
don’t mean Battiato
           hasn’t given it the kind of poetic truth
which allows even this
           Heathen to, at least temporarily, accept
his metaphor and sigh
           along with everyone else.
=====
-                          
 
 
                  \ | /    Ho visto donne conservare
                  (@ @)    in frigo il terziario avanzato.
           ---o00-(_)-00o--------------------------------
______________________________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!?
Il tuo indirizzo gratis e per sempre @
yahoo.it
 su 
http://mail.yahoo.it
-- 
Posted from 
web4902.mail.yahoo.com
 [216.115.106.27] 
via Mailgate.ORG Server - 
http://www.Mailgate.ORG

Grazie...ho visitato la pagina web ed è molto interessante!