How many second acts can one artist get? Franco Battiato might already be in his 10th or more. At the time of this release, 1995, Franco was a 50 year old man — keep that in mind. Unworried by what was out there, unhurried to prove anything, Franco Battiato (once again) came out of nowhere to release another masterpiece, this time around (through time’s passing) incurring the fate of being, arguably, his best, yet also his least known work. L’Ombrello E La Macchina Da Cucire (The Umbrella and The Sewing Machine) came out at a time when he was decades removed from his most known work, and sounded decades removed from what anyone else was even trying to do. A simple electronic opera, based on all sorts of loaded philosophical questions was all Franco attempted for L’Ombrello E La Macchina Da Cucire to posit. It’s the way and the how he did it, that still boggles my mind.
You see, just a year earlier, Franco was trying to understand his faith. Much like his friend Giusto Pio, he was born and raised Roman Catholic, and throughout his life had felt the struggle to realize what it is to be or believe in a higher power, one afforded to it set doctrine and beliefs.
When Franco was younger, he had made his way from his native Sicily to Milan in search of a career in music. For a brief period, Franco began as a protest singer, only to chuck that style and pursue the romantic style of canzone balladeers. However, in the early ‘70s, once again his wandering muse, made Franco shift creatively and explore mixing the worlds of the experimental with those of the Pop. On albums like Fetus and Pollution, one could hear the competing interests that would vie for Franco’s attention throughout his career. When the gorgeous, immersive, experimental side won out 1973’s Sulle Corde Di Aries, his fans thought Franco was destined to explore the world of Stockhausen for the rest of his career. Up until 1978, on L’Egitto Prima Delle Sabbie, they had no inkling of this idea being incorrect. Then 1979, came around.
In 1979, Franco Battiato and fellow experimentalist Giusto Pio wanted to see if they could make Pop music bend to their ideas. Influenced by Eastern mysticism and Middle Eastern music, both artists tried to see how they could introduce them into Pop radio. First, came Franco’s L’Era Del Cinghiale Bianco. A shot across the bow, together with artistic director Franco Messina, they tried to make “exotic” the Italian experience. Mixing electronics with simpler, multi-layered arrangements, Franco and Giusto had something there. As they tried their hands producing and writing for others like Giuni Russo, Milva, Alice or Alberto Radius, slowly but surely the success they were having at actually writing hits and forcing a cultural change had granted them fame, surely, they weren’t expecting. In ‘80s, all the way up to Nomadas, everything they touched, seemingly, turned to gold.
In the late ‘80s, Franco once again did an about face. Whether driven by introspection, or sheer fascination, Franco tried to explore traditional corners. Whether it was the classical Italian music or Sufi-influenced neoclassical experiments, the last thing on Franco’s mind was returning to the “Pop” world. In a way, it was clear that others had began lapping him in the world of contemporary music, and Franco retreated to what was in a way comfortable music and afforded him the ability to retreat from the limelight. You could hear something stirring underneath it all, though.
On 1992’s Gilgamesh, a meditative opera, Franco started to realize the full power of his orchestral experimentation. Choral works that brimmed with wild, impressive ideas were reduced to bite-sized lengths, seemingly, more suite for accessibility. Classical orchestration was run through twisty vanguardist sonic toys that imagined forging some new ground in the minimalist or electro-acoustic world. When 1994 rolled around, Franco found his thoughts turning back squarely to his own faith. Messa Arcaica used the archetypal, canon songs of Catholicism to explore the tonal qualities of their sonic essence. Somehow lost in the release, were the subsonic electronic arrangements backending his exploit. Somehow, Franco got his wish to have his mass performed in a few churches across Italy.
In 1995, Franco had formed an unlikely friendship with nihilist philosopher and poet Manlio Sgalambro. Much like his friendship with the late, great Giusto Pio, Manlio wondered what this relatively younger artist wanted to gain from him. Manlio could be a poet, he could be a literary writer, but never had he imagined himself a music lyricist. Originally, Manlio had helped Franco by writing the libretto for Franco’s Il Cavaliere Dell’intelletto an actual lyric opera. Now, Franco challenged him to be even more direct, to write lyrics for Pop music.
Arguing with Franco, not seeing how he could do this, somehow, as he heard the powerful music Franco was imagining, Manlio took care to put in the work required. Taking inspiration from Les Chants de Maldoror by Lautréamont, Franco and Manlio tried to reconcile this world of perpetual motion with one of the holy texts where time seems to stand still and be eternal. Ruminating on the existence of God, man’s mortality (due to man’s own inventions of subterfuge), and all sorts of heady stuff, were met head on and intertwined with the music. Using samplers, synths, and a choir, Franco finally created the human opera he was born to create.
The title track and opener, “L’ombrello E La Macchina Da Cucire”, ties all his experimental technique through one track that encapsulates all previous acts together. Immersive Pop, ambient minimalism, and propulsive neoclassical ideas squirming to understand this forgotten, powerful pageantry found in purely vocal works. Franco once again sought to put his voice behind the music and, impressively, wrote and performed all the music to accompany his unique vision, harkening back to his beginnings. “Breve Invito A Rinviare Il Suicidio” then turns his eye to through Italian Pop into another rung, that hints at his work in the ‘80s but understands the idea other Italian minimalists injected to the dying style, by accepting modern technological advances to further a new idea.
Much like his prior albums, L’Ombrello E La Macchina Da Cucire was only conceived as a limited release. 2000 vinyl records were pressed, a few concerts were performed, and Franco turned his eye to go further into this, new rabbit hole, knowing full well he had left behind nearly all who only knew only part of his vision. You see that’s where the power of this album lies. It’s just two older, wiser men realizing the strength within what only they can do. Manlio takes full reigns of his words. Franco sticks to the music. Together, they come to a special place that sounds uniquely theirs. My favorite track, “Gesualdo Da Venosa”, still sounds like nothing else I’ve ever heard, and still has a timelessness that will exist outside whatever else I’ll hear. There’s a mighty lesson to learn from this album, if you take the time to hear it. It’s all right there in the title, if you can figure it out. All it asks, is for you to take a while to understand.
One response
“Beau comme la rencontre fortuite sur une table de dissection d’une machine à coudre et d’un parapluie” – Beautiful, as the fortuitious encounter on a disecting table of an umbrella and a sewing machine – A whimsical quote from Isidor Ducasse’s ‘Chants de Maldoror’ that became some forty years later one of the operating phrases of the surrealist movement. Just thought I’d mention it. Great post, thanks!