Lucio Battisti - An Italian Emotion

It's a sweltering August night in 1964. On stage at the famous “Dancing K559” in Cavezze, a group of young lads – spotted almost by chance in Milan during an audition by the venue's owner – performs in public for the very first time. The band goes by the name “Campioni”, and on guitar is a curly-haired twenty-one-year-old, a big fan of Bob Dylan and rhythm 'n' blues, who seems almost absent throughout the whole concert, if not downright bothered by everything around him. None of those present could know it, yet that evening the introverted, curly-haired young man begins his climb toward success and immortality; that evening, seemingly an evening like any other, the world meets a boy destined to rewrite the history of Italian music. The young man, born Lucio Battisti, came into the world on 5 March 1943 in Poggio Bustone, in the province of Rieti. Those were happy days for the history of Italian song: suffice it to say that less than 24 hours earlier, another celebrated Lucio had been born, also destined for musical glory – the Bologna-born Dalla.

But let's go back to Cavezze, to August 1964. The Campioni's performance is striking for the skill and remarkable technical ability shown by the very young band. In particular, the audience is stunned by the decidedly original guitar style of the twenty-one-year-old from Poggio Bustone: for him, the turning point is just around the corner. After that unforgettable first concert, Battisti begins frequenting Milan's most fashionable musical circles with some regularity, and starts writing his first songs. A few months later, on 14 February 1965, he's noticed during a rehearsal session by young French producer Christine Leroux, who instantly falls for his style, his almost “voiceless” tone bordering on falsetto, yet visceral and capable of conveying incredible pathos, and asks around about him. The answers from the various industry insiders who had known him for a while are largely unanimous: Lucio has enormous vocal talent and, above all, a gift for composition, but he can't write lyrics (a thesis borne out by the author's very first singles: just listen to “Se rimani con me”, a song that's certainly well-crafted and has a catchy chorus, but is incredibly trite in its lyrics – enough to make the Beatles' “Love Me Do” look good by comparison). For Christine, however, this isn't a problem: “When I realized he couldn't write lyrics, I immediately thought of Mogol.” Thus was born, thanks in part to the simple flash of inspiration of a girl from across the Alps, the most famous, debated and, at the same time, celebrated partnership in the history of Italian pop: thus, almost by chance, Battisti and Mogol came to be.

In the autumn of that same year, after signing his first ever contract with Ricordi, Lucio Battisti meets Giulio Rapetti, aka Mogol, for the first time. It isn't love at first sight: suffice it to recall that, of their first meeting, Mogol would later say: “The first time I saw him, I wasn't favorably impressed. He told me he agreed with me, and I found this modesty and capacity for self-criticism of his rather endearing. So I told him that sometime we might work together, not to write songs but to do some experiments.” And yet no prediction could have been more off the mark: Battisti and Mogol would go on to write songs by the dozen, injecting fresh new lifeblood into the stale, outdated world of Italian pop song.

Battisti and Mogol: the early days

Having overcome their initial misunderstandings, the two realize they can collaborate fruitfully, and in 1965 they write their first single together: the song is simply titled “Ehi ragazzo”, and would first be recorded by Equipe 84 in 1968. The following years are particularly intense for Battisti: he struggles to find the right path, first tries to join Celentano's clan, and then leaves Campioni for good. Then, between 1967 and 1968, once he and Mogol finally understand they're “meant” to work together and form a stable partnership, the first genuine hits of the duo's vast repertoire begin to emerge – hits that, for the most part, are initially performed by other artists. We're in the full swing of the psychedelic era, and this has quite an impact on his compositions. From the very start, Lucio shows a strong interest in all the new trends arriving from across the Channel and the Atlantic: take “Quando gli occhi sono buoni”, a pure country-style ballad tailor-made for the debut of Roman singer Giuliana Valci. Or listen to “Guardo te e vedo mio figlio”, the B-side of Dik Dik's single “Senza luce”, which instead recalls certain bluesy moments by the Yardbirds; or finally give a listen to “Era”, an original acoustic ballad that employs the techniques the Beatles had tried out on “Revolver” (tapes played backwards).

The duo grows ever more prolific, and the “Battisti epic” draws forcefully closer: in March 1967 Lucio plays his trump card, “29 Settembre”, which, recorded by Equipe 84, dominates the charts. At the end of that same year, the first 7-inch single written and recorded entirely by the pair, with Battisti on vocals, is finally released, featuring two tracks: “Nel cuore e nell'anima” (an interesting composition with decidedly unusual lyrics, which will later appear on the debut album) and “Ladro”. A string of singles destined for enormous success will follow.

Call them, if you like, emotions

By the end of the decade, the time is clearly ripe for Ricordi, the label that had signed the artist from Rieti back in 1966, to release his debut LP, simply titled Lucio Battisti, which hits Italian record store shelves in March 1969. The album actually contains already-familiar material – the duo's biggest hits, along with a whole series of songs they wrote but which were made famous by other artists. The record, for better or worse, marks the start of a new era for Italian song, both from a strictly artistic standpoint and a commercial one (it stays on the album charts for a full nine weeks, after reaching number two). The opening track is the Sanremo entry “Un'avventura”, destined to become one of the author's most famous songs: for all its apparent simplicity, it's a composition that already points to the musical path the young Battisti fully intends to pursue. Indeed, while the vocal line, with its smooth writing and catchy chorus, seems to fall in line with the festival trend, any suspicion that we're dealing with just another trite song (and artist) is thankfully swept away by the beat-tinged arrangement and a horn section that draws directly on the American rhythm 'n' blues tradition.

In short, Battisti makes things clear right away: this is not your usual kind of music. He and Mogol have no intention of staying tied to certain prepackaged, nationalist-popular formulas (to which they are nevertheless often, and superficially, reduced), preferring instead to try new paths, experiment with original and engaging solutions, and push past the narrow banks of the Bel Paese's melodic tradition without entirely disowning it. The classic “song form” is thus led by the hand toward higher shores, and enriched with sounds drawn from musical universes that are distant and seemingly incompatible with the Italian one: blues, soul, English beat music (and later folk, progressive, Latin American sounds, electronic new wave).

In the end, perhaps, this is precisely where Battisti's greatness lies: in his innate ability to shape melody at will, blending it with countless sounds and ideas of various origins (Mina will prove extremely skilled at conveying these nuances through her voice too). What's also striking is the refinement and genuine poetic quality of the lyrics, which fit perfectly into the musical framework.

The next track, “29 Settembre”, already recorded by Equipe 84 and likewise destined for lasting fame, is perhaps Battisti's first masterpiece; behind its catchy melodic line, it conceals experimental ambitions and decidedly original forms: the intro is entrusted to a dense weave of guitar triplets, soon joined by bass, strings and horns (no drums). The structure is circular and hypnotic, lacking a real chorus yet extraordinarily rich in its fragmented melodic line (to which Battisti's delivery lends an almost cinematic quality): psychedelia is just around the corner, even though the whole thing sounds extremely catchy. Also worth noting, here too, is the power of the images conjured up by Mogol's lyrics and Lucio's performance. “La mia canzone per Maria” reveals another side of the composer's soul, thanks to rhythms and structures typical of Spanish and Latin American music, and boasts another highly effective melody. The album also contains other memorable compositions, still hugely famous today: first and foremost “Uno in più”, a beat track that echoes the ecological protest of American folksingers, followed by “Non è Francesca”, a brilliant and ingenious example of “chamber” pop songwriting that recalls, to some extent, the Beatles of “Yesterday” or “Eleanor Rigby”, and closes with a long instrumental section once again inspired by the Fab Four's methods (tapes played backwards).

Also noteworthy are “Balla Linda,” which surprises with its original rhythmic structure and extreme singability, and “Io vivrò senza te,” which instead impresses with its sophisticated arrangements, intricate orchestral phrasing, and the striking level of pathos conveyed by the vocal performance. “Nel sole, nel vento, nel sorriso e nel pianto,” originally recorded by I Ribelli with Demetrio Stratos, is reworked here in an original way and sounds almost like a new song, not least because of the enormous differences between Stratos's voice and Battisti's.

Having covered the music, it's important to point out how this first record also makes the duo's intentions clear from a strictly lyrical standpoint: Battisti and Mogol dedicate themselves solely to the private sphere, leaving aside any socio-political or “engaged” themes; they tell of the fears of the everyman, laying bare his weaknesses and fragility, the anxiety of everyday life, the small things that can change your life or simply your day, failed love affairs, disappointments, and the greatest joys.

All this would go on to fuel the idea of Battisti as a bard of the right, set against the growing ranks of left-leaning Italian songwriters. A theory that held for years, fed also by the man's own silence, as he was always quite reluctant to give interviews.

Without any pretense of knowing Battisti's actual political views, this writer nonetheless believes it's worth pointing out that whatever his leanings may have been, they had no bearing whatsoever on his music, and that, if anything, Battisti only ever took a public stance on “ecological” matters. It should also be added that Mogol himself would, on more than one occasion, state that the “fascist” label had been pinned on them for the sole purpose of making them “unlikeable” to a significant portion of the public.

Returning to Battisti's musical career, we've now reached December 1970: the time is ripe for Ricordi to release his second LP, Emozioni. Here too, rather than a fully conceived album, we're looking at a collection of all those singles which, often already released in 1969 (some even already featured on the previous compilation), had established Battisti as a cult artist of Italian music, plus a few surprising b-sides. And here too the classics abound. Just think of "Acqua azzurra/Acqua chiara", an enjoyable track that alternates the melodic delicacy of the verse with the irresistible, energetic refrain of the chorus. The composition is still incredibly spontaneous while also being sophisticated in its intricate arrangement, which lends the whole thing a rhythm'n'blues pathos (with the horns "calling" and the rest of the band "answering"; complete with intricate rhythms worked out down to the smallest detail for every instrument). Battisti once again proves capable of winning over both the most demanding critics and the general public: he's one of the few artists, especially in Italy, able to combine extreme ease of listening with an unsuspected sophistication and complexity of compositional structure. "Mi ritorni in mente" is another gem: it fuses, with originality and skill, traditional romance-ballad atmospheres with "black" sonorities, and is enriched by lyrics that are in their own way brilliant in highlighting the contrast between the sweet memory of the beloved and the suffering caused by loss and betrayal. And the listener, almost inevitably, finds in Battisti's fantastic performance all the bewilderment and disbelief of the protagonist faced with his woman falling in love with another man. "7 e 40" is another hugely famous track, emblematic of the flawless fusion between Battisti's musical ideas and Mogol's immediate, direct lyrics. The gorgeous "Fiori rosa, fiori di pesco", enriched by impetuous rhythmic crescendos and an immortal melody (it's impossible not to feel the protagonist's hopes as your own, when you hear “Posso stringerti le mani/ Come sono fredde tu tremi/ No, non sto sbagliando mi ami/ Dimmi che è vero! Dimmi che è vero!”), and the scorching blues of "Il tempo di morire", rightfully rank among the finest compositions of early Battisti.

The themes are always strictly of a romantic nature, but what makes the difference is the “negative” framing (the theme of the painful, aching loss of love and the resulting loneliness is perhaps the one dearest to the duo) and the incredible intensity of Battisti's delivery, which is able to render feelings like regret and despair at their fullest.

“Emozioni” represents, for better or worse, the defining song of an era and probably one of the qualitative, interpretative and compositional peaks of all Italian pop music. Battisti would say, in one of his very rare concessions to journalism: “'Emozioni' I wrote right after the horseback journey from Milan to Rome, and I put into it that intimate tension, those abrupt passages suspended in mid-air, to better express the sense of discovery, of wonder that Mogol and I felt venturing through meadows, hills and rivers, as if we were seeing nature for the first time.” Musically, the song consists of a melancholy, circular melodic line that culminates in the now-famous line “Tu chiamale, se vuoi, emozioni,” and is enriched by the emphatic accompaniment of a 60-piece orchestra. The theme, once again, is the pain of unrequited love, and the sense of emptiness, loss and loneliness that often triggers irrational reactions (“guidare come un pazzo a fari spenti nella notte per vedere/ se poi, è tanto difficile morire”; “prendere a pugni un uomo solo perché è stato un po' scortese, sapendo, che quel che brucia non son le offese”). The album closes with other classics such as “Dieci ragazze,” “Dolce di giorno” and “Anna.”

After Emozioni and its enormous success, Battisti decided to release the first proper album of his career, hinting that he wanted to somehow shed the image of chronicler of young Italy's love affairs that had been pinned on him, much to his own displeasure (considering that, as already shown, even his earliest compositions tend to decisively push past the boundaries of Italian melodic tradition), in order to venture into more complex and less immediately accessible musical territory. Lucio had become infatuated with the new currents of Italian rock and progressive folk (so much so that the record would be made with the collaboration of members of Pfm), as well as, surprisingly, with hard British and American rock; and he had also gradually drawn closer to the European classical tradition and avant-garde music; all factors that would help make Amore e non amore (July 1971, Ricordi) one of the most ambitious achievements of his career.

Amore e non amore is an album that (although released a year after it was recorded, for purely commercial reasons: Emozioni was decidedly better suited to the Christmas season), blending pop, folk, progressive and classical music into its unconventional structure, confirms how his body of work has very few rivals in Italy. The record consists of four instrumental pieces and four songs, all still steeped in the usual romantic theme (or rather, in this case we should speak of a “non-romantic” theme), but this time marked by colorful female figures: “Una” tells of a woman who is neither beautiful nor intelligent, but with whom the protagonist can't help but fall in love; while “Se la mia pelle vuoi,” an irresistible, almost hard-rock track, seems to allude to a sexually insatiable partner. “Dio mio no,” the opening track, instead lays bare the protagonist's fears in his relationship with his loved one, and is remarkably built, for its full seven-plus minutes, on nothing but an E-seventh chord. “Supermarket,” finally, is a track for acoustic guitar with a deliberately unfinished, if not downright rough, sound, but it's enhanced by the usual catchy chorus. Turning to the astonishing instrumentals, one can only be amazed both by the extremely long titles and by the original compositional ideas, perfectly rendered by an orchestra conducted by Battisti himself. “Seduto sotto un platano con una margherita in bocca guardando il fiume nero macchiato dalla schiuma bianca dei detersivi” presents an original theme with a Middle Eastern flavor. “7 agosto di pomeriggio, fra le lamiere roventi di un cimitero di automobili solo io silenzioso eppure straordinariamente vivo,” after a guitar intro, leads directly into atonality. “Davanti ad un distributore automatico di fiori dell'aereoporto di Bruxelles anche io chiuso in una bolla di vetro” even draws on certain Baroque sonorities, and “Una poltrona, un bicchiere di cognac, un televisore, 35 morti ai confini di Israele e Giordania” brings the record to a fitting close, with a striking orchestral crescendo complete with a vocal part, though lacking any actual lyrics.

Although commercial success smiled, albeit less dramatically than in the past, on Amore e non amore as well, toward the end of 1971 Ricordi put out Vol. 4, another purely compilation-style release, though not without points of interest (it includes, for instance, “Luisa Rossi,” among the very first singles written by the singer-songwriter from Rieti), with the sole aim of topping the charts.

In 1972, following the release of the extraordinary single “Pensieri e Parole,” itself destined for artistic and commercial immortality, came Umanamente uomo: il sogno, the first record produced under the newly founded Numero Uno label, set up by Battisti himself to give his musical projects the space he felt they deserved. The album offers plenty of interesting ideas and stands out with originality within Lucio's discography. The opening track alone, the simply wonderful “I Giardini di Marzo,” was destined to leave its mark on the Italian collective memory for decades. The song possesses an extraordinary charm, telling, in pure Mogol style but with particularly dark tones, of an inability to communicate, of loneliness, of the anguished search for something to fill our everyday lives. Both certain rhythmic and melodic passages and Mogol's lyrics are extraordinary, at times steeped in resigned pessimism (“L'universo trova spazio, dentro me/ Ma il coraggio di vivere quello ancora non c'è”), at other times capable of conjuring, with remarkable force, images with a metaphysical flavor (“Io pensavo a mia madre e rivedevo i suoi vestiti/ Il più bello era nero con i fiori non ancora appassiti”). As ever, Lucio's performance is heart-wrenching, especially in the memorable chorus. The following “Innocenti evasioni” is completely different, decidedly lighter and more enjoyable; while “E penso a te” returns to darker tones, telling of all the resignation and embarrassment of a love now faded. “Umanamente uomo: il sogno” is an instrumental in line with those featured on Amore e non amore, and the following “Comunque bella” is a fine pop composition for acoustic guitar, with a building, crescendo-like feel. The album, among the most successful of the first phase of Battisti's career, closes with the carefree notes of “Il leone e la gallina,” and with the beautiful “Sognando e risognando,” a track with a rather ordinary theme but of great musical impact and originality, featuring Lucio trading vocals with a young female singer, and with the instrumental “Il fuoco.”

Works like Umanamente uomo, beyond the extreme singability of nearly all the tracks, actually reveal a Battisti already eager to challenge his audience, and therefore himself, and seem to point the way toward the complex works of the later part of his career. 1972 closed with the release of Il mio canto libero, mixed in London and likewise destined for enormous commercial success, thanks in no small part to the driving force of the title track, released as a single a few months earlier.

Il mio canto libero expands the horizons of Battisti's songwriting both musically and lyrically/thematically, and proves to be one of the cornerstone works of his career, the record in which the Battisti-Mogol partnership achieves perfect symbiosis and total unity of purpose. Love is still the driving theme, but it's explored from different angles: the theme of individual freedom takes center stage, with greater emphasis on the more complex psychological undertones of the relationship between men and women. Musically, Battisti once again proves himself a hugely talented author and above all a great strategist of melody: “I play for hours until I realize I've put together a melody, and I work around that framework until I realize I've found the right theme.” The introduction of strings, conducted by Giampiero Reverberi, opens the record with “La luce dell'Est,” one of the finest tracks in his entire catalogue, lyrical, dreamlike and structured in two distinct parts, each in a different key. But there's no shortage of other high-quality tracks: “Luci ah” (whose piano part, which Lucio considered too heavily “effected,” caused a falling-out with collaborator Tempera), “L'aquila” (already recorded by Bruno Lauzi), which once again reveals the duo's hippie-ecologist soul, “Vento nel vento” (boasting superb lyrics and a performance that is, as ever, exceptional in intensity and pathos), and, above all, the title track. “Il mio canto libero” is a track with a soul-music soul, built on a particularly successful and moving rising melody: it would remain one of his masterpieces, one of those songs that truly elevated the Italian melodic song to the rank of high art.

Battisti's prolificacy in the early '70s borders on the prodigious: less than a year after the release of Il mio canto libero, Il nostro caro angelo hit stores, released alongside the title single of the same name. For this record, Battisti turned multi-instrumentalist and, in one fell swoop, did without the many artists who had collaborated with him on his previous releases. The loss of collaborators of a certain caliber, however, did have a noticeable effect on the album's quality, which remains certainly respectable, but falls short of the heights Lucio had accustomed his audience to. The real novelty lies perhaps in the broadening of themes tackled in the individual tracks: alongside the ever-present themes of love and ecology comes a biting, even “harsh” critique of consumerism, conformism and society's indifference; in short, it's a record that, even if only partly successful, fits perfectly within the spirit of its time (that of post-'68 nostalgia). “Ma è un canto brasileiro” is perhaps the album's high point: a clear stand against rampant consumerism and the hidden messages of advertising, and, musically, a rock track that allows itself the luxury of drifting into sweet Latin American atmospheres, in some way foreshadowing the imminent masterpiece Anima Latina.

“La collina dei ciliegi” attempts to revive the glories of some great compositions of the recent past (above all, “Il mio canto libero”), but, for all its originality (the track is arranged with electronic keyboards), it falls short of their melodic genius and emotional intensity. Another decidedly unusual track within Battisti and Mogol's discography is “Le allettanti promesse,” built on a dialogue between Lucio's voice and some female voices, in a clearly blues-derived call-and-response game, with lyrics that tear apart the narrow-mindedness of a certain provincial Italy. Besides “Prendi fra le mani la testa” and “Questo inferno rosa” (the latter seems almost to already contain, in nuce, some of the stylistic solutions of the later Panella period), the album also boasts a track of great quality in “Il nostro caro angelo”; a song capable, in its gentleness, of exposing the unease of everyday life, and the longing for freedom, to assert one's own individuality. Although, perhaps for the first time, critical reception wasn't exactly enthusiastic, the record still achieved, as usual, enormous commercial success, and, all things considered, its restraint allowed it to remain at a more than respectable level.

The journey to Brazil and the turning point of "Anima Latina"

By the end of 1974, Lucio Battisti is by now a monument of Italian song. He has topped the charts time and again, recorded several records of great interest and a handful of masterpiece songs, and his partnership with Mogol is rock-solid, guaranteeing an almost unimaginable level of productivity. But after nearly a decade, success, money and dominance of the hit parade no longer seem enough for Battisti. He feels the need to further expand the boundaries of his art, to come into contact with other musical universes (as already hinted at in his most recent work). And so, in 1974, he sets off on a journey to South America; and, once again proving his talent as an eclectic reworker of disparate styles, upon his return to Italy he pours all his newfound knowledge into the album destined, in all likelihood, to remain his greatest masterpiece - and, in this writer's opinion, one of the highest achievements ever reached by Italian pop music.

The record in question is, of course, Anima Latina. A work that, for the first time, entirely shuns choruses and immediately memorable melodic hooks, pushing further, into new worlds. Fully grasping it takes time and effort: it's hard, for those who loved and knew the early Battisti, to catch at first listen the boldest nuances, the thousand colors the artist from Rieti relies on, the complex harmonic patterns and the stunning rhythmic inventions. Anima Latina blends pop, progressive and psychedelia with the rhythms and shades typical of Latin American music, to astonishing effect.

"Abbracciala abbracciali abbracciati" opens with a long instrumental section, where over the hypnotic, slowed-down drum groove a horn section (flute and tenor sax up front) and electric guitar make their entrance. The lyrics still deal with love, but suddenly become more hermetic and cerebral (“Cosa ti dicevo mai/ A che punto ero/ Ho quasi l’impressione che/ Io con te perdo il sentiero/ forse la psicologia/ può spiegare questi strani vuoti della mente mia”). And Lucio's voice is distant, overwhelmed by the expressive, complex instrumental blend, which inevitably recalls the Italian progressive scene of the time (also due to the track's length: over 7 minutes). "Due mondi" grows out of the notes of the preceding song, but to the rich horn section, which slowly wraps the listener in an irresistible tide of sound, is added a distinctly more syncopated pace; the verses are sung alternately by Lucio and Maria Cabeddu.

"Anonima la casa, anonima la gente, anonimo... anch'io": these are the lines that open the splendid "Anonimo", a composition initially more relaxed, built around a delicate melody caressed by flute and keyboards; in the central section, however, relentless rhythms of clear Latin ancestry take over, leading toward a liberating finale. An impressive track, then, light years away from the world of the "canzonetta" to which Battisti is unfortunately often reduced. "Gli uomini celesti" is a clear stance against easy illusions, one that would fuel rumors about his conservative political leanings ("Ti faranno fumare/ Per farti sognare"), and at the same time it's a musically exceptional piece, in which an acoustic guitar sets things in motion before a robust Latin American rhythm section and powerful keyboards take over, in a triumph of sounds and atmospheres that are, true to its title, celestial.

After the two brief reprises, the album continues with the title track, quite possibly the masterpiece within the masterpiece: the sound is, as ever, refined and complex, the long instrumental intro (almost two minutes) is built on strong contrasts and sudden surges (light/dark, death/life), while the lyrics masterfully paint images of a faraway world ("Corre sulle spiagge atlantiche, seguendo i calci di un pallone/ per poi finire nel grembo di grosse mamme antiche dalla pelle marrone"). In spirit, we move from the Argentine pampas to the beaches of Rio, in an embrace that takes in the whole of Latin America.

After the semi-divertissement of "Il salame", comes "La nuova America", built on an urgent, syncopated rhythm and initially enriched with jazzy touches, before returning to the opening theme, reprised in a style closer to Italian melodic tradition. "Macchina del tempo" clearly recalls the sound of the most advanced progressive rock (here too we're past the 7-minute mark), with its soft guitar arpeggios, free-form percussion, thick bass, and a finale worthy of a classical symphony. The farewell of "Separazione naturale" has a light, dreamlike quality.

Anima Latina will remain, besides being a one-off in Battisti's discography, a memorable example of a break with the past, an abandonment of easy (if often memorable and refined) catchiness in favor of other shores, overturning the expectations of anyone waiting for just one more big hit.

In 1975 Battisti set out on a new journey, this time to the USA, and contact with new musical experiences (his declared passion for funk and soul rhythms) would leave a clear mark on Lucio Battisti, drums, double bass, and so on, again released by Numero Uno in February 1976.

The opening notes immediately reveal the intention to abandon experimental, progressive ambitions in favor of a return to a more reassuring song format: "Ancora tu", with its fresh, catchy rhythm and solid, flawless melodic line, is so hooky that it's even played in Italian discos, and it sits firmly at the top of the charts. "Ancora tu" also confirms that, as the album's title suggests, the rhythm section is the true star of the record: credit goes to collaborators of the caliber of Hugh Bullen (bass), Walter Calloni (drums), and Ivan Graziani. The album, however, while offering several interesting ideas, sounds like a clear step back from Anima Latina, and seems to signal an adjustment to prevailing trends (pop, easy-listening, funk, disco). Beyond the fun, successful opening single and a very few other exceptions ("Il veliero", marked by a relentless rhythmic drive; "Respirando", which delicately tackles the theme of suicide for love), the album in fact consists of tracks that don't always work, this time weakened by Mogol's repetitive and somewhat predictable lyrics. The rhythm section's work, however, remains impressive, to the point that some critics have claimed it even foreshadows certain drum 'n' bass sounds.

Battisti's productivity knows no rest: in March 1977, alongside the EP "Amarsi un po'/ Sì viaggiare", the album Io tu noi tutti is released. A work in which the artist himself admits to having rediscovered a certain expressive simplicity, both musically and lyrically. The record was recorded in Los Angeles, and bears the mark both of the latest sounds then in vogue in the States (so much so that it was originally meant exclusively for the American market) and of the experience accumulated over the previous three LPs. Despite a complex and rather long gestation, the album flows remarkably well, and rediscovers the centrality of melody, drawing even closer to the funk and disco world already touched on in the previous record. It also marks a new turning point in Battisti's career, as from that moment on he would work exclusively with foreign musicians, as if to confirm his firm intention to gradually leave the world of Italian song behind. The most striking tracks, however, turn out to be the two released on the EP: "Amarsi un po'" is built around a sequence of just two chords, and after an introduction dominated by keyboards and synthesizers, it rests on more traditional instruments accompanying a melodic line that's fragmented yet, as ever, highly enjoyable. "Sì viaggiare" is destined to live on in collective memory as one of his most representative songs, powered by a robust, full-on disco-style rhythm section and a successful, metaphor-laden lyric. Also worth noting are the funk of "L'interprete di un film" and "Ho un anno in più", in which the synthesizer-led arrangement foreshadows the definitive turn of the years to come.

Also in 1977, Lucio released Images, re-recording and remixing some of his greatest Italian hits in English, intended exclusively for the American market.

We've now reached the end of the decade, and the unshakeable partnership with Mogol inevitably begins to crack. Also because Lucio seems increasingly determined to strike out on new paths and seek new creative solutions. His love for Anglo-American music, already evident in his early years, grows immensely by the late '70s. So much so that the celebrated LP Una donna per amico (1978, Numero Uno) was recorded at the Manor, deep in the English countryside. And while the lyrics, still all credited to Mogol, remain close to the work of the start of the decade, the compositions move ever closer to the funk world and the electronic pop then emerging, aligning perfectly with new Anglo-American wave trends. "Prendila così" is a dazzling example of this new direction, reworking the insights of previous albums and charging them with electronics and an almost punk immediacy; and this despite the track being notably long by his standards (we're at the threshold of 8 minutes): while the bass holds up the entire sonic structure, elegant, almost new-wave-flavored keyboards accompany a captivating melody. The ending surprises too, enriched by a sax solo fading into a flurry of keyboards. Along similar lines, with strongly syncopated rhythms and airy melodies, are other tracks such as "Avere paura di innamorarsi troppo" (which in places even winks at the Beach Boys), "Donna selvaggia donna" and "Nessun dolore".

The most successful and celebrated track on the album turns out, in any case, alongside the opening "Prendila così", to be the title track. The piece is immediate, catchy in its melodic line, yet rich with countless keyboard flourishes and nuances built around a solid, irresistible bassline. A perfectly realized song, one that can be counted among Battisti's classics. "Ma il mio mestiere è vivere la vita" is then a line that seems to sum up the whole philosophy underpinning the album.

At the start of the new decade, precisely in early 1980, the final album by the Battisti-Mogol duo is released, by then definitively on the road to divorce. The melancholy title well suits the sad ending of their decade-plus-long adventure: A Gloomy Day, right from its gray cover, is the darkest and most introverted record, up to that point, in Battisti's entire discography. As with previous works, A Gloomy Day was also recorded abroad (more precisely, at the Town House in London), with the help of distinguished British collaborators. The album, often underrated even by fans, actually shows more than one point of interest and in any case marks a fundamental turning point, since, after the tentative attempts of previous records, electronic keyboards become the true protagonists of Battisti's music, clearly foreshadowing the turn taken on And Already. The atmosphere, as noted, is strongly melancholic and gray, but it also conceals an insatiable desire for escape and freedom (from the relationship with Mogol?); and if the lyrics in several cases seem much weaker than in the past, Lucio more than compensates with musical inventiveness that shows no sign of flagging: indeed, it could be said that on this album, for the first time, the musical exploration becomes detached from the logic of the lyrics, taking its own unusual direction. Everything seems geared toward the exaltation of the musical note itself, toward melody with a "free" development not reducible solely to verse-chorus logic: these are the earliest signs of the definitive turn of the Panella era. Among the most successful tracks are "Arrivederci a questa sera", which combines electronic sounds with the sax of Mel Collins of King Crimson, "Gelosa cara" (enriched with a thousand flawless electronic colors), and the hugely famous "Con un nastro rosa", a ballad much more in line with the "old" Battisti's output, in which the keyboards stay in the background. It's curious, then, that the lyrics, while still centered, as usual, on a romantic relationship, seem in fact to foreshadow the farewell to Mogol: "Chissà chi sei? Chissà che sarai? Chissà che sarà di noi? Lo scopriremo solo vivendo…".

“And Already”: the 1980s turning point

With his historic partnership with Mogol over, Battisti decides to break definitively with the public, with fame, with the hit parade (and it was most likely these very new ambitions that caused the split with his longtime collaborator). We're at the start of the Eighties, and the shift – forceful and radical – is imminent. At the dawn of the new decade, Battisti becomes someone else entirely, and he lays claim to his freedom from any constraint or commercial obligation: “Yes. I think of music the way I believe every kind of work should be conceived: as a way to renew yourself, to find new stimuli, so that it never becomes boring or a burden to carry on with... Right now I'm writing new music and there will inevitably be many points of contact with what I did before. But I've already written four or five pieces and I realize I'm already somewhere else. I'm wary of people with very fixed ideas”; and he shuts the door for good on the press, live shows, interviews: “Everything is pushing me toward a complete redefinition of my professional activity. In a short time I achieved considerable public success. To continue on my path I need new artistic goals, new professional stimuli: I have to destroy the squalid, consumerist image they've pinned on me. I will never speak again, because an artist should communicate only through their work. The artist doesn't exist. Only the art exists” (from his last interview, dated 1979).

Almost inevitably, his musical horizons expand even further: Battisti is drawn to new wave electronics, to the productions of Brian Eno and David Bowie, to new romantic, to the electro-pop that, in various forms, was all the rage across the Channel at the start of the decade. His work, however, would not simply be an exercise in chasing new trends: with the so-called “white albums,” Battisti would once again prove capable of reworking different sources and styles with great originality, creating an unusual blend of pop song, hermetic poetry, electronic fascinations and a certain cultured experimentalism. In short, he would bring to completion the dismantling of the traditional Italian melodic song that he had already set in motion a few years earlier. The radical nature of this transformation calls to mind, for instance, a comparison with Talk Talk. Two very different worlds, undoubtedly. But the comparison with Hollis and co., and with their incredible evolution, conveys just how much Battisti transformed himself and his art in the Eighties and Nineties.

All of this, however, is still only in embryonic form on And Already, an album again released by Numero Uno in 1982. For the first time, the lyrics are not credited to Mogol but to the singer's wife, Grazia Letizia Veronesi (aka Velezia), although over time more and more voices have suggested that Battisti himself was the true author. Such claims are bolstered by the admittedly uneven quality of some of the lyrics, above all the mediocre “Windsurf.” And Already is a pivotal album from a historical standpoint: perhaps precisely for that reason, it's more important than it is beautiful. Its importance lies in marking Battisti's definitive shift – aided for the first time by Greg Walsh – toward fully electronic sounds. E già ventures into territory where lyrics and melody each carry their own weight and unfold in an almost free-form way, largely avoiding immediately catchy hooks; the vocal approach itself becomes much colder, more distant and almost descriptive, losing the pathos that had contributed so much to the hits of the previous decade.

In terms of quality, though, only a handful of tracks are truly significant: above all “Mistero,” whose lyrics point, in a decidedly polemical and thinly veiled way, at Mogol (“Io mi ero lasciato affascinare/ da quel tipo intellettuale appariscente/ Che in fondo in fondo non valeva niente), “Scrivi il tuo nome” (a track in which the artist seems intent on reasserting his intellectual and artistic independence from Mogol, declaring more or less explicitly his wish to leave behind what for him was now the definitively dead world of the classic Italian song), and “And Already,” buoyed by a well-crafted melody and an original lyric that, as with the rest of the album, avoids any clear narrative theme (“E già/ che la verità/ è solo un’immaginazione/ finché il contrario non accadrà… Dopo che hai visto il  mondo/ Chissà se è rotondo/ così sembra in fotografia… Pieno di mostri strani/ Ancor di più gli umani/ Molto al di là di ogni fantasia”).

As Walsh himself would later admit, the album is worth more for the freshness of its sounds – for the originality with which it reclaims the electronic world that was expanding at the time – than for the quality of the individual tracks.

The collaboration with Panella and the “white albums”

In 1983, thanks to Adriano Pappalardo, Lucio meets for the first time the hermetic, Rome-born poet Pasquale Panella. This marks the beginning of the second major artistic partnership destined to leave an indelible mark on Battisti's career, as he would entrust Panella with the lyrics for all five of his final albums. The first, titled Don Giovanni, required a particularly long and complex “gestation” period, and only saw the light of day in 1986, four years after And Already. It was worth the wait: Don Giovanni, again produced by Greg Walsh, is the masterpiece of late-period Battisti, the best of all the “white albums” (so nicknamed for their decidedly understated, minimal cover art). Compared to the previous album, the leap forward is nothing short of extraordinary. One senses not only a greater command of new electronic technologies, but also a return to more classic sonorities and well-crafted, expansive melodies; and perhaps it's precisely in this intricate balance between wave-style sounds (the record has a “muffled” quality, with keyboards dominating throughout: the sonic palette is typically Eighties) and instrumentation (strings, sax) and compositional approaches that inevitably recall the early Battisti that the secret of its beauty lies. Panella himself would admit to having written the lyrics over melodies that were still conventional in form, complete with verse and chorus. And rightly so: it's precisely his lyrics that mark the deepest break from the classic Battisti. Lyrics that introduce literary poetry into the world of Italian song, and that prove truly astonishing (Battisti himself would describe them as “incredible”), light years away from the harmless heart/love rhymes that had always defined the genre. “Le cose che pensano,” perhaps the best song alongside the title track, opens the album and serves as the ideal, wonderful overture to the entire “white” period. It's a ballad built on a highly refined, sinuous harmonic progression, enriched by a keyboard that discreetly accompanies the voice, moving almost in counterpoint to it. The central theme would still seem to be love. But the conditional tense is mandatory when one reads “In nessun luogo andai/ per niente ti pensai/ E nulla ti mandai/ Per mio ricordo”. All the more so because the song goes on to describe heads rolling while sticking out their tongues, reciting “La prima volta che ti vidi non guardai/ E allora non t’amai/ Tu Come stai? …Son le cose che pensano te/ Quelle cose prolungano te”: a genuine shock for anyone eagerly awaiting a new “Dieci ragazze.”

The second track, built on an almost dance-like rhythm and enriched by a sax solo, is titled “Fatti un pianto”; and, despite its title, it's almost amusing in its captivating imagery caught between food and romantic relationships (“Le cose van fritte/ Coi sorrisi fai croquettes… E tu dici ancora che non parlo d’amore?/ Batte in me un limone giallo, basta spremerlo”). Equally incredible is the lyric of “Equivoci amici” (recording the vocal part was particularly complex and required a long process), which comes to life through an endless list (of misunderstandings, or of friends?), before launching into an amusing tongue-twister (“Cassiodoro Vicinetti, Olindo Brodi, Ugo Strappi, Sofio Bulino, Armando Pende, Andriei Francisco Poimò, Tristo Fato, Quinto Grado, Erminio Pasta. Pio Semi, Ottone Testa. Salvo Croce, Facoffi Borza. Aldo Ponche (o Punch), Uno andò saldato, uno vive all’estro, uno s’è spaesato, uno ha messo plancia, e fa il trans-aitante, uno fa le more, uno sta invecchiando, perché è un nobile scotch”).

“Don Giovanni” is rightly regarded as one of the finest songs in Battisti's entire catalogue, carried by a measured cadence and a beautiful melody. Here too the lyrics astonish for their complexity and ingenuity: “Non penso quindi tu sei” (almost a negation of Descartes' “Cogito ergo sum”), “questo mi conquista/ L’Artista non sono io/ Sono il suo fumista”; worth noting, moreover, is another polemical reference to the old Battisti and to Mogol (“Che ozio nella tournée/ di mai più tornare/ Nell’intronata routine/ Del cantar leggero/ L’amore sul serio/ Scrivi/ Che non esisto quaggiù/ Che sono/ L’inganno/ Sinceramente non tuo”).

There's no shortage of tracks with a clear jazz imprint (“Che vita ha fatto”) and others in which the two artists show full awareness of the revolutionary scope of their creations (“Dopo di noi/ Il diluvio”). Critics have rightly observed that the future of Italian music inevitably had to pass through this record, which contains in embryo all the distinctive traits – still not fully absorbed or understood even today – of Battisti's late output.

Two years later (a release pace that would be maintained steadily until the end of his career), the by-now “elusive” Lucio releases, again on Numero Uno, the second “white album,” L’apparenza, also recorded in London. For the first time, the album is also released on CD, with Robin Smith – already the arranger on Don Giovanni – taking over production duties from Walsh. Musically, Battisti continues down the path mapped out by the 1986 record, further emphasizing its minimal approach while losing that touch of irony that had made the previous work more accessible. There's even room for some symphonic-style accompaniments. If anything, what's missing are certain flashes of melodic genius: the album marks a further departure from traditional song form, picking up, at least in part, the thread left off with And Already, and veering toward a more abstract, freer conception of music. This is also because, for the first time, the music itself is composed – with his usual meticulousness (stories tell of Lucio's incredible perfectionism, ready to start everything over from scratch at the slightest imprecision or the smallest sound that didn't match his wishes) – by following the lyrics: a method that completely upends the shape of the songs. The melodic lines become ethereal, intangible, developed outside typical conventions: the score becomes utterly unpredictable in its harmonic progressions, in the intricate interlocking of the melodic structure, in the total absence of orthodox verses and refrains.

It's only natural that fans of the old Battisti would turn up their noses at so many far-reaching innovations. And it's equally natural that the album demands several listens before fully revealing itself, so cerebral does it feel, so prone is it to dissolving with each listen and resisting being committed to memory.

The opening track, “A portata di mano,” is emblematic in this sense: Battisti has forgotten how to write choruses and hooks, making it clear once again that the days of “Acqua azzurra/ Acqua chiara” are well and truly dead and buried. Equally original is the second track, “Specchi opposti,” in which the music becomes purely descriptive, and where carpets of synth accompany, almost imperceptibly, a melodic line that seems to sketch out some memorable passage only to dissolve into nothing. The lyrics are gorgeous, built around an imagined dialogue between two characters, meant to convey the wall of miscommunication separating them (“Ero distratto/ Tu ti davi da fare/ E non c’eri affatto/ Oppure ti muovevi con un ronzio d’insetto che m’assopiva”). The title track is also stunning, with a minimal melodic fragment recycled endlessly, while the lyrics treat the theme of the poetics of doubt with detachment and elegance, through a succession of surreal images. Another gem is “Per nome,” where Battisti manages to build a hypnotic crescendo of electronic layers, enriched by orchestral textures in the vein of Don Giovanni, giving rise to a kind of madrigal, astonishing in its detached beauty.

L’apparenza marks a point of no return for the “white-album” Battisti: having mastered a new language, he shows his intent to move beyond every dogma of the pop song, reshaping them on an electronic, futuristic level, and abandoning for good even that classic touch that had given the previous record its irresistible charm. The more radical works, as evidenced by the techno-pop and funky rhythms masterfully assembled on “Dalle prime battute,” are already on the horizon. In 1990, in fact, Battisti once again surprises both audience and critics, continuing his dismantling of every dogma of Italian pop with The Western Bride (this time released under the CBS banner). Production is once again entrusted to Greg Walsh. Harshly savaged by critics of the time, still attached to the crystalline melodies of almost two decades earlier, it's a decidedly complex and radical work, through which Battisti seems determined to throw down his final gauntlet. And this despite the fact that the moods sound more playful and amused than they had two years prior, echoing in this respect the atmosphere of Don Giovanni. The harmonic structures become minimal, surface-level and yet complex at the same time: Battisti and Walsh once again overturn every dogma of the song form thanks to the new possibilities offered by electronic instruments and technology, limiting themselves to keyboards and a drum machine, abandoning the strings that had enriched the sound of the previous two albums. Despite this, “Tu non ti pungi più” still manages to deliver a melody that's human, even fun, and the title track, with its extraordinary lyrics, would even get a fair amount of radio play (the chorus “The Western Bride che sembra quasi ridere/ E invece lei respira/ Quasi piangere, ma gira/ Dall’altra parte il viso ma, ritorna/ Portando sue notizie inaspettate/ Amando tutto ciò che adora/ Chiama con nomi fittizi le cose/ Così semmai le rose/ son spasimi per ora” would become famous). As usual, Panella sings of love without seemingly wanting to emotionally involve the listener in the slightest. “Timida molto audace,” too, with its airy harmonic patterns and relentless rhythm, has an almost carefree atmosphere. “Campati in aria,” on the other hand, is defined by a steady 4/4 rhythm, marked out by synthesizers, and leans decisively toward techno-pop territory. The masterpiece of the album, however, is “Potrebbe essere sera,” in which the electronic backing builds a sonic universe that is, as ever, minimal yet absorbing, much like its intricate, ingenious lyrics (“Potrebbe essere sera/ Potrebbe essere una sera alabastrina… Viola è il colore della sera/ L’ora in cui tutto resta/ Non tanto com’era, ma come sarà/ Rinviate le schegge, s’infrangono come vetrate/ Le saracinesche/ …Cercare gli aggettivi catarifrangenti, infranti e lucenti”).

What Will Happen to the Girl, famous for its entirely white cover bearing only the words "C.S.A.R.", is Battisti's second-to-last album, released in October 1992, again on Cbs. Once more, the artist from Rieti seems intent on radicalizing his musical language, pushing even further beyond the few still-memorable melodic ideas found on the previous record. The rhythm, dry, arid, stripped to the bone, becomes the absolute protagonist of almost every track. The backing tracks, capable of blending funky, dance, techno, hip-hop, and even certain dub inflections, are the album's true distinguishing feature: the sound grows ever colder, yet also hypnotic and obsessive, and even Battisti's singing abandons any trace of traditional "bel canto" style, becoming syncopated and, at times, delivered almost like rap.

The opening title track, among the most successful pieces on the record, is emblematic in this sense. The song builds progressively and dynamically: the bass lays down a clearly funky groove, over which Battisti constructs a complex rhythmic and harmonic structure, while Panella's lyrics describe a female figure (the girl of the title) and the shadow of an impending violence stalking her. "La metro eccetera" has a more conventional structure and an almost catchy melody, and is interesting for its usual intricate lyrics, aimed at capturing the emptiness of the subway, a place where thousands of people cross paths without ever truly knowing one another. "Cosa farà di nuovo", by contrast, moves decisively — and quite unusually for an Italian artist of the time — toward the world of hip-hop, without giving up fairly complex and intricate rhythmic structures. "Tutte le pompe" is an energetic funky number built using the cut-up technique, while "Però il rinoceronte" surprises both for its unexpected dub excursions and for its lyrics, which recall the nonsense of "Equivoci amici". "Ecco i negozi" is essentially a rap track, though its dense, murky electronic backing ends up burying Battisti's voice almost completely.

Success, predictably, does not smile on "C.S.A.R.": so Battisti and Panella leave Cbs/Sony behind to return to the welcoming arms of Numero Uno, setting to work on the album that would close the more-than-twenty-year career of the singer-songwriter from Poggio Bustone, Hegel. The choice of title is no accident: according to some prominent Italian intellectuals, it was in fact a "coded" message aimed at new generations, by then light years removed from the pseudo-Marxist passions of the late Sixties. Anna Lessi, a lecturer in Italian at the University of Tübingen in Germany, won over by Panella's lyrics, would go so far as to call Hegel a cultural operation of major historical significance, capable of transcending every limit of modern culture on the old continent. Both the lyrics and the music, indeed, grow ever more abstruse and complex: Battisti and Panella now move definitively toward a purely abstract, descriptive art form, shattering the "pop toy" entirely and achieving results that, however difficult and emotionally uninvolving, still astonish today for their incredible ability to place themselves beyond every stylistic convention and every dogma ruling over commercial music. "Almeno l'inizio", the opening track, is a deliberately icy techno-pop number that defies any kind of classification. Its lyrics amount to a sort of act of rebellion against the constraints imposed by the song form. While the title track returns to rhythms close to dub, "Stanze come questa" is a convoluted funky-dance number that manages to sum up pretty much all of the duo's previous endeavours. "La bellezza riunita", on the other hand, manages to conjure up an almost unintelligible fragment of melody, and is enriched by wonderful lyrics (“Mi apparisti vestita/ E più carpita da me/ Più che tu non lo fossi/ Misurarti la vita/ Mi pare proprio che sia/ Tutto quello che posso/ La bellezza riunita”). "La voce del viso" is an intriguing blend of icy electronic textures and incisive rhythms, standing in sharp contrast to the great expressiveness of the lyrics, which completely captures the listener's attention.

Unsurprisingly, the album was not understood at the time. Critics openly branded it "convoluted" and devoid of any point of interest, sealing Battisti's definitive commercial demise. There were, however, a few dissenting voices: Tortarolo would call Hegel the most accomplished work in the entire Panella-Battisti catalogue, speaking of dizzying atmospheres, of a cathedral in the desert "in which Battisti's genius is preparing yet another solitary escape", hinting at possible future developments in his art. Sadly, it was not to be: Hegel was destined to remain the final spiritual testament of Lucio Battisti, who died on 9 September 1998.

What will remain of him in the collective memory, for who knows how many more decades, are a handful of unforgettable classics from the Mogol era. "La canzone del sole", "Emozioni", "Fiori rosa/ Fiori di pesco" will remain, along with so many other compositions that proved capable of defining an era, of conjuring powerful images in which nearly all of us, at least once in our lives, could recognize ourselves. But his courage will remain too. His iron determination to step outside a system right at the peak of his success, only to forge a partnership with another solitary artist and write some of the most complex and indecipherable pages in the history of Italian song. Above all, what will remain is an extraordinary discography, one that rightfully places him among the greats of twentieth-century Italian music.

Contributions from "Lucio Battisti – Innocenti evasioni", Amodio – Rocchi – Ronconi, Editori Riuniti (2003)

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