Aldo Tagliapietra - In the Footsteps of Melodic Prog

Picture an evening with Aldo Tagliapietra. From hidden truths to his own truths. Sometimes all it takes is an opening greeting, almost bashful, to warm up the atmosphere, to feel close even though you don't know each other, even though you're miles apart, connected only by a phone line. That warm, deep tone of voice, certainly a far cry from the striking falsetto that made Le Orme so distinctive. A few exchanges to pretend you're getting along, a few more moments to realize that yes, you could actually go to dinner together, maybe in front of a fireplace, telling each other stories, comparing notes. Aldo Tagliapietra, one of the men behind the gear change of pop made in Italy (the "Collage" unexpectedly completed back in 1971), is the embodiment of the star player blessed with humility, to put it in Arrigo Sacchi's terms, someone capable of carrying the team, of suffering within the group but equally skilled at delivering the classic final blow. The latest one is decisive, redolent of triumph, though always lived on tiptoe: an album, "L'Angelo Rinchiuso", an unhoped-for closing of the circle and a possible springboard for yet another surge; a biographical book, spanning triumphs and painful moments, once again lived with the lightness of spirit of a world record holder.

It's been a busy autumn, between the biography ("Le Mie Verità Nascoste" – Arcana) and the new album. "L'angelo rinchiuso" has the scent of prog, but it's fresh, powerful.

The classic doughnut that came out with the hole. I consider it one of my most representative records. It came out 40 years after "Felona e Sorona", a work I'm still very attached to, into which I poured a lot of myself, and which I think showed me the right path to follow. L'Angelo is an alter ego, a vision, in which I discover myself. An album that came out in one go, inspired, both musically and lyrically. Over the course of my artistic life I've composed five solo albums, though almost all of them were made while I was still part of Le Orme, driven by the constant urge to do something different each time. That's why I went back to my blues roots, as happened in 1984 with "Nella Notte", where I experimented a great deal, including vocally, lowering the keys, and also with "Il Viaggio", born and shaped under the influence of the sitar; all albums made in contrast to the reality of Le Orme. Today I'm no longer part of the group, so I can let loose, picking back up those formulas that made Le Orme famous and kicked off the Italian prog movement.

Yet the past doesn't seem to be revisited in a nostalgic light here, but lived as something current, with an introspective element brought to the forefront.

I think that's true. The trouble with working in a group is that it's hard for each individual member to be known on a personal level, there's more of a collective image. That's why I agreed to write a biography, to let people understand who I really am.

Shall we spare a thought for the members of your band?

I was lucky to meet these young musicians, gifted with such musical skill, even on a classical level; musicians who, if you ask them for passages from, say, Yes, will play them for you without any trouble at all. With them there's no even need to talk, a glance is enough to understand each other.

The new album has the scent of a fresh, impactful prog, with few frills, evocative yet direct.

I call it melodic prog. I'm a die-hard melodist, melody comes before everything else. It's present everywhere, throughout the whole structure. The album was recorded live, with everyone playing together, the way it was done in the Seventies. I've always loved the live dimension, it has that kind of power that hits you right in the gut.

Let's start opening the album of memories: before becoming a prog icon, Le Orme were one of the first Italian examples of psychedelic pop. That was the period with Nino Smeraldi. The album was "Ad Gloriam".

By the end of the Sixties, bands were coming out of beat music, think of Pink Floyd with Syd Barrett. Our own Syd was Smeraldi. We all moved into psychedelia together. The arrival of Hendrix changed everything. Then Cream exploded onto the scene, with Clapton, who came from the blues. And Le Orme too felt the need to embrace psychedelia, with the difference that abroad people were doing a lot of drugs, while in Italy everything stayed at a parish-hall level. Our biggest drug was a glass of wine. The early Orme saw it all almost as a faith, we were like automatons walking the path of music, nothing else existed. So much so that in the Seventies, when everything was politicized, we kept ourselves out of it, we were real zealots of music. "Ad Gloriam"? I still listen to it today, whenever I have friends over for dinner I always play it, "Milano 1968" or "Mita Mita" are songs I still find really beautiful.

In 1970 came the turning point: England became the centre of everything, even for you. What did that trip to the Isle of Wight Festival mean to you?

It was a romantic journey, and a rather adventurous one. Smeraldi left the band, and we found ourselves down to three members, due to circumstances beyond our control (for instance, our first drummer was snatched away by military service, a real curse in those days). We noticed that quite a few bands were working as trios, with Hammond, bass and drums: I'm thinking of Quatermass, Atomic Rooster, the Nice (even though at first they also had a guitarist). We said to ourselves: if these guys can pull it off as a trio, why can't we? So we decided to go into the wolf's den to see how things were shaping up. When we came back, we decided to carry on down that road - what was then called "pop", though the word didn't mean what it means today; back then it was something tied to art, to painting.

Greg Lake was something like your British alter ego. The story goes that a few years ago you actually shared a stage together.

We met ELP in London in 1972. We used to pass through the British capital often, to look around, to breathe it all in, to buy clothes you couldn't find in Italy. We ended up at Emerson's house: he'd just got out of the shower and was extremely kind to us. What grew between us was more than friendship - it was mutual respect. We played him "Collage" and he was stunned, he didn't think anyone in Italy played like that. "Collage" was actually partly inspired by them. A couple of years ago I got up on stage with Lake and Bernardo Lanzetti and we sang "Lucky Man" together. Lake, like me, switched to bass out of necessity; originally he was a guitarist, a writer of ballads. The same thing happened to Paul McCartney: who's going to play bass? Ah, guess it's me, fine! Even today Greg's ballads are spectacular, beautiful, simple and almost hieratic - I see myself in his world. And let's not forget that Emerson didn't like "Lucky Man" at first; he didn't even want to put it on the record, thinking it was too far removed from what the band was doing, too folk. Emerson actually did Lake a favour by adding the Moog part you hear on the record, a touch that worked perfectly the first time round. Keith was more interested in the arrangements, the instrumental passages. And he was absolutely furious when he found out it was the most played song in America. When a song is good, even if it's simple, that's all that matters - to hell with ideology. Take John Wetton, another great balladeer: "Book Of Saturday" has just two chords and it's gorgeous. Music works even without three thousand chord changes - we need moments of calm too.

What do you remember about "Gioco di Bimba"? The song that made you famous had lyrics by Toni Pagliucca that still seem controversial today: is it true there's something murky in the words?

Lyrics back then tended to be a bit dreamlike, and there are various theories about that song's lyrics - some have spoken of the rape of a child. But music is like painting: often it doesn't need an exaggerated meaning, everyone finds their own. What matters is the emotion - if you don't feel it, it means the song isn't working.

Then came "Collage": a rather strange, unsettling cover.

The cover was supposed to have a bucolic feel; the job was given to Mario Convertino. We went with him to a deconsecrated cemetery outside Milan. Mario painted us white, we climbed over the walls, took the photos, and then walked back to the street, still in our makeup, with people looking at us rather frightened. The record label wanted something shocking, in the wake of recent British trends, like Atomic Rooster and Black Sabbath. It was a kind of imposition, one of the few we had to accept. The other was over the live album, which we wanted released at a reduced price; they said yes, but then it came out as a new album at full price.

Reduced price for political reasons. So you too were sympathetic to the youth causes of the time - music should belong to everyone, maybe even be free; then the Molotov cocktails started flying and no one wanted to come and play in Italy any more. How did you see it?

We went through the whole free-music saga ourselves, even more than others, because we managed ourselves, with no agency behind us. We had a sort of manager, Vernazza, who also worked with New Trolls. So we'd rent the venues ourselves and keep all the earnings, which weren't much, since the venues weren't very big and we often had to play twice a day. And quite often, amid all the protests, we'd go home without a penny. And if the audience ended up damaging the venue, who paid for it? We did. So, throughout the Seventies, we earned very little. It was only from the Eighties onward that things became more rewarding financially, thanks to reissues, CDs, remasters.

Setting aside personal pride and affection, how fundamental do you think the story of Italian prog really was to the history of pop-rock? I ask because there are quite a few people who, unlike its many devoted fans, remember those years as mere photocopies of English-speaking bands' work.

It's true, I won't deny it, especially at the start, but then we began doing our own thing. Italy did have its own musical heritage, just think of Banco and their references to opera. The first generation of Italian bands emerged in the early Sixties, during the beat period. Obviously, having no rock culture behind them, they were bound to imitate English and American bands. We were coming from a musical situation that was frankly embarrassing: internationally, all anyone knew was "O Sole Mio" and "Volare", nothing else really existed. It was around 1970-71 that things began to change. Bands started to become aware of their own abilities and produced original material influenced by folk music and, at times, by classical music or even opera. We in Le Orme had a background in classical studies, and that had a big influence on the way we wrote. I had a diploma in music theory and solfège, Tony was preparing for the same exam, though he later gave it up, and Michi studied under La Fenice's percussionist, Eddy De Fanti. Personally, I was also drawn to folk ballads, and I wrote quite a few for Le Orme, being mainly an acoustic guitarist.

It's said that the prog era ended in 1975, and everyone, yourselves included, turned to pop music.

That's partly true: when disco music exploded, and a generational shift took place, everything that had come before was swept away. Almost overnight we found ourselves with no bookings and no audience. By the Eighties we simply didn't exist any more. So, purely as a matter of survival, we ended up taking part in two editions of the Sanremo Festival. But we had no intention of selling out - we just wanted to be seen, and to try to create something new.

In 1975, though, you ended up spending time in Los Angeles.

We knew Armando Gallo, a journalist born in our neck of the woods who later moved to Rome and then became the London correspondent, with a British wife, for Ciao 2001. We owe him a lot. In 1973-74 Armando packed up and moved to Los Angeles. The following year we took on a guitarist, Tolo Marton. We called Armando and invited ourselves over. We were convinced California would give us fresh inspiration. Pagliuca had high hopes for it; being more of a craftsman, I was more doubtful, more cautious, and I'd already written some pieces. We brought those compositions to LA to work on them, but it didn't go well. Thankfully we at least came up with "Amico di Ieri" there: one morning I picked up the guitar and wrote the lyrics, which were about the wind and the sand that rose up every morning around those parts. But I don't think "SmogMagica" came out well; it can boast four good tracks, but another two or three are throwaways. I've always been unhappy with that record.

In 1976, on the other hand, it was London's turn.

We were offered the chance to work with Vangelis at his Nemo studio. We said yes, which meant staying there for at least a month. We met Vangelis, went to his house. I remember him with two greyhounds, perched on an oval chair, with music playing over the intercom system. The studio session was set for nine the next morning: we started recording, but Vangelis never showed up. In the end we never saw him again. So we ended up producing the record ourselves, in a photography studio, with acoustics that weren't suited to it. Vangelis worked with live sound, he wasn't interested in acoustics, he went straight in with his synths. But we needed acoustics, we had drums, guitars. All things considered, also thanks to Germano Serafin's help on six-string guitar, we made a fine record, I'd say a really beautiful one. In Paris, the following year, for "Storia e Leggenda" it went even better. For "Verità Nascoste" an English version was also planned; the idea came from a British executive at the record label. We took the backing tracks and went to 10CC's studio, and re-recorded all the vocals in English. But in the end the record never came out and nobody has a copy of it. I have a sort of cassette, but not the master. It's been lost, just like the one for "Felona e Sorona".

Reading your biography, "Le mie verità nascoste", what comes across is the picture of someone deeply attached to roots and family, with few distractions, and a lot of music.

As I said, we were almost fanatics, and often even family took a back seat. A family in which the artist wasn't present, only the husband and father were. I never brought that side home with me. I never felt like a rockstar, not even on stage, I preferred to stay in the background. I never even liked being recognized. I'm not talking about annoyance but embarrassment. I've always tried above all to be honest, a quality I hope comes through in Angelo. I wanted to make it almost as if it were my last record. Even though I already have seven or eight tracks that I find wonderful, dare I say better than those on the last album. Because if I don't work, I don't know what else to do…

"Storia e leggenda" has some echoes of the then-emerging new wave, with touches that seem to anticipate the more famous Battiato.

We've always wanted to take risks. We're friends with Battiato, even if we don't talk as often these days.

What got into you at the time of "Florian"? A chamber music record

We did what the "Salmoni" did, we swam against the current. We were shocked by the success of disco, so we took three years and studied classical instruments. With the cello I sweated over my right hand, the bow is what draws out the sound. The secret is to start young, but by then I was already 33.

The '80s: "Venerdì" sounds decidedly wave-influenced, were you satisfied with it?

We realized music was heading in an electronic direction. We wanted to follow it while keeping our own stamp, and I think we managed to. We were convinced it was a good record but it didn't do well and I had second thoughts about it. But then I reassessed it: it's full of unusual, successful moments, today I like it even more.

Sanremo 1982: in the middle of the festival, Toni Pagliuca fled; what happened?

He wasn't doing well spiritually, he was restless, he was seeing things that weren't there, he didn't want to go on stage, to cause a scandal. He left. Back then the Festival wasn't performed live but entirely in playback. The Festival's director, Ravera, asked if any of the participants felt up to singing live. We were among the very few who did, along with Claudio Villa and Mia Martini. We went on stage anyway, with Roberto Colombo, a great and inspiring producer, who stood in for Pagliuca. When we got home, we told ourselves that Le Orme was over, after years of personal tensions. Sanremo was just the final act.

Sanremo 1987, a new comeback with "Dimmi Cos'è". The cameras captured a surprisingly emotional Tagliapietra.

We did it because it was the biggest show on TV, with millions of viewers, but run with incredible technical sloppiness. We couldn't hear each other, I came in wrong on my cue. I wasn't nervous, even though we were coming back after five years away and the audience was huge; the only problems were technical.

Italian prog singers: it's often been said there was a shortage

Personally, I wouldn't forget Bernardo Lanzetti. The problem is that many of us didn't start out with the idea of singing. Even today I sense some shortcomings in that respect. Italian musicians are often absorbed by their instrument and don't give much thought to the voice. In America it's the opposite. Banco and Le Orme, with voices that weren't necessarily appreciated right away — let's remember that Smeraldi wanted to replace me with an Austrian singer — wouldn't have been the same without them. PFM, extraordinary on an instrumental level, had no real singer: at one point Mussida tried, at another Premoli. Then Lanzetti arrived, and in my opinion that's when Premiata Forneria Marconi did their best work.

What do you think of the current prog scene? Do you feel part of it? Do you think it still has a reason to exist?

In my opinion there are currently two types of progressive music: one in the '70s style, which can be seen as a kind of classic rock with its own set rules, and a more modern prog, more elaborate and technical, but confined to a very narrow elite of listeners.

(Thanks to Marco Bercella for his help)

(Listen to the episode of Blah Blah Blah – OndaRock On air)

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