Carmen Consoli - Less Confused and Happier

Reached by phone in Verona during rehearsals for the tribute concert to Franco Battiato, "Invito al viaggio," a torrential Carmen Consoli opens up on every topic. Ranging from her new album, "I Wanted to Be a Rockstar", to her blues roots and the folk music of her fellow Sicilian Rosa Balistreri, from the desire to stop time to Orwell, from the moved memory of Franco Battiato to the excitement of her New York concerts and her upcoming tour. Not to mention reflections on the meaning of rock, on her father Giuseppe, a passionate bluesman who passed away in 2009, on the drift toward unchecked insults on social media, and on her experience as a single mother. All delivered with a formidable verve (including a knack for impressions) and an irrepressible desire to get back to music after the pandemic's long freeze.

Hi Carmen, first of all a curiosity: do you know OndaRock?

Yes, of course, absolutely!

Let's talk right away about your new album, "I Wanted to Be a Rockstar", which comes out six years after "The Habit of Coming Back". It seems the habit has become a bit less frequent: did you intend to take such a long break, or did the events of the past year and a half have something to do with it?

Yes, the album had been sitting in the freezer. In fact it was already finished two years ago. Most of the songs were written before the pandemic. During the pandemic I only wrote three tracks: "Imparare dagli alberi a camminare", "I Wanted to Be a Rockstar" and "Armonie numeriche". Everything else had already been done, even though we hadn't gone into the studio yet - we'd only recorded some pre-production demos (bass, drums, guitar) and taped everything live, just to have a record of these songs. Then what we all know happened, and we said to each other: "Guys, let's meet again once this flu passes". But "this flu" ended up lasting a year and a half...

And in the meantime did you change anything?

Yes, for instance, the title. The album wasn't supposed to be called "I Wanted to Be a Rockstar" but "Armonie numeriche". The idea of the rockstar came later, as a starting point for a broader reflection on my life. What stayed, though, was the idea of using the songs as they'd been played live: drums, bass and guitar, and the vocals were recorded live, then we added strings, keyboards and a few more guitars. We had everything done within a week.

We've lost the taste for the time it takes to process a joy or a sorrow, a thought. It's the very concept of filos sofia, the love of reasoning. The time it takes - not wastes - to reach a conclusion. But today time is money, and you have to get to results right away.

Speaking of time, in the single "Una domenica al mare", besides the nostalgia (the memory of your father), one senses your desire to slow down: "Se solo ci fermassimo a respirare col cuore". Has that really become impossible?

I think we're losing touch with our true nature. We're human beings, made to experience emotions over a certain span of time. To give birth, for example, takes nine months - we can't cut it down to three. Today there's a growing tendency to speed everything up, to lose the taste for the time it takes to process a joy or a sorrow, a thought. It's the very concept of filos sofia, the love of reasoning. The time it takes - not wastes - to reach a conclusion, through dialogue, unraveling words, thoughts, reasoning, is fundamental. But today time is money, and you have to spend as little of it as possible to get to results. So they tell us to write songs in two minutes, and they tell you to write in bursts and cut out any old-fashioned words. Everything becomes the summary of a summary, everyone stops at the slogan or the headline: by now even reading the article is seen as a waste of time. Time isn't necessarily a deprivation: it's a gift we give ourselves to fix things in place, to find the best path for ourselves. Instead, no, everything turns into this permanent historical revisionism.

Revisionism: now we're entering a minefield...

But of course, because now, between super-fast news and information raining down from every direction and already becoming stale the very next day, it's a constant reset. Every twenty years we get an update, like computers, and we no longer remember anything from twenty years before. We're revising History. We're forgetting to give back a bit of dignity to memory. For me, History is the foundation of the very identity of the future. Today I dream, I desire, I create a project, I see the future, but on the basis of History, and History cannot be confused for me.

A very Orwellian scenario: the removal of memory to fit the present, as happened in “1984”…

Exactly, just like in “1984” it becomes a crime to use an anachronistic word, to love, to let the heart flow freely. Winston and Julia live out this love story and cannot meet because loving is a crime. Love, dreams, desire are all far more tangible things than they seem: it would be wonderful if we could invest in love, in people's happiness. Instead, what do we call “standard of living”? A bank balance? Social status? In the end, we can do little without happiness.

Is there always a desire to slow down when you talk about “Imparare dagli alberi a camminare”?

Funny, isn't it! I discovered that trees walk and I wanted to build a song around it. There are even olive trees in Puglia that shift by a certain amount every year, so over the centuries they've moved. Over a very long time and, above all, without trampling on anyone.

We're now living by the logic of absolute freedom to insult. I'm the predator and I can verbally violate you, make you shut up: that's today's pattern. And everyone knows everything, everyone's a walking Wikipedia!

Another undertaking, in an age of unrestrained insults…

I've been asking myself a lot of questions about this for a while now. You might say: Aretha Franklin already said it – or Otis Redding, to get it right – but we have to say it again, because today there's a renewed need for it. We're now living by the logic of absolute freedom to insult. I'm the predator and I can verbally violate you, make you shut up: that's today's pattern, even on television. Every so often I have to take some chamomile tea when I watch certain political debates on TV, I get heart palpitations, I feel sick! (laughs)

Of course, TV has been a bad teacher, though Nanni Moretti had already foreseen it all in “Sogni d'oro”, I don't know if you remember the debate scene…

Yes, exactly! Vulgarity and rudeness triumph. Once, as kids, they used to tell us (in a Sicilian accent, ed. note): “Be quiet, if you don't know things, don't talk.” Today everyone knows everything, everyone's a walking Wikipedia! For instance, even in our day… but I don't know, maybe you're younger than me…

Ha, I wish! I'm a bit older than that…

Really?! You wouldn't say so from your voice (we laugh). So, in our day, do you remember how we used to do research, with photos cut out and glued into notebooks? It was wonderful. And even back then there were know-it-alls. “È arrivau u triccani,” my father Giuseppe used to always say. He called them “i treccani,” like the encyclopedia. Today, though, everyone's a Wikipedia: you no longer need a degree in Medicine, there's the internet. And anyway, synthesis is one thing, trivialization is another. Our old Bignami crib notes were actually useful, after all: they contained the essential facts you could later look into in more depth. Trivialization is far more dangerous: it means cheapening facts, not being able to read the connections between things.

Speaking of your father, who passed away in 2009, his presence is felt very strongly on the album. Besides a line from “Una domenica al mare”, there's also a track, “Armonie numeriche”, entirely dedicated to him.

A few days ago he came to visit me in my sleep. I could smell his aftershave. I like to think he came back to wish me a happy birthday.

Rock? To me it's not about a wall of guitar, even Avril Lavigne can do that… Rock is Joan Baez at Woodstock, Bob Dylan with his guitar. In Italy, the most rock of them all was De André: what's more rock than the story of the dwarf with the hole in his ass too close to his heart?

Childhood always comes back around, after all. Is that why you chose that cover?

Yes indeed, complete with a bow and pinafore, and a pen all chewed up from the anxiety of being forced to write with my right hand, when I was actually left-handed. I dreamed of being a rockstar, and my pocket torch was my microphone, while the kitchen table was the perfect stage. I wanted to make music and shake my head up and down, cradling a real guitar.

Actually, I've never entirely abandoned that approach. For instance, right now I'm letting off steam in that very direction, touring with Marina Rei — an incredible drummer and a great friend of mine — with a show for guitar, drums and voices in which we're pretty aggressive, let's say. We both play the same instrument our fathers played (drums in her case, guitar in mine). We're having a great time. I play an acoustic guitar, tuned a semitone down, but plugged into two amplifiers in parallel with an electric guitar pedalboard; the acoustic has a standard direct line and another connected to the two amps (a Fender Twin and an Orange) — just try to imagine what comes out of that... a terrible racket! In short, my rock streak is still very much alive, though for me it's not just a matter of sound, there's something else too.

Like what?

When I think of Woodstock, I think of how rock Joan Baez was, and yet she took the stage with nothing but a guitar and her voice. Above all, I think about the content of rock: about Bob Dylan, not the wall of guitars. Nowadays even Avril Lavigne has a wall of guitars, but what Bob Dylan was saying is rock even with just one guitar. For example, to me our most rock artist has been Fabrizio De André, no doubt about it. Someone who writes "dwarves are wicked because their arsehole is too close to their heart" is truly super-rock (laughs). He really came across as a groundbreaking artist, in his lyrics, in the very concept of the song. Just as Franco Battiato was.

Franco used to have everyone over to his place, for lunch, for dinner... His house was the true permanent centre of gravity. But he'd also come to mine: he was mad about the vegetable stew my mum used to make. He always used to tell me: 'Carmen, you have to disappoint the audience sometimes — for instance, I made these Messe Sacre that bore even me...'. He was a witty, generous person, as pure as a child. When the news came, everyone in Catania cried, from the barman to the baker...

Right, and speaking of that, of course I wanted to ask you for a memory of him: you knew him well and you even took part in the tribute at the Arena di Verona, singing his "Tutto l'universo obbedisce all'amore". What was your relationship with Franco like, what do you think he taught you, and what do you think made him unique in the history of Italian music?

He was, among other things, a man of exemplary generosity, you know? He really helped everyone...

Even though he was a loner, at times even a bit of a misanthrope, by his own admission...

Yes, it's true that he didn't go in for socialising, he loathed certain circles. But he wasn't really someone who stayed alone that much, in the end — he wasn't a hermit, he'd have everyone over to his place. In practice, he'd pick out an environment he liked and recreate it at home. Franco's house was always full of people: always people over for lunch, always people over for dinner, always people invited for months on end: singers, actors, dancers... you name it. Franco's house truly was the permanent centre of gravity.

Also regarding his relationship with Lucio Dalla, it's said that whenever Lucio asked him to go out with his friends, he'd always reply: "No Lucio, you come to my place".

Yes, yes, that's exactly what he'd do. But he did come to my place...

I lived next door to Franco. And besides, my mother Maria Rosa makes a very good vegetarian stew, and he was crazy about it. So he'd come over to mine for lunch every now and then, and mum would cook for him. He'd tell us all sorts of things, even the strangest ones. For instance, he told us that through sheer willpower he was managing to grow black hair back on part of his head. He'd say to mum, "Maria Rosa, I can only tell you this, because people think I'm mad, but I'm managing to do it through meditation". He always maintained that with willpower you can achieve almost anything, and that it's worth desiring and wanting things strongly, in any case.

And what advice did he give you?

He always told me: “Carmen, when the audience expects something from you, you have to disappoint them.” And then: “For instance, I made these Messe Sacre, even though I get bored listening to them myself!” (doing a funny impression of Battiato in Sicilian dialect): “I put this record on, I listen to it, and after a while I say: matriii, how boring!” But he was convinced of this: you have to disappoint the audience. I had the good fortune to meet Franco – and also Manlio Sgalambro, who was actually a friend of my father’s – at a very young age; at just 19 I recorded a Battiato song called “L’animale.” He embraced all artists and took a particular liking to me. For example, we sang “Tutto l’universo obbedisce all’amore” together in the studio. He would tell me: “You have to sing in a lower key, never shout, you have to sing comfortably.” He couldn’t stand singers who shouted, like cars with their gears pushed to the limit. But did you ever meet him?

No, unfortunately, I only did a couple of interviews with him, though I did form a certain idea of the man.

A truly special person. With a great sense of humor, subtle, irresistible. And with the purity of a child. He always helped everyone, and all of us from Catania loved him: when the news came, it was nonstop tears, from the barista to the baker, none of us could stop crying. It’s incredible what a person can generate around themselves.

Rosa Balistreri was another special person. The story goes that she didn’t wear her first pair of shoes until she was nine. And yet she managed to make her way with the enormous gift of her voice, with her great desire to surround herself with artists, with culture. She sang about pain, she was blues, like Janis Joplin. Rosa was our Bessie Smith.

Speaking of fellow Sicilians, as a big fan of Rosa Balistreri, I really appreciated your interpretations of her songs, for instance “Cu ti lu dissi.” In your opinion, what did she give to your homeland, and what do you feel you learned from her in some way?

You see, this is another example of a special person. She was from Licata, and the story goes that she didn’t wear her first pair of shoes until she was nine. A woman born and raised in terrible poverty. And yet, with this enormous gift of her voice, with this ability to always better herself and to seek out culture, with this almost Socratic attitude that led her to surround herself with painters, writers, artists, she managed to make a name for herself. I grew up with American music, I loved blues…

Right, you still haven’t told me who your idols were…

Elvis Presley was the first. As a kid I had the cassette of his “Flaming Star,” which I wore out. I adored that guy. When I found out he had died, I was devastated. My father only told me in 1982…, miii, it was pure despair, I swear, I had genuinely fallen in love with him. Then Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Jefferson Airplane, so American blues and rock, but also English: Eric Clapton, Led Zeppelin. It was also the taste my father passed on to me – he was a blues guitarist: he was always playing B.B. King, he did a perfect “The Thrill Is Gone,” note for note, he had studied everything, even the pronunciation. Then I got into folk music. I was thirteen and did my first theater show, a production of Ercole Patti’s “Un bellissimo novembre”: I sang Rosa Balistreri dressed as a cantastorie, in traditional Sicilian folk costume. And I discovered there was no difference at all between Rosa and Janis Joplin, except in the language used: Janis’s language drew on scales that developed in America between Irish folk and the blend with blues – call them pentatonic, blues, folk, country; while we had harmonic minors, melodic minors, other kinds of scales. But the delivery, the pain, the blues attitude, the despair these women sang, trying to exorcise this misery of the soul through song, were identical. Rosa was a bit like our Bessie Smith.

The concerts in New York? A dream. What I liked most was that the song that always got the biggest reaction was “A’ Finestra,” the one in dialect. I guess to them it sounded exotic, it had a bit of a “world music” effect!

From your first show, let’s move on to the ones coming up now: what will the tour for “I Wanted to Be a Rockstar” be like?

I still don’t know! I’d love to finally bring along a string quartet I’ve already picked out, then a horn (so trombone/trumpet), my guitarist, a bass, my guitar, a percussionist to add a bit of color and variety, then some vintage-style keyboards, like Rhodes, Hammond, in contrast with little toys like the Roland. It’s a shame it’s not feasible though: too many people on stage, I’ll have to scale back my expectations, at least if we don’t get 100% capacity. But I keep dreaming…

Speaking of dreams: what was it like performing in New York? I read about sold-out shows and a warm reception even from American critics. The New York Times described you as a “magnificent combination of rocker and intellectual, with a voice full of pain, compassion and strength.”

You know what I liked best about the tour abroad, in the end? The fact that the song that always got the biggest reaction was “A’ Finestra,” the one in dialect (which she explains in this hilarious video, ed.). I guess to them it sounded exotic, it had a bit of a “world music” effect (laughs). Either way, I can honestly say I’m happy – I’ve had the privilege of traveling the world through music, what more could I ask for? I really did make my childhood dream come true. Let’s hope we can keep doing it, this virus has been a real headache for music too.

IVF is no walk in the park. I would have preferred “macari cu lu piacì ri,” as we say in Sicily, “even with pleasure…” in that sense I said that the traditional family remains a fine model. But everything changes, families included, and we can’t stay anchored to medieval values: there has to be room for everyone.

The media have talked a lot about your experience of motherhood. You've spoken about undergoing assisted fertility treatment in London to have your son Carlo Giuseppe, after going through a long process that in Italy, unfortunately, is off-limits to single women. But then you also spoke up in favor of the traditional family. What do you have to say about that?

What I said is that the traditional family remains a fine model, but not the only one. Since I became a single mum, I could use that to grind my own axe and say the traditional family is a failure, but I don't think that at all: we all have a right to exist, even if for my son the normal family is his own. Carlo goes to a highly specialized school, and his report cards tell us he's a balanced, happy child. But honestly, I'd have gladly spared myself all that effort — assisted fertility treatment is no walk in the park. I'd have preferred "macari cu lu piaciri", as we say in Sicily, with pleasure too. Instead it's a really demanding path, maybe more demanding than the traditional one. But everything changes, families included, and we can't stay anchored to medieval values.

Unfortunately we're told we have to wrap it up here...

Thank you for this lovely chat, I could have gone on talking to you for a long time, I hope we can do it again soon.

Thank you, and best wishes from all of us at OndaRock too!

Greetings to the whole OndaRock team!

(Extended version of an interview published in the newspaper Leggo – October 3, 2021)

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