Diaframma - Federico Fiumani - A proud solitude

Diaframma are one of the few acts to have emerged from the Italian new wave movement that's still firmly in the game, and, what's more, in finer form than ever, with Federico Fiumani (the sole surviving founding member) at the heart of a project that has finally found a stable lineup.

A few months after the release of an excellent live album retracing the band's key milestones, and just weeks before the launch of the new “Nothing serious”, we catch up with Federico for a thoroughly enjoyable chat. The Diaframma frontman answers by dusting off important fragments of the past and giving us the first previews of the forthcoming record, currently being mastered, all delivered with a healthy dose of good-natured irony.

Federico, faced with someone of your stature, the first question that springs to mind is: when you get up in the morning and look in the mirror, do you realize that so many people see you as the spokesperson for a generation?

Which generation? If it's mine, of course I'm pleased.

We meet just a few months after the release of a fine live album: how come Diaframma had never put out a full live record before?

Live albums always scared me a bit. But after thirty years on stage it felt like the right time, and lately I've been having a lot of fun with this lineup. The chance to bring in guests who are close friends also worked in its favor.

Right now you're working on the songs that will make up the next Diaframma album. How is the work going and what direction are you taking?

The work is going very well, we're in the final stage, that is, mastering. We recorded at Studio Emme with some great engineers in a positive atmosphere. Although despair is always lurking just around the corner.

The title will be "Nothing serious", and the album will be released in January on Diaframma/Self.

It took me three years to write these songs — I ended up with about twenty, out of which I picked twelve. I feel like this record has something new compared to the others… basically, the songs are better!

That's good to hear, especially because I've always had the feeling that Diaframma tend to be too much themselves, without ever really shaking things up too much…

Well, it took me thirty years to become myself, through constant upheaval. The artist is a bird that always makes the same sound.

How many copies does a new Diaframma album sell on average? For instance, how did "Hard to find" do?

"Hard to find" sold two thousand copies, so it actually bucked the trend compared to the records right before it: it sold around five hundred copies more than the others.

Can an absolute artist like Federico Fiumani actually make a living from his art?

Yes, without getting rich.

A bit of history: tell us about your first musical experiences, your early listening…

My first experiences as a musician date back to high school, around the age of eighteen, with two classmates of mine.

We used to rehearse at my place, then we moved to a rehearsal room nearby called Circolo Bencini.

My early listening was shaped by my older sister's choices — I mostly remember David Bowie and Fabrizio De André. Then, on my own, I went on a real singer-songwriter binge — it was the first half of the Seventies.

In 1977 the punk explosion hit: that's when it clicked, and I felt the urge to start playing.

Tell us about the scene the earliest Diaframma emerged from…

Essentially, we were tied to the story of a venue, the Rokkoteca Brighton in Settignano, near Florence. Nicola Vannini ran the place and was the DJ. The Cicchi brothers and I used to go there to dance, and so we asked Nicola if he wanted to become our singer. He said yes, and that's where it all began.

Let's dispel an urban legend right away: the band's name isn't a reference to the female contraceptive device…

Actually, it is - so much so that it was in the running against Spirale. Just kidding, we liked the imagery.

What goals did you set for yourselves in that first lineup?

To make a 7-inch to leave to posterity. For us that was already a lot, but deep down I knew that if I didn't become famous, my life would be meaningless.

Back then you weren't the singer, and the band's direction was decidedly darker - how did you experience that side of things?

Well, we were miserable and bored to death, except when we were playing.

Florence in the '80s: was it really such a wonderful place, or deep down was it not all that it was cracked up to be there too?

Compared to now, it really was a wonderful place - though maybe at twenty you see things in a somewhat naive way. Still, it really was very lively.

I talk about my relationship with Florence in a track on the new album called "Absurdo Metalvox".

Over time the name Diaframma has lost part of its original meaning; today it's interpreted as a natural extension of, if not outright a synonym for, Federico Fiumani. You do nothing to avoid that: on the cover of the new live album, you appear alone, accompanied only by your inseparable guitar.

Inevitable - I founded the band and I've always written all the songs. I played the game on my own, but I do want to say that with my current musicians, Luca Cantasano on bass and Lorenzo Moretto on drums, I've reached an ideal dimension.

I read that in 1986 you went into therapy: was that a consequence of success?

I couldn't say - I felt bad and needed to find a way out of that situation. It should also be said that in 1986 new wave declined dramatically; that was our natural habitat, and suddenly everyone converted to psychedelia and Metallica. I couldn't believe it.

You came close to appearing at Sanremo in the early '90s, and your fans breathed a sigh of relief knowing you wouldn't take part. Yet bands like Elio e le Storie Tese, Subsonica and Afterhours, or more recently Mauro Ermanno Giovanardi, have walked that stage without losing themselves…

I had record executives behind me at the time - the people at Ricordi - who put a lot of pressure on me to go to Sanremo with a commercial song, following in the footsteps of other Florentine singers they'd launched around that time. I wanted nothing to do with that world, and I don't regret that choice. They made me a ton of promises they never kept. I thought that signing with a major label would open up who knows what doors, and instead for those two years I literally went hungry.

It’s undeniable that in Diaframma’s live shows, the level of catharsis increases exponentially during the performance of past classics. Even younger generations sometimes seem steeped in nostalgia for the past…

I wouldn't say so, not entirely — try paying attention when we play “Labbra blu”, “Vaiano”, “L’Orgia” and “Mi sento un mostro”…

The lyrical themes of Diaframma: degenerate love affairs, world-weariness, disillusionment, desire, missed chances, the coldness of the soul, the hope of redemption, friends who fall in line with the system, time slipping away inexorably — all cornerstones of your poetics. Do you recognize yourself in this description?

Yes, pretty much. On that note, let me give you a preview from one of the new lyrics: “C’è stato un tempo dove i miei migliori amici erano i Ramones/ e ogni loro nuovo disco era una festa/ Cosa mi hai portato oggi, cosa mi hai portato?/ Erano anni verdi di orgogliosa solitudine/ e di fragilità estrema/ Chissà se sarò mai un uomo un giorno, chissà se lo diventerò”.

The distinctive traits of your writing often lie in irreverence (“infilo quattro dita nel culo/le tiro fuori piene di merda”) and a delightful sex-obsession (“vorrei partecipare almeno una volta a un’orgia”). Do you feel you were something of a forerunner on certain themes, at least within the Italian underground scene?

I wouldn't say that — sex was invented long before me.

Musically, though, Diaframma have gradually moved toward a committed, mature singer-songwriter approach, in which the early dark-wave sound dissolves into a thousand new solutions. Is that also the result of the many line-up changes?

Maybe, but a lot of it certainly came from the fact that I started singing. That meant a different approach to the guitar, more rhythmic, more of an accompaniment role. Lately I think I've drifted back a bit toward the old wave style on some new tracks.

Speaking of line-ups: which incarnation of Diaframma are you most romantically attached to?

Definitely the one from “Siberia”.

And which one, in your opinion, was the most effective?

The one from “Siberia”, and the current one.

Record shops are dying, kids today experience music through personalized playlists on their iPods. At the gym I see armies of automatons, each with their own earbuds, communicating less and less. In some ways you get the feeling that nowadays music tends to divide more than unite…

Maybe, I couldn't say. I remain attached to the past. I hate listening to music randomly — I need my stereo, solitude and concentration. Only then, calmly, do I start to dream and enjoy it.

I'm not enough of a sociologist to pass judgment on how young people live or how they experience music. On the whole, though, I find them likeable.

I wanted to ask what you think of Manuel Agnelli. Have some of his projects, like Tora! Tora! or “Il paese è reale”, had a knock-on effect for the national independent scene, or did they only end up benefiting a select few names?

Agnelli did it first for himself and only secondarily for others. He's offered chances, and I wouldn't split hairs too much when considering his work. There's no doubt he gave some people a hand.

What does Federico Fiumani listen to these days? Is he anchored to the loves of the past, or does he like to go hunting for tasty new discoveries?

Fiumani is firmly and proudly anchored to the music of the past. Deluxe editions with bonus tracks and DVDs sit proudly in my "new releases" section. Every time a punk, post-punk or wave reissue comes out, it's a big celebration around here. Finally, I tell myself, a healthy way to spend my money.

Another healthy way is Rocco Siffredi's DVDs for five euros at the stalls in Piazza dei Cinquecento in Rome.

What do you like about the recent crop of Italian independent musicians?

I Cani.

Do you have an artistic regret? Something you wouldn't do again if you could go back?

Maybe in the '90s I tended my own little garden too much on my own, I should have engaged more with others - but then again, who were the others? Where were they?

Name an Italian or international musician you'd do anything to collaborate with…

In Italy I'd say Paolo Conte and Francesco De Gregori.

Abroad, Tom Verlaine.

You started playing back in the late '70s, and more than thirty years on you're still firmly in the saddle - are you starting to feel like a transgenerational artist?

No, I feel like a small craftsman, though I admit your definition flatters me a little.

Ride the wave of great music

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