Franco Micalizzi - The King of Pulp Music

Standing before me, the king of pulp music, a living piece of Italian film music history, comes across as a good-natured, self-deprecating master of common sense and simplicity. The simplicity of the craftsmen who became artists without ever making a fuss about it. And yet Franco Micalizzi would have plenty of reasons to feel on top of the world. From the rediscovery of his music by a new generation of musicians (just ask Calibro 35 and their peers) to his definitive international consecration, sealed by "fan" Quentin Tarantino, who used the theme from "Italy a mano armata" in the soundtrack of "Grindhouse", and, in the now-famous final scene of "Django Unchained", the theme from "Lo chiamavano Trinità" (with Jovanotti following suit shortly after). Chatting with him feels like a plunge into the past, into the formidable 1970s of Umberto Lenzi's true-blooded poliziotteschi, with chases aboard aubergine-colored Giuliettas and shootouts in the piazza, or the spaghetti westerns shot along the Tiburtina or in Ostia, with "two rooms and a kitchen". Yet the impression is that this 73-year-old interlocutor is far less nostalgic and "backward-looking" than many of his younger imitators, as shown by the freshness of his new big-band arrangements, his collaborations with the world of hip-hop, and his openness to contemporary music. Little wonder, then, that a figure like this should eventually give in to the ultimate temptation: writing a book about himself.

Maestro, let's start with your latest projects, both musical and literary...

Yes, I have two projects, both coming out soon. One is an album I made with the Big Bubbling Band: the previous one was called "Veleno", the new one is called "Miele", to try and mark a difference (though fans will understand why it's called "Miele", even if it's a slightly poisoned honey...). The other thing, a bit unusual, is that I've set about writing an autobiography — maybe I've caught a bout of megalomania, or maybe it's simply the desire to put the things of my life in order and ask myself "where am I?", "what have I done?", "who am I?", "where do I come from?", "where am I going?". In any case, the book is called "C'est la vie d'artiste", and there's a reason why this French title was chosen: whoever reads it will find out.

Your name is above all linked to soundtracks for Italian genre films, particularly poliziotteschi and spaghetti westerns. Titles like "La banda del gobbo", "Italy a mano armata", "Napoli violenta" and "Roma a mano armata", as well as the Trinità saga. Hugely successful films, yet long underrated by critics.

Indeed, genre films were the backbone of Italian cinema in the 1970s. Even Sergio Leone's films were genre films at first; later he managed to make cult movies that were far more ambitious productions, but they always grew out of that same vein: he was the director of Hercules and Samson movies before making the great westerns and "Once Upon a Time in America". It was a genre that brought people into cinemas, and thanks to the box-office takings it generated, it then allowed for the production of bigger, more important films.

And yet it took "legitimizer" Tarantino to finally see him given the recognition, including internationally, that he deserved. Perhaps it's no coincidence, given that for years these films and their soundtracks were more appreciated abroad than in Italy.

That's absolutely true, and I've always asked myself why this underrating happened, so typically Italian. Perhaps we lived through years of excessive snobbery. In the book, for instance, I tell an anecdote about "Lo chiamavano Trinità", the film for which I wrote a theme 43 years ago that today is everywhere: Tarantino used it in the finale of "Django Unchained", and even Jovanotti asked to use it to open his stadium tour and for a live DVD. Music that's still breathing and alive today, in other words. Well, when "Lo chiamavano Trinità" first came out on VHS, I went into a shop, all fired up at the thought of finally being able to buy it on videocassette, but I searched for it in vain for ages without finding it. In the end I asked the shop assistant: "Miss, is it possible the film isn't here?" "Don't worry," she replied, "see where it says 'trash movie'? You'll definitely find it there..." Well, let's say that since then we've had our sweet revenge, and perhaps it was Tarantino himself who pulled us out of the trash bin, generous and brilliant as he was in reviving that cinema and giving it new life.

What memories do you have of that period? What was it like working on those sets?

That kind of cinema was truly an Italian specialty all its own: there were the poliziotteschi, the westerns, the spy movies. Making big-production cinema with next to no means: that was really the secret. While in America they were shooting westerns with gorgeous scenery and big Hollywood stars, we built our sets in Ostia, in the western village out on the Tiburtina; the wealthier productions, at most, went to Spain. It took real imagination — you had to make up for what you lacked with clever ideas, with something tasteful enough to draw in the audience. In the poliziottesco, in a certain sense, I even find ties to Neorealism, because it really was cinema shot out on the street, which gave it a certain nobility, at least in the best cases — because, of course, there were plenty of bad films too.

Who, in your opinion, were the best in the genre?

I always mention, for instance, Umberto Lenzi, who is the master of this genre, and with whom I had the good fortune to make 10-12 films. I was struck, in "Napoli violenta", by a sequence where the protagonist is chased by a policeman through a piazza with a big market, which at one point is crossed by a funeral procession, with horses. The criminal has to run through this line of weeping relatives while the policeman chases after him. Now, all of this has a beautiful, poetic, powerful flavor. And the reason is that it's all real: as Lenzi told me, they set up on a terrace with a camera and told the actors that a funeral would be passing by, so the actors really did cross a market in broad daylight during an actual funeral, without anyone knowing that a film was being shot. If that's not cinéma vérité... In short, there's even a cultural justification for this way of making films: after all, we're all children of Neorealism — that's the Italian school, for better or worse.

At the time, the Italian scene was rich with extraordinary soundtrack composers — Ennio Morricone, Nino Rota, Piero Umiliani, Riz Ortolani, Stelvio Cipriani, Piero Piccioni, Goblin, Guido and Maurizio De Angelis... just to name a few. How do you explain such a fruitful creative period for Italy, one that also extended to television, with all the memorable theme songs of TV serials?

Yes, it was an extraordinary period. And genre films were a training ground for everyone: Morricone got his start there too. I think the main reason is one thing: television hadn't yet taken over cinema, so people filled the theaters, they enjoyed sharing the experience of watching a film. They were making three hundred films a year and many of them made a lot of money, whereas today the successful films are very few. All that generated major productions, a desire to invest in the music as well. It was also a magical moment artistically, with a generation of truly great composers.

What do you think of the young Italian bands who have rediscovered that Italian musical tradition today – the themes from poliziotteschi films, in particular – and made it their own? I'm thinking, for example, of Calibro 35.

It can only please me, it's charming and fun that they go rediscovering this historic music, because we're talking about compositions from so many years ago. It's quite something to "hear yourself again" in these bands' records, and it maybe reassures you a little too, making you think that perhaps it wasn't all just thrown together carelessly. I don't know how long this phenomenon will last, but as long as it does, those of us from that generation can't help but be happy about it.

On the subject of "young" initiatives, in 2006 you took part in the "Gli Originali" project, in collaboration with some of the most representative artists of the Italian hip-hop scene, including Deda MD, Colle Der Fomento, The NextOne, Don Kaos, Funky Turi a.k.a. Calabro Nove, Speaker Dee Mo and others. Can you tell us about that experience?

Yes, it was some Milanese rappers who had the idea, and I jumped straight on board. After all, hip-hop had already taken an interest in my music—plenty of American groups had contacted me for permission to sample my crime-film themes. It was really strange that they'd come and pick up this funky music from Italy, when America was already full of that kind of thing. Maybe because it was very much "pulp music," while the American stuff was just "music," full stop! (we laugh)

I think you've really hit the nail on the head: that music was Italian through and through, because it didn't just ape Anglo-Saxon models, like so much homegrown production did. It drew on popular song, on the folk music of southern Italy and the Mediterranean, marrying it all to more complex, orchestral arrangements. Maybe that's exactly why—because it was so Italian—it was also so international?

I relied a lot on funk, on a very taut rhythm, but then I also liked to wink at the tradition of Italian song, the southern Italian one in particular, drawing on rhythms like the tarantella, as in the case of "Napoli violenta." It was a particular fusion between the roots of American music (jazz, blues, funk) and those of Italian tradition, all reworked in our own way.

Today, on the other hand, do you see any Italian composers capable of carrying on that legacy?

I don't listen to many of them... One I adore is Andrea Guerra, the composer, for instance, of the scores for the Montalbano TV series: I think he's one of the very best around right now. I'd happily buy his records, something other composers would never do for a colleague... (we laugh)

Is there really still this rivalry among composers?

Oh yes, absolutely guaranteed!

Here's a curious fact: in 1978-'79 you took part, as musical director, in the first thirteen episodes of the third edition of Corrado's "Domenica in". What's changed in Italian television since then?

An enormous amount. Back then it was the early days of color television, an almost pioneering era. It was still a television that held itself back more, that pursued an idea of quality. With extraordinary programs—I'm thinking of Falqui's "Studio Uno," of Nanni Loy's "Specchio segreto," of the great serials for which I also wrote scores, like "Albert e l'Uomo Nero." Good things still exist today too, but the general tone has dropped, just like in political discourse: it's as if there's been a constant push to sink lower and lower to grab attention, but there's a limit beyond which attention just flies away. And today, with the huge amount of television on offer, I prefer to steer toward things I like more, like concerts on the specialist channels.

Among your hidden gems, there's also the famous tear-jerking theme for the film "L'ultima neve di primavera."

Yes, I made all of Italy cry! There are a couple of funny anecdotes... I remember the producer, trying to win over even the big critics, from Rondi to Biraghi, organized screenings for them too, and when they came out of the theater they were absolutely furious because they felt they'd been set up, almost as if they'd fallen into a trap... they didn't exactly walk out in tears, but with their eyes bulging. The other funny episode happened at one of the first screenings: when the film started heading in a certain direction, I saw someone get up and run out with tears in their eyes... it was my wife! Knowing everything about the film in advance hadn't been enough to spare her—after all, we're only human: who can withstand the agony of watching a child die in his father's arms? But the film held together, it had good cinematography, the little boy (Renato Cestiè, ed.) was exceptional, Bekim Fehmiu was a fine actor, and there was also Agostina Belli, who was just emerging at that time with those wonderful eyes. That music traveled all over the world—in Brazil it became the theme song for a two-thousand-episode soap opera, they sang it in Portuguese, in German in Austria, and in Argentina it topped the charts for two years.

And today so many people are rediscovering this very music thanks to YouTube and other powerful new technologies: is this a vindication for the historical memory of that period, which had somewhat faded away over the years?

Yes, absolutely. Although the original records, rare as they are, can still be found, mainly thanks to collectors, on Amazon and elsewhere. But I've re-recorded many of these tracks myself and made new studio versions, because back then you really worked with "two rooms and a kitchen" – the producer certainly didn't give you this abundance of resources, even though the films themselves did well at the box office. So you were always forced to cut two strings here, two trombones there, a trumpet somewhere else – at least I always tried to pick the best musicians, and I was always lucky enough to work with truly excellent players. Now, though, I've built this abundance of resources myself: I put together a big band that lets me do whatever I want, and the result has a magnificent sound. I also have a great rhythm section, with one son on bass and the other on drums (Alessandro and Cristiano, respectively, ed.). And yet there's something about the original compositions that you simply can't reproduce today, something elusive...

That's the spirit of the '70s!

Yes, it really must be the spirit of the times.

In collaboration with “Leggo“

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