Maurizio Bianchi - The Plain Truth

Turns out good old Wiseman was right: sometimes all it takes is asking. A couple of coordinates: Sonic Belligeranza and Megadue, cohabiting record-shop-cum-exhibition entities packed into a 6-square-metre storefront on Via Mascarella, put together a “sonic retrospective” dedicated to the pioneer (of many things we won't bother listing) Maurizio Bianchi, national glory and worldwide cult figure. From July to September, one record a day at aperitivo hour, broadcast under the arcades of a nerve centre of Bologna's nightlife, to the curiosity of passers-by and the bewilderment of the neighbourhood. “What if, at the end of the retrospective, we invited him for a talk?” Invite him — a man who has never played a single concert in 45 years of career, who has granted very few interviews and never in public, who is quite happy minding his own business, pursuing a research path as tenacious as it is elusive? No harm in trying: after all, we've been in epistolary contact with the ever-cordial Maurizio for years, relations are excellent, and in our little temple we house a record-breaking assortment of his boundless discography. Just a matter of working out the details, and the deed is done. Ask and it shall be given unto you, preached the apostle. It fell to yours truly to moderate an encounter with almost messianic overtones, in front of an incredulous crowd that had flocked in from half of Europe.

It's the foundation. I've always experienced music through physical formats: first radio, then television, then cassettes and vinyl. It's a principle that's stayed in my DNA, and I'm still faithful to it. People have often suggested digital-only releases to me, but those are very rare cases compared to my vast discography. In any case, I'm working on reissuing even those in physical format, with the help of a Japanese collaborator who's expressed interest.

The prolificacy that sets you apart is a distinctive trait of much industrial music, whether to mimic the churning of gears or to jam another industry altogether — the record industry — by flooding the market and mocking the commodifying emphasis placed on single releases. What drives you to be so compulsive?

Let me start with a premise: it's true that I drew inspiration from artists on the English scene like Throbbing Gristle, Whitehouse and Nocturnal Emissions, but they only served as initial inputs. My music can't be strictly defined as industrial, because it's very eclectic and spans various genres — just take the records from 1980 to '84 and you can already notice a certain degree of evolution. That said, it really is a way of going against the current of the record industry, where the artist signs a contract, puts out their first release eight or nine months later, and so on. To me, that whole process is pointless: when a musician feels the need to let people hear a creation of theirs, they should just release it, full stop. In some periods I've felt more prolific, in others less so, and that depended precisely on following my creative flow, without sticking to schemes and clichés.

Still on the subject of your enormous discography, one thing I've always respected is how these pauses have been announced officially, almost solemnly. On one hand I see it as taking your artistic mission seriously, on the other as a deep affection for your admirers.

Yes, there were moments when I told myself, "Now I'll stop here and dedicate myself to reissues or something else," perhaps because I saw those announcements as the end of a particular operational cycle. The end of a period, but not of my activity, which would carry on evolving. They were milestones along my artistic path that compelled me to make those announcements, but in reality I never stopped making music — even during those 13 long years of absence, it was clear to me that there was a latent seed that would sooner or later develop, which indeed happened in '97.

One of the reasons you've been able to sustain such an intense creative pace is the reclusive dimension you've always favored, aside from the occasional collaborations you've allowed yourself. Solitary creation is, after all, a defining process in avant-garde and art music composition: how important is it to you?

It's very important: an intimate approach lets you draw the essence of what you're looking for out of yourself. It's true you can attempt a fusion with another artist to create a symbiosis, which might even work well, but beyond that your identity remains unchanged. Translating this inner isolationism into music shows a certain independence, and at the same time lets the listener grasp your hidden side, one that goes beyond notes and modulations. You become one with the listener, and that's one of the reasons I've never played live: the real live show is the listener's, in their own room with their own self, making that experience theirs and merging with the artist who is expressing his emotions. "Live" means "to live," and every time you listen to one of my works, you're living that moment with me.

Another cornerstone of your poetics is noise. Without getting lost in idle debates about what noise actually is (let's just go with Cage's notion of "musical intention"), I'd like to shift the focus to a claim that's been made from several quarters: that noise-making has run its course and is no longer capable of sustaining any subversive discourse. Yet all it takes is playing it quietly under an archway to provoke all sorts of reactions from unsuspecting passers-by… One way to restore meaning to noise might be exactly that: dropping it into reality. Do you think there's still room for a destabilizing use of noise?

Yes, of course. We live immersed in noise, right from the moment we're conceived. As for me, I really started perceiving noise when I moved to live in Milan: it was shocking for me to go from a rural environment, where the loudest thing around was a tractor, to an urban context. At first my idea was to fight against noise, but then I started reproducing the sonic environment around me in order to combat it, in a sort of homeopathic process. Whether or not I've succeeded, I'll let others decide — what's certain is that my search continues, because I'm never satisfied with the results. Noise is still helping me today, even though I now produce it in different forms compared to my early days; it has evolved too.

You mentioned Milan: what was it like back then, and how have you seen it change?

I'll reveal something I've never told anyone: my creative path actually didn't begin in Milan, but on Lake Garda. In the summer of '79 I'd gone for a short solitary holiday to Desenzano, where I'd taken an underground room with no running water in a strange guesthouse. Shut in my little room on that August evening, I had this thought: "I'm aware of my own existence, but do others know that I exist?" When I got back to Milan I decided to shake up my life, and I did it with my turntable, my records and my tape recorder. But it all started from that holiday: sometimes things are born in the most unexpected way…

Well, that's a 24-karat anecdote. Back then, were you aware of being a pioneer?

No, absolutely not. I thought of it as something for personal use, to share at most with a few admirers. I didn't see myself as an innovator, and I never would have imagined I could have such an influence on the hearts and minds of so many people. Tonight, in front of me, there's a wonderful representation of that: thank you for being here, it shows affection and dedication toward my artistic and personal journey — it shows that the little seed planted 45 years ago has now made its saplings bloom… I'm grateful to you from the bottom of my heart.

A word that recurs throughout your discography is "technology". "Machines", with their endless potential, play an important role in music like yours: what has your relationship with technology been, and what is it now?

I got hooked on technology when I bought my first gear, after initially working with compositions on turntables and cassettes. It really helped me above all with overdubs, being a solo artist…

This layered, “dense” character is really one of the cornerstones of your style…

Well put: I didn't want to leave room for silence, filling every last trace with sound. The “density” you're talking about has stayed with me even in my more rarefied, spread-out works.

What did it feel like seeing one of your works in that chart?… (the infamous “100 Best Italian Albums According to Rolling Stone”, ed.).

Ninety-ninth place… ahead of Venditti! Just think, Venditti himself was a regular customer of mine back when I worked at a hotel, though he had no idea I composed music… Honestly, I still don't know what to say, I thought it was a joke…

Do you agree with the choice, or would you have gone with a different title?

To me, one or the other makes no difference: I consider all my works on the same level, even the less famous ones. They're all the fruit of my inner life and spirituality. It could have had any title at all, as far as I'm concerned even “Triumph Of The Will”…

Now that, I wasn't expecting.

That should put certain controversies to rest… (the issue being referred to here is well known to insiders; we refer anyone unfamiliar with it to look further into it elsewhere, ed.).

Speaking of magazines, did writing about other people's music for a while help you better understand what you wanted to do yourself?

True, that was a creative spark too. Writing about others put me in their shoes, and I developed the wish that one day someone would write about me… I once played a prank on Il Mucchio Selvaggio: I sent in a review of one of my own records just to see if they'd publish it… which of course they didn't!

Yes, as if it were a gallery full of paintings on display, each with its own story and existing in a single copy.

And you certainly don't do it for commercial reasons, churning out little relics to sell…

No, absolutely not. I would have chosen a different career if I'd wanted to do something commercial… Besides, if you think about it, craftsmanship is also a form of amateurism. The only drive that has ever moved me is the desire to share something with others, leaving behind a trace that uplifts whoever experiences it.

I'll say more: many of your colleagues love hiding away in obscurity, carefully avoiding the spotlight. The difference, it seems to me, is that for you this is an unavoidable state of affairs, whereas for others it's a strategy aimed at selling their own persona...

It's true, many do it just to build a circle of followers for their own benefit: the more obscure, occult and shadowy they are, the more expectation they create in those who want to uncover their secrets. In my case it's exactly the opposite: I don't isolate myself to create a cult and boost sales, it simply reflects my intimate, "lunar" nature... If someone wants to read into it a desire to create a mythical aura, they're free to think so, nor do I want to criticize artists who choose that path, but that has never been my purpose. Behind every sect lies a profit motive...

In fact you never lingered in a morbid imagery that has since shown its limits, which many still insist on reviving while you moved away from it entirely. And even when you drew on it, you certainly didn't do so with any self-satisfaction.

Yes, in fact I preferred to abandon the scene and come back renewed rather than slide further down that rather dangerous slope, especially around 1983/'84. Had faith not intervened, perhaps I wouldn't be here talking to you. Amplifying certain traits you carry within yourself can drag you into the abyss, and it takes a radical intervention to save yourself before it's too late.

(Photo by Walter Rovere)

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