Alberto Radius - For Whom the Guitar Plays

FOR WHOM THE GUITAR PLAYS

Five years (already!) have passed since our last encounter with Alberto Radius. This time the occasion is provided by the release of his new album “Banca d'Italy”, which gave us the chance to host him on the radio for another very long chat. At first we thought it would turn into a rehash of that old interview, just in a more radio-friendly form, but it turns out we underestimated the man's ability to churn out new anecdotes, stories and points of view that we couldn't risk letting vanish into thin air. And so, almost unexpectedly, here materializes a new chapter of a story which, judging by the effervescence and vitality of its protagonist, still has many pages left to write. So take a moment, and discover with us some more unread pages of Italian music history, told in the voice of one of its absolute protagonists.

Alberto, tell me something about this new album of yours, “Banca d'Italy”…

It's a record that was also pressed on vinyl, and I couldn't wait to put out an album on vinyl, because the sound is warmer, it sounds better. I had a bunch of unfinished tracks, and I'd started working on this project four or five years ago with Oscar Avogadro, but unfortunately we lost him along the way (Oscar passed away in 2010, ed.), and together we only managed to finish six tracks, while I had about thirty to complete. So I had to choose among these, narrowing it down to eighteen songs, and at that point I had to cut three more at random, which I'll put on the album I'll make... whenever, since I'm quite slow… You could say the album took thirty years to be born, in the sense that I had fragments on cassette tape that I then completed, calling in the very talented lyricist Tullio Pizzorno, and then there's Andrea Secci. We recorded it as a duo, with deliberately programmed drums: I could have called in a drummer, but that risked being limiting, so I wrote the drums entirely on the computer myself together with Johnny Pozzi, the keyboardist who helps me with the arrangements, and who's been my right-hand man for four or five years now and is extremely good. Working this way, many tracks grew out of the demos, which were already practically finished and which I used to rebuild the backing tracks. One of these, for instance, gave birth to “Faccio finta che ci sei”, which is about Oscar Avogadro. That song came about because, back when I still had my studio in Milan, on my way home I always used to pass by his house and glance over at it. That kept happening even afterwards, when he sadly passed away – sadly, because I lost both a lyricist and a great friend – since for a split second I'd still think “now I'll go say hello to him”, only to then realize he was no longer there. “Faccio finta che ci sei” is the story of the road I used to take on my way home: I don't know if it's the best track on the album, but it's definitely the most representative.

Then there's “Come suona il tempo”, which sounds like Avogadro's artistic testament. When I heard it, I thought a track like that would win Sanremo hands down today.

God's wrath may well come down on me, but I don't go to Sanremo, because it would be the end of my artistic credibility. Any track on this album is another thing entirely, it's another world. Chord-wise it's the most commercial song on the record, but the lyrics are a bomb, they give you chills.

As a solo artist you've only put out nine albums in more than forty years, speaking of slowness…

Right, because the most important thing isn't making a lot of them, but making records that stick in people's heads. When I do shows, there are people who come up asking me to sign albums from thirty years ago, so that means I've sown something, which is ultimately what matters most. Just think, only today I rediscovered the first recording I made with Campanino, later Big Ben's, back in the Sixties, a record that's been reissued by Alessandro Ferrario's Giallo Records, in the “Introvabile beat” series…

Your great passion for Hendrix is well known, but when was the first time you picked up a guitar?

I was twelve or thirteen, and my inspiration was Enrico Ciacci, brother of the late Little Tony, who's a year younger than me but was already playing well. He used to come to my grandfather's house and that's where he taught me my first steps, then we lost touch, but I kept going, first in the nightclubs. Real hard graft, playing six or seven hours a night around Europe, even in Germany…

Sure, I once played in Munich and that same evening the Beatles were playing in town, but they weren't yet the hugely successful band we know: the big success back then was Kim Brown's Renegades, who would later become Kim & The Cadillacs, this was '63 or '64. Anyway, yes, I've always had a great passion for the guitar alone.

But wasn't there ever a passion in your life, I don't know, for Elvis Presley's guitarists? Who were the real innovators of the guitar?

Look, I've heard everything, but I've never really followed anything because I've always preferred to stay in my own shell. I can tell you that Jeff Beck is the number one, absolute best, but the guy who invented the electric guitar was Jimi Hendrix. If you listen to Jeff Beck with his trio, you hear music the way it's supposed to be. He's someone who loves the strings — when he uses vibrato with that little hand of his that looks like it's doing nothing and instead it's doing everything, that's a whole different thing. There are a lot of good players out there, but that exaggerated technique makes me wonder whether there's often an arid heart behind it. Keep in mind I don't listen to much music, so I couldn't really tell you: I try to avoid listening to other guitarists, because you unintentionally risk ending up redoing the same things, and you lose what makes you unique.

Yet there was a lot of your rock and blues background in your 1972 solo debut album "Radius", an album where you really let loose…

That record came out of an idea by Lucio Battisti, who suggested we do some jam sessions. The recordings took eight days, since every day there was a different lineup: I'd have a melody in my head, we'd play it a couple of times and then record it right away. I have to say the result was devastating: you see, since it was blues and rock'n'roll, the parts were pretty simple and there was no need to rehearse, so for instance Demetrio Stratos would show up, sit down at the piano and start playing, and everyone would follow along.

If Area got their name, it's precisely thanks to the title of a song that came out of those sessions, "Area" itself…

I'll tell you, that's a bit of a legend, because they'd already thought up the name for the band, which slipped out of the saxophonist's mouth (Gaetano Leandro, ed.) and I just grabbed it on the fly…

Ah, so it actually happened the other way round, and that track is sort of the band's teaser…

Yes, it was a bit of a theft (laughs)

And what about Pappa e Ciccia who appear in the credits of "Prima e dopo la scatola"?

Pappa e Ciccia were Franz Di Cioccio and Giorgio Piazza, the drummer and the old bassist of Pfm, who played with me on that track and with whom I played in Quelli, where I replaced Mussida, who'd gone off to do two years in the Navy. Then luckily I left and he took his spot back, because after that we formed Formula 3 and had huge success. That's a track that, listening back to it, really moved me, because it also had my falsetto and Lucio Battisti's.

Real success came precisely with Formula 3…

Yes, it was an immediate success, because we did the theme tune for an afternoon show on Rai with "Questo folle sentimento", which shot straight to number four on the charts, and after years of going hungry, I bought myself a house right away. And think about it, I was already 28 — back then that was already late, because times were different, not like now when you can't buy a damn thing: today, if you've got a house, great, otherwise you make do. I'm sorry to say it, but the situation really is dire — if you watch the news, it's enough to make you sick.

Yes, but those were real protests, not like the ones now, where everyone shows up with fake flags… but who's even handing those out for them to wave? Back then there was a real desire to change things, to move forward. Musically too, everyone was eager to make records, while now nothing gets done anymore, there aren't even record shops left…

On the subject of eagerness and competition, how was Formula 3 perceived among your peers? Because flipping through the magazines of the time, you could also find some less than flattering opinions. For instance, Demetrio Stratos once said that your band was made up of great musicians who, however, played nothing but pop ditties…

If I can say a swear word, I'll tell you that back then Paolo Giaccio and Carlo Massarini didn't understand a damn thing!

But how come? And for what reason?

Of course, because they hated Battisti, and so by extension they didn't like Formula 3 either. Everything else followed from that…

Good thing I warned Carlo I'd be talking to you, and he told me to send you his warmest regards! But so you really did have an argument…

Well, it's only natural, by now we've been forgotten. Anyway, Paolo Giaccio and I went to dinner with Formula 3 and Battisti, here in Milan on Via Torino at Il Ghiottone, and we were already in the charts at the time. Battisti paid for that dinner (so it's not even true that Lucio was stingy — he just didn't lend money, because that way you risk losing both the friend and the money…), and during the dinner there was a bad atmosphere… basically, Paolo couldn't stand us: back then there was more of a political element among young people, there were factions, like the Beatles and the Rolling Stones…

But isn't it true that Lucio Battisti and Formula 3 being seen as right-wing drew a certain amount of hostility, some of it unjustified?

Of course, in fact when I broke away from Formula 3, people looked at me with suspicion. At the festivals they used to hold at Parco Lambro I was an outsider, but then I'd start playing guitar and I'd become one of the family, because music makes everything else fade into the background…

Still on the subject of Battisti, listening to some of his records from the early '70s, for instance "Il nostro caro angelo", I get the impression I can hear your guitar even when you're not credited…

Look, I had a hand in everything, but I swear I don't remember. Records used to be made very differently back then compared to now: today you immediately hear the vocals and everything else, but back then you'd record the rhythm section first, then the bassist and drummer would go home, the guitarist would come in and do the rhythm part, the solo, a few fills, and only at the end would the singer come in with the vocals.

So when I was playing I had no idea what songs they actually were, and I wasn't the only one: once, talking to Tullio De Piscopo, he told me that every now and then he hears unfamiliar tracks in which he recognizes his own drumming. No wonder he recognized it — he's an inimitable drummer, he was number one. Just think, in my studio in the late '70s we wouldn't even start working unless Tullio and the late bassist Julius Farmer were there, because if I called in other musicians it would take forever to lay down the backing tracks, and even then they never came out quite as good. Let me tell you this story: back when they were making "L'era del cinghiale bianco", Franco Battiato's producer, Angelo Carrara, came to me to record the album in my studio. The problem was he had a very tight budget and we couldn't reach an agreement, so he went elsewhere, but in the end the result wasn't considered satisfactory. So Carrara revised the budget he had available, and we agreed to re-record everything from scratch, starting from the work done at the other studio, which was of poor quality. We kept Franco's vocals and Giusto Pio's violin, and underneath there was the whole backing track, so what happened was that Tullio, with his drumsticks, redid a completely new "click" track, manually straightening out the tempo, which wasn't quite right, allowing us to record on top of it again. It was a stroke of genius and madness at once, to solve a problem that today wouldn't even exist, because now it's all electronic. Except that even though it's all electronic, it all sounds terrible too, because by now a lot of people play with the attitude that it'll all get "fixed in the mix" anyway. But what is there to fix? You've already done it by then!

Let's go back to Lucio Battisti: what kind of person was he?

Lucio was the strongest personality I ever came across. I'd known him since I was twelve, because he used to come to Rome, to Piazza Cavour, to the Bar dei Professionisti, with a little group of students he played with, and I had the blockbuster guitar, so in fact when we ran into each other again years later in Milan, when he and Mogol were setting up Numero Uno, he remembered me partly because of that. He really took me under his wing, he remembered the days when we used to battle it out as kids with our guitars, and back then that wasn't so common: nowadays you get these monstrous kids who are already incredible at age ten, and I don't know how they do it, they have monstrous technique and play with twenty-four fingers and seventy thousand strings. And keep in mind I broke my wrist two years ago and had to have a guitar built with the neck slightly offset, otherwise I can't manage a barre chord, but I can still play, you know…

Yes, I've heard you can still hold your own, for what my opinion is worth… Anyway, there's one thing I'm dying to ask, and even though you've already told me you don't remember, I'll ask it anyway: the guitar on "Un canto brasileiro", which is credited to Lucio, are you sure it isn't actually yours?

When Lucio made records, usually the first guitar part was his, then he'd call me, or Ivan Graziani, and everyone would add something, because he'd say to you: "Listen, can you redo the guitar part on top?" Then he'd pre-mix and do all those things in the recording studio that he was really good at, he was genuinely ahead of his time in that, so much so that he taught me how to mix and record…

And he taught you very well, judging by the records that came out of your studio in the late '70s… Listen, Alberto, let's talk about the project that came after Formula 3, which was Il Volo, with that extraordinary 1974 debut album, which incidentally I saw was recently reissued on vinyl, though I didn't pick it up…

You were wrong not to buy it, because now it's out of print again. Last March I went on tour in Japan with Formula 3, Il Volo and Radius as a solo act, where we performed both my more melodic songs, like "Che cosa sei?", and Il Volo's wildest prog material. Except we were a trio, not a six-piece like the original band, so the keyboardist didn't know where to put his hands anymore… It was a really beautiful experience, because in Japan they absolutely love Italian prog. Actually, pretty much all over the world, I'd say: now there's a tour starting up in South America with PFM and other bands…

Aldo Tagliapietra, who we interviewed a short while ago, told us exactly the same thing…Let's go back to Il Volo…

With that project we simply got the timing wrong, we should have come out a year and a half later, when prog really exploded in Italy. We were the forerunners of prog in Italy. Sure, others were already doing it, but not like this: in fact our second album didn't even have vocals…

Speaking of the Italian prog movement, was there anyone you liked, or bands that maybe got more credit than they deserved?

Prog was bound to appeal to people, because everyone did it their own way. There was Banco, who unfortunately recently lost Francesco Di Giacomo, and even though I wasn't particularly fond of them, they had a formidable stage presence and vocals. Then a few years back, at the Rolling Stone in Milan, there was a celebration of Pfm, the story of the band since their beginnings with Quelli, and so I played there too: we redid "Hush!" by Deep Purple and I played a beautiful solo that I still remember, in front of an audience thirsty for 70s and 80s music. Now there's no music anymore, now there's "Amici", there's all this crap…

There's the "Talent show" that you brought up yourself in "Banca d'Italy"…

No, that's not a mockery, it's the story of a poor guy who won't amount to anything in life. In the end I even felt a bit sorry writing that song, because there are so many of those poor guys, especially the ones who win, who after a year or two are never heard from again… just think of the ones who didn't even win.

I don't think you felt sorry, seeing as there have been plenty of scathing lyrics in your songs, like "Nel Ghetto" for instance. I was twelve when it came out, but I remember it caused quite a stir…

That song could come out today and it would still be a hit, because Oscar Avogadro had a crystal ball. The two of us used to sit around a very old wooden table, which I still have, and that's where we wrote "Nel ghetto". Back then you wrote together, the words were fused with the music at the same moment, the moment when each of us said our piece, and that's how something stronger came out. Then unfortunately you grow up, family and kids come into play, and so it becomes "I'll send you the music and you write the lyrics", which is a huge load of nonsense, because you can't make something beautiful that way. You manage to make something that works, but that keeps some dark sides. In "Banca d'Italy" there's "La cerchia dei dannati", where I explained to the lyricist what I wanted to do and he pulled it off ninety-nine percent. But I was missing that one percent, which I explained to him, and he really did a great job.

This lyricist is Andrea Secci…

Yes, he's a guy from Sardinia I found by chance, introduced to me by l'Olandese Volante. Now I'll put him to work, because I have about twenty tracks to organize. Because now the news that nobody knows yet is that I'm putting together a completely different prog record, the prog of 2014…

Ah, so it'll come out this year? Where are you at with it?

No, not at all, maybe it'll come out when prog isn't fashionable anymore. Before I make something I think about it, and since I sold my old studio and I'm setting one up just for myself here at home, called "Da capo", to say that I'm starting over from scratch with writing and thinking, and when I think I'm dangerous, because either I do something stupid, or it's stuff that'll still be talked about in thirty years… Right now I have a trio with two guys from Genoa, whose names I won't tell you because it'll be a surprise, but I'll reveal their nicknames: one is volemose bene, and the other is freccia d'argento. We have a perfect understanding, just a glance is enough, we have a scary kind of chemistry, I found two fantastic companions for this adventure. Speaking of thirty years, they've never given me permission to reissue all the records I made with the Cgd label…

That's bad, because I've been waiting forever for the reissue of "America Goodbye"…

When they reissued it, years ago, I bought four CD copies from Messaggerie Musicali, I went to pay and the cashier looked at me in amazement and said: "Wait, you're Radius, and you're buying your own records?". And I said: "Well of course, otherwise I can't find them anymore…" (laughs). You see, for me the past is truly past, but that record is a gem, and every now and then I go back and listen to a bit of it… A cover from this record, "Poliziotto", is about to come out, done by Punkreas, who called me in to do the guitar solo on their version.

One distinctive feature of this record was the Synare electronic percussion used by Tullio De Piscopo, the same ones Devo used in America, but which were a novelty for Italy…

The album was already finished, but one day I went to Monzino, who was an instrument importer, and I found these pads that came out before Simmons' ones, so I suggested them to Tullio, asking him to put them somewhere in the mix - but he put them everywhere! With hindsight maybe they sound a bit dated now, but they weren't bad, they made history: if I find a sound before anyone else, I make my own history. It's important for me to give myself the feeling of having done something new, of always daring.

We talked about Oscar Avogadro, but alongside him in your records, and not only yours, his name as a lyricist was often paired with that of Daniele Pace. Tell me a bit about him, I suspect there's his hand behind some of the "screw off" moments in your songs too...

Pace was the father figure for all of us, the link between me and Oscar, but it was Oscar who was the genius, the true translator of what I wanted to express...

Another important figure you worked with was Loredana Bertè. Together with Oscar you wrote hits like "Ninna nanna" and "La goccia". But after the mess that broke out a few years ago, when she was pulled from Sanremo because the song you'd given her had already been released, did you two make peace?

She's a firecracker, just think that even today live she does my "Coccodrilli bianchi" better than I do. Anyway, yes, we made peace: I ran into her three years ago in Lampedusa, at the festival Claudio Baglioni organizes there every year, and as soon as she saw me she told me to get lost, but then we ended up working together on the evening's setlist, she came over to me, gave me a kiss.

But she was right to be angry...

Yes, but I was clean, because I honestly didn't remember I'd already given that song to someone else... I've written seven hundred songs, how the hell am I supposed to remember them all?

Do you like the guitar solo on "La goccia", even though you didn't play it yourself?

What do you mean I didn't play it? Can't you hear it's me?

But the credits on Loredana's album "Made In Italy" list other musicians!

Look, I played it at Mulino in Milan. Walter Martino was on drums, I was on guitar, the production was by Mario Lavezzi, my friend Piero Bravin was the sound engineer, and there were others I can't remember now...

Even though we already talked about it when we met five years ago, tell me something more about Faust'o...

Ah, he's a misunderstood genius, but his madness is boundless. A few years ago I even asked him if he wanted to come back and work with me, and he told me we'd be in touch, but he never got back to me. It's a shame, because he did some beautiful things, his first record "Suicidio" is a work of art, but he did plenty of other things too, even when he worked with others... he's really a mad genius. I even gave him some tracks and asked him to write lyrics for them, and he told me they were too simple... but he always wants the Aida every single time!

Thank you very much, Alberto...

Thank you, but let me pay my respects to Beppe Aleo of Videoradio music publishing, whom until recently I didn't know personally and whose ads I used to see in Guitar Club: he's the one without whom my new record wouldn't have come out. Until now he'd only worked with instrumental music, until one day he came to me, listened to the material and asked if he could release it. I nicknamed him "the talking cricket" - he's always the one talking - but he's a wonderful person. Now he's going to produce my prog record, the one that's still only in my head and that I told you about.

Thanks to Davide Sechi for his collaboration

(03/29/2014)

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