Dedalus

Summer 2018. Devoured by the jaws of the most maximalist progressive rock (King Crimson, Van Der Graaf Generator, Yes), my seventeen-year-old self decides to explore the layers of the British genre, moving from the medieval-tinged catharsis typical of symphonic prog (Genesis, Emerson Lake & Palmer) to the constant sonic exploration dictated by the Canterbury canon (Soft Machine, Henry Cow, Matching Mole, Gong). It's no secret that I still consider the Canterbury scene one of my favorite corners of the European underground: it's curious that back then I gravitated more toward Italian bands and releases (Area, Il Baricentro, Spirale, Picchio dal Pozzo) rather than international ones, not so much out of some instinctive patriotic spirit, but out of a genuine curiosity that has always defined my personal listening habits, at least until late adolescence: never as much as then, at sunset on a sweltering, unbearable July day, was the appearance of those masked figures - already iconic in their own way - so surprising, if not electrifying, highlighting a striking aesthetic imagery defined by long detective coats straight out of a spy movie and branded watches covering their faces. There was something esoteric and enigmatic about it, and therefore seductive to me.

Formed in Pinerolo by Fiorenzo Bonansone (Fender piano, synth, electric cello), the Marco brothers (guitar, sax), Furio Di Castri (bass) and Enrico Grosso (drums), the Piedmontese outfit Dedalus immediately reveal a surreal, oddly undefined charm, almost farcical. Wrongly lumped into the classic prog-rock cauldron - a fate that also disastrously befell Napoli Centrale - during their brief period of live activity they manage to draw attention on two special occasions: first at the second edition of the Festival dell'Avanguardia held at the Mostra d'Oltremare in 1973, an event that sees them as protagonists of the musical counterculture alongside Saint Just, Perigeo, Il Rovescio della Medaglia, but also Antonello Venditti, Patty Pravo and Riccardo Cocciante, and secondly at the Nuove Tendenze in Naples, a pivotal moment that redefines them as a jazz-rock band prone to experimental flights, and one of the most renowned and original on the entire Italian scene.

Their self-titled debut, containing five explosive tracks, was released in 1973 on Angelo Carrara's Trident Records (Angelo Carrara) (Biglietto per l'Inferno, Opus Avantra, Semiramis, The Trip), and over the following decades, thanks to word of mouth, record fairs, revivals and online forum discussions, it has become a genuine milestone among enthusiasts and jazz devotees.

A furtive drum pattern and astral synths greet us in the timeless intro. The nine-minutes-plus of "Santiago" reveal a mastery of groove and a musical chemistry that can only be called refined. Right after an ecstatic outpouring, sustained by immersive keyboards, a noir-tinged bass whispers in our ear and hands things off to a warm sax solo, the true protagonist of the piece's tight ensemble playing. Suddenly... boom! The jazz rhythms dissolve to make way for a disorienting, intelligent passage, somewhere between the concrete noise-making of Karlheinz Stockhausen, the horizons of post-Webernian new music and the sprawling kraut-ambient of Klaus Schulze, albeit in a more minimal, meditative form. Only at the end does a return to a more grounded sound bring us back down to earth. A contemporary equivalent tied to the instrumental intimacy of the piece can be found in the warm fusion of the Los Angeles duo DOMi & JD Beck, though they fall short due to their overtly derivative style.

A series of dreamy synthesizer melodies open the avant-garde jazz of "Leda", in which Di Castri's bass takes over to narrate the essence of a void filled by the band's ingenious passion. Next comes "Conn", the shortest and possibly "easiest" track on the record, with a heavy leaning toward jazz-funk sounds that can vaguely recall some bizarre moments of Miles Davis's "Get Up With It" (Columbia, 1974). The experimental "CT 6" contains some of the most interesting improvisation on the album: nervy, distorted guitar, a stream-of-consciousness flow of keyboards, ever-present tribal percussion and swirling strings give the composition a nocturnal, disenchanted character. At certain points it's almost as if you can hear the vivacity of Zappa's "Gumbo Variations". To borrow a phrase from the good old Sensations' Fix, Dedalus's music is "painted in the air", much like abstraction is for Mark Rothko. And after a series of rhythms utterly freed from any convention, the track opens up into piano solos that merge with a coda once again dominated by a strongly fusion sound.

Seemingly nostalgic - it's maddening that it was never used in a film soundtrack - the bittersweet closer "Brilla" fully captures the fade-outs of a dangerously understated finale, later spurred on by breakneck drums, a remarkable bass line, a jaunty cello, embryonic guitar work and a subtly chaotic atmosphere. As the saying goes, unity is strength, and what truly stands out here is the band's full command in handling a rhythm section of real substance.

We reach the final bars. A marginal calm, preceded by a joyous storm, brings us back to the slow opening movement that dissolves into total disharmony. Suddenly it feels as though we've been catapulted into a Carrollian scenario, in which every sound takes on a dreamlike quality, and we, as dreamers, never want to wake up.

Of inestimable value, "Dedalus" remains to this day one of the most precious chapters in the history of Italian music, no ifs, ands or buts.

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11/05/2026