Biglietto per l'Inferno - The rebels of Italian prog

I can't save you from eternal fire. All you've got is a ticket to hell

Biglietto per l'Inferno were one of the bands closest to the hard-prog scene of Italy's prolific Seventies, leaning less toward the symphonic style typical of British progressive rock and more toward the "hard" side of Canada's Rush.

Formed in Lecco in 1972 from the merger of Mako Sharks (Marco Mainetti, Giuseppe Cossa, Fausto Branchini) and Gee (Claudio Canali, Baffo Banfi, Mauro Gnecchi), they began to draw attention through numerous live shows thanks to a cutting sound, very direct and provocative lyrics, and the unusual presence of two keyboardists (one of them Banfi himself, a pioneer of Italian cosmic music).

They debuted in 1974 with their self-titled first LP, but their career was a flash in the pan: their notoriety came as quickly as their disappearance. They offered sounds that outdid their Italian contemporaries in sheer violence and - while less gifted than giants of Italian prog like Banco or Pfm - they also struck a chord through the complexity of their compositions. Their lyrics - generally more direct and irreverent (so much so that Canali was dubbed "The Voice of the Devil" at the time) - express a certain youthful unease, with feelings of rebellion against the common morality imposed by a society that judges without ever truly understanding the anger of the new generations. These are fundamentally atypical concerns within the progressive scene, whether British or Italian, which tended more toward escapes into fairy-tale worlds, disengagement and detachment from reality (with the noble exceptions of Area and Banco in Italy, and Robert Wyatt and Henry Cow in England).

The sense of an inner rage, of a malaise with neither rational cause nor solution, brings them close to the hippie world of Jerry Rubin's generational manifesto "Quinto: uccidi il padre e la madre" ["Fifth: Kill Your Father and Mother"], with the difference that the rage of the Lecco band is instinctive and irrational, not tied to any counter-cultural movement; a message closer to punk ante litteram than to hippie culture.

The idea of a failure to communicate between generations comes through clearly, with fathers and mothers blind to their children's needs. The obvious consequence is that only youth - not yet corrupted by society's stale rules and its worship of the God of money - can hope to build a new, free society.

From this foundation of ideas ("Those were beautiful and terrible years at the same time," Canali recalls) could only spring elements of depression and despair that would later be labeled dark; in the case of Biglietto per l'Inferno, it's a spleen that takes shape around the figure of the misfit youth, the outsider unheard by adults and cut off from his peers, for whom nothing is left but suicide ("L'amico suicida" from the first LP). These are all elements that make Canali's band undoubtedly more significant from a historical standpoint than the ultra-niche fate to which music history has relegated it.

In 1974 the self-titled Biglietto per l'Inferno was released, an LP whose main strength lies in its immediate impact and the harshness of its sound; the band managed to play some of the era's major festivals, from Villa Pamphili in Rome to Parco Lambro in Milan. They also played as the support act for Kevin Ayers in Lugano in 1975.

In a way, the story of the album is my own story, that of a man in search of God

The album is a kind of psychoanalysis session. The lyrics show every facet of Canali's inner conflict and contradictions; he would end his torments by abandoning his career as a musician to become a monk.

The sound, poised between prog and hard rock, thus mirrors the conflicted ideas of a young man raised Catholic (probably under an authoritarian hand, judging by the lyrics of "Canzone del padre"), who goes through a phase of rebellion and disillusionment without surrendering to artificial or lysergic dreams, instead trying - at any cost - to carve out a new path. The concept comes through with total clarity in the opening track "Ansia," which already contains all of Canali's psychological torment. A typically prog intro accompanies angry lyrics dominated by (Catholic) guilt. The protagonist's "sad and wretched life, spent killing and stealing" finds its only way out in religion, in the sight of a priest ("a friend talked about priests; never seen one! Who are they? What do they do? Charlatans, merchants or prophets, but they take away this anguish of mine"). This naturally leads to "Confessione," an energetic track that carefully balances elements of anger and irony. A simple but striking riff and prog keyboards are once again the band's typical, distinctive traits. Canali continues his introspective journey, alternately voicing the confessor and the confessed. His alter ego confesses to horrible sins, committed nonetheless for a greater good. The lyrics are memorable, especially in the passage where the priest says: "I can't save you from eternal fire, all you've got is a ticket to hell." The instrumental jam that follows - four minutes of speeding up, slowing down and choral vocals - despite being hampered by less-than-ideal recording quality, is probably the band's absolute high point.

“Una strana regina” continues along the same lines as the previous lyrics, but the music shifts register, turning calmer and more reflective. The central theme remains that of youthful inadequacy, in search of an adult “guide” who can point the way toward healthier paths (“so solo ammazzare io, so solo rubare io, altro non so fare io, insegnami tu”). The theme still revolves around the dualisms of guilt-forgiveness, rage-catharsis, good-evil (“caro amico che uccidi e rubi sei come me, e forse, senza sapere, in questa vita l’hai vinta tu, e spera che il nostro Dio dall’aldilà veda e perdoni la nostra empietà”).

“Il nevare” is more conventional, a straightforward hard-rock-riff-driven track, though not without a certain charm. The album returns to its high points with the long (thirteen-minute) and experimental “L’amico suicida”, a moment in which – probably unwittingly – through his fascination with death, darkness and decadence, Canali writes a gothic track ante litteram. This dark, bleak and depressing aspect is certainly a unique case within the Italian prog discography. The track describes the real suicide of a friend of Canali's during his military service, pairing sad, moving lyrics with funereal atmospheres. The suicidal friend is an unlucky young man misunderstood by society. Once again the protagonist is a troubled soul, a misunderstood “outsider”; but not only has society never helped him, now it even condemns him for his act – and in doing so – kills him a second time. The finale is a new instrumental journey full of prog ideas and tempo changes.

The strong reception of the first LP suggested a rosy continuation of the band's career, but everything came to an abrupt halt. In 1975 Eugenio Finardi offered to produce their second album, which was already largely written; unfortunately Trident Records went bankrupt, the project fell through, and Biglietto per l’Inferno dissolved, even though the album had already been recorded in full. This premature breakup nonetheless bore good fruit, paving the way for keyboardist Baffo Banfi's commendable solo career as a keen experimenter in Italian cosmic music (Galaxy My Dear from 1978 and Ma, dolce vita from 1979), while Canali first joined a Hare Krishna group, then – as mentioned – became a Benedictine monk in 1994.

Il tempo della semina was supposed to come out in 1975, but it was shelved, only to be reissued a full seventeen years later, in 1992, by the praiseworthy Mellow Records, a label specializing in the recovery and rediscovery of Italian prog. The album is a typical product of the Seventies, featuring some excellent tracks but having lost much of the drive of the debut. Canali's role here becomes more marginal, the songs are co-written by all the musicians, and this results in a closer alignment with more typical Italian (or British) prog. A fitting example is the excellent title track, ten minutes swinging between tempo changes, bass lines, dual-keyboard virtuosity, flutes and accelerations that fulfill every canon of progressive rock. “Mente sola – mente” attempts experimentation, but amounts to little more than a youthful whim. “Viva lotta pensa” falls in line with the political songwriting of the Seventies, but with clearly defined prog sounds; a short track, among the simplest of their career, which sends out a message alternative to the political culture of the time – that of “non-alignment” with preset ideas, and of “living, fighting and thinking” independently.

“Solo ma vivo” is instead a light ballad between prog and pop, with a grandiose mellotron finale. Closing the album is a track that ties back to the autobiographical dialogues of the first album: “La canzone del padre” courageously recounts Canali's troubled childhood, between struggles at school (“Quei banchi di scuola che per anni ho scaldato, come si vive non me l’hanno insegnato”), memories of a violent father (“Mi picchiava e gridava ubriaco ‘vorrei che tu non fossi mai nato’, questa sua frase ce l’ho ancora dentro”) and a mother unable to instill confidence (“Mi ritrovai solo con la mia rabbia a voler dimostrare che non ero un coniglio”). These are all events that generate a sense of anger and resentment, both in the sound and in the lyrics, which grow ever harsher (“Ti ho odiato padre perché non capivi che la mia vita non è un tuo programma, certo gli incassi son magri ed è colpa mia, avrei dovuto dare retta anche a voi e cantare come un cane ammaestrato”). Not even the son's success can help restore a dialogue between two generations divided by an insurmountable wall (“Oggi invece mi fai tanta pena però almeno tu hai una vita serena, e quando mi vedi godi a far lo spaccone, vedete mio figlio canta in televisione”).

This is how Canali's long musical psychoanalysis session comes to a close, with a reflection that is at the same time the swan song for one of the most original and aggressive outfits in Italian prog. Today Canali lives as a hermit monk at the convent of Minucciano, in the province of Lucca.

In 2005 – in an era of rediscovery of Italian prog's lost treasures – Live 1974 was released, a collection of some hard-to-find live recordings from the period. After years in obscurity, in 2009 Biglietto per l’Inferno resurfaced, with an entirely new lineup and a project that is at once a revival and an original reinterpretation of the band's old songs.

Under a renewed name – Biglietto Per L’Inferno.Folk – Tra l’assurdo e la ragione (2009) was released, reprising most of the tracks from the first LP. The addition of the word "folk" to the name shouldn't be misleading, though; the real change lies mainly in pairing the classic electronic instruments with a range of traditional instruments, such as flutes (already present from the start), bagpipes, accordions, violins, mandolins, diatonic button accordions, fifes and ocarinas. A veritable orchestra, one that moves beyond classic prog and crosses over into folk and traditional music. Canali's voice is replaced by the warm, powerful voice of Mariolina Sala, while continuity with the old band is ensured by Giuseppe Cossa's keyboards and Mauro Gnecchi's drums (Canali himself, in any case, gave his blessing to the project, occasionally taking part in some recordings).

In 2015, having dropped the "Folk" suffix, the band released Live, fight, think, which closes the circle with most of the tracks from the second album. The best moments are the extended version of “L’amico suicida”, which loses none of the original's pathos and anguish, and the title track – a perfect example of traditional music reconciled with prog-rock. There's also an unreleased track – “Narciso e Boccadoro” – written by Canali in 1977 and never included on either of the first two albums.

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