Bugo - From lo-fi to stardom

Cristian Bugatti, from San Martino di Trecate (an artist as flamboyant on stage as he is elusive about his private life: aside from where he's from, little else is known), is one of the emerging figures (certainly the most of a character) on the recent Italian music scene. In light of his entire output (4 albums, plus a flood of other releases including singles, EPs, self-produced little cassettes and splits), he could be described as an eccentric folksinger with ambitions (à la Beck). Worlds away from the socially engaged and often politicized Italian singer-songwriter tradition, Bugo sings stories of "everyday urban alienation", tales of daily life filled with surreal, offhand juxtapositions, delivered in a drowsy, detached tone. Opinions on the quality of his work are evenly split between those who consider him a poor Italian copy of Beck or even a failed comedian (with more than a little unfairness), and those who hail him as a genius of the first order, beyond any known rule or pattern (with more than a little generosity).

His full-length debut came about thanks to a collaboration between Snowdonia and Bar De La Muerte. La prima gratta (2000) features twenty-one tracks, mostly guitar and voice, in a rigorously lo-fi vein, with a few concessions to (garage-)rock and electronics, used chiefly as an oddity in the (otherwise sparse) arrangements, or taking center stage in the brief interludes. His approach to the material recalls Badly Drawn Boy (if a comparison is really needed), with the slacker spirit of that artist's best moments (though in terms of sound the two are quite different). What he shares with the Englishman (even if not at his level) is an uncommon melodic sense: indeed, the best things here are exactly the melodies, immediate and crystalline, that pop up here and there. That's the case with the opening track "Quante menate che mi faccio", where Bugo hits on a hook worthy of peak Battisti and comes up with one of his finest turns of phrase ("Una risata fuori luogo, che mi scalda come il fuoco: dammi il numero dei pompieri"), or the tender "Solitario" (another great lyric here too: "La terra gira, hai la nausea, ognuno pensa a fare pausa, le stringhe stringono forte e tu ti senti un solitario"), or the caustic "Il cellulare è scarico" ("La mia birra non c'è più, a Giuseppe manca un dito, il cellulare è scarico").

The best (slight) variations on the formula come from the music-box sound of "Oggi come sto", from "Non ne posso più" ("tutto tace tranne l'afa") sung in a petulant falsetto and accompanied by droplets of piano and a backdrop of swirling electric guitars, from "Potrebbe andar meglio" played like a piano-bar entertainer, from the raga of "Paranoia", and from the rock-with-electronic-inserts of "Sabato mattina". But the album's masterpiece is the paradoxical "Addio alle canzoni di una volta", Guccini-esque to the core, which bids farewell to the old guitar-and-voice songs. Closing it all out is an eight-and-a-half-minute semi-instrumental for bass, piano and synth, emblematically titled "Ne vuoi ancora?". La prima gratta is the product of an immature talent, but one that finds in that very immaturity the source of its beauty.

Sentimento westernato (2001) was billed as Bugo's "acoustic album": in reality, only the electronic manipulations are dialed back, while, paradoxically, the garage-rock and blues episodes increase. The songs are fully fledged in a way the debut — which can be considered more a collection of multiple ideas, several of them strong, some more fully realized than others — wasn't. It's a more mature record without betraying Bugo's quirks (decidedly skewed lyrics and approach), though that doesn't automatically translate into a better result. Whether because the element of surprise has worn off, or because there's essentially no major shift in formula, or, more simply, because the average quality of the tracks is good but rarely reaches the peaks of the debut, Sentimento westernato ends up being a pleasant record that never quite breaks through. Among the fourteen tracks, it's precisely the simplest episodes — the ones that gave La prima gratta most of its value — that leave a slightly bitter aftertaste here. The folk serenade "Vorrei avere un Dio" or the dirge-like "Quando siamo stanchi", despite good lyrical ideas and being pleasant enough to listen to, lack that decisive spark.

As it turns out, the best material comes from the most alien territory: "Siamo tutti eroi" is (or rather, could be) an anthem built on an epic, searing riff, rendered unusable for that purpose — though no worse in quality for it — by the choice to sing over it with a modified, practically unintelligible voice, while "Io berrò alcol" ("senza paura, senza cannuccia") is an equally epic (and solemn) tour de force driven by tambourine and shaken by an electric guitar that curls in on itself in a finale of falsetto yelps. Also worth a mention are the Devil's Haircut-style shouted garage-rock of "Bicchiere nella birra", the pulsing folk-beat nursery rhyme "Bisogna fare quello che conviene", and the immediate melody of the drawn-out "L'amore è spentoff", with flashes of harmonica.

Universal took notice of Bugo and offered him a new contract: but Bugatti showed up to sign it with a new album already wrapped up and ready to go. The major accepted, and with good reason: From lo-fi to hi-fi (2002) is a far more marketable record than its two predecessors, and above all it's the right album to launch and establish Bugo with a sizeable audience. In practice, here's what happened: whether because he realized the formula was starting to wear thin, or out of greater ambition, the Novara native dropped the lo-fi clothing and pushed folk even further into the background in favor of a multiplicity of genres. This is how Bugo earned the nickname of Italy's own Beck, attempting to repeat the same feat the American pulled off in 1996. Meanwhile Universal kicked off its campaign: the album went on sale at half price, with the stage of MTV (and Tutto) thrown wide open. The choice of lead single was spot on. "Casalingo" is a pop track, with one of the simplest and most effective melodies of the bunch, Beck-esque guitars as the arrangement, a more open vocal delivery than usual, and an instrumental interlude where every sonic quirk gets to run wild.

But there's an ocean between lo-fi and "Odelay", and Bugo ends up lost at sea in it. The inspiration is there, but not at full strength, and the result is that for most of its running time the album flows along nicely without ever really scratching, and the shifts from rock (the opener "Portacenere") to folk ("Morbida scheggia") to blues ("Piede sulla merda") to hip-hop ("Milano tranquillità") manage not to bore more than they manage to impress. It also turns out that a few writing weaknesses surface, which the noisy, otherwise decent arrangements can't fully disguise (most evident exactly when he tries to flirt with more fashionable sounds and genres, see "Pasta al burro" and the dreadful "Fai la fila"). The genuinely positive note comes from one of the lighter tracks, the nursery-rhyme "Con il cuore nel culo", where everything finally clicks into place perfectly — lyrics ("con il cuore nel culo non hai sentimenti da esprimere"), voice, music and melody. After that, Bugo disappears for a while...

His return is marked by Golia & Melchiorre (2004), a double album that brings together the two souls of the Novara "singer-songwriter". "Arriva Golia!" continues down the path of the previous chapter in the saga, pushing the tracks' accessibility and straining even harder for a pop vein. But the record reveals an almost total lack of inspiration, to the point of feeling like work imposed from above. The frantic dash from one genre to another isn't enough to hold attention: so we go from the r&b of "Hasta la schiena siempre" (an indie version of Jovanotti) to the electro-rock of "Caramelle", from the funk of "Un altro conato" to the Caparezza-style rap of "Devo fare un brec", all delivered in a state of catatonic boredom. These are genuinely poor songs, fit for a "worst of" compilation. What manages to stay just above the threshold of decency (lyrically too, since that side brings plenty of disappointment as well) are the two most immediate tracks: the pop-rock of "Carla è franca" and "Il sintetizzatore", a fun slice of pop'n'roll with a dazzling synth solo in the finale. The only one that truly convinces is "Mezzora prima di morire", a dazed landscape borrowed straight from master Beck.

"La gioia di Melchiorre", co-written with Joe Valeriano, rediscovers folk instead (even as the farewell to lo-fi remains in place), but with a seriousness (in its own way) and an intimacy never heard before. It's a work cut from entirely different cloth, at times reaching a depth hard to predict, and it delivers several remarkable songs. "Non mi arrabbio mai", for acoustic guitar accompanied by double bass, is an aching ballad with a wrenching harmonica and a grand instrumental finale; "Rimbambito", one of Bugo's masterpieces, has a melodic opening and lyrics worthy of (if not better than) his golden years ("chiedo a te, prendimi a schiaffi, io non riesco a vivere"); "Sentirsi da cane" is blown through by an electronic wind, with guitars mimicking mandolins; "Quando vai via" has an epic, fatalistic cadence; and "Che diritti ho su di te?" does best of all, with a cracked, touching voice (despite it being obvious that Bugo isn't a trained singer: technique matters less when a tone like this is found, on a par with Battisti), full of fear for life and the future. Equally well-chosen is the closer, entrusted to the devotional psych-folk of "Alleluia".

The gulf in quality between the two halves of the record is therefore enormous, which lends some credibility to the theory of imposition from above (i.e.: "La gioia" only gets released if you also deliver something more marketable); or else Bugatti simply has no grasp of either his limitations or where his real artistry lies. Either way, as things stand, it's hard to shake the feeling of a wasted talent, one still potentially capable of producing (more) solid, above-average work, but who, out of a lack of self-awareness or willpower, settles for releasing incomplete records.

A contemporary outlook (2006) confirms the new pop-rock course. What had perhaps been missing from the recent albums up to that point was a certain command and fullness of sound. Stepping in to solve that for "A contemporary outlook" was Giorgio Canali: his work is one of the record's most significant features. The producer's expert hand is felt heavily and manages to supply exactly what was needed; but at the same time it's also a limitation, with that trademark sound so crystallized and intrusive that it makes the album resemble too many others by former members and friends of ex-CSI.

Pop-rock Bugo lacks the flashes of insight that defined his rawer alter ego, and ends up churning out a glut of fun songs that, taken all together, don't quite convince. The lyrics, too, maintain the same lower-wattage brilliance of his recent work, with due exceptions ("Niente ci può sfiorare, niente niente, tranne quello che ci circonda" from "Gelato giallo"; "Mamma vuoi spiegarmi come sono fatto, perché io me la prendo, ho la coda di paglia, in Italy si nasce con la coda di paglia" from "Coda d'Italia").

The due exceptions, naturally, exist musically as well. Above them all, by a clear margin, is "Oggi è morto Spock", Bugo's own "Gli anni", a sweet guitar with electric counterpoints, caught between memory, tenderness and smiles. Then come: the epic rock of "Millennia", where the aforementioned "CSI hand" is something more than mere inspiration, in sound, structure and even vocal delivery; the Beck-esque "Gelato giallo", with country flourishes and pop-leaning melodic openings; the melodic ups and downs of "Amore infinito", somewhere between Battisti and rock, brimming with amorous delights ("mare di frutta frullata", "nuvole di spinaci") but unfortunately not quite nailing the shifts in tempo and mood. As a counterweight, a few tracks that don't land: "Che lavoro fai?", a basic little rock number that tries to earn its stripes by unleashing varied vocal tones and sonic intrusions without achieving its goal, and "Una forza superiore", a tender guitar-and-keyboard piece that's rather dull. In between lies a sea of the aforementioned tracks that are enjoyable enough but somewhere in "yeah-well-maybe" territory: the virtuoso funk of "Plettrofolle"; the sax-laden noir of "Ggell"; the electro-punk of "Roma"; the fast rock'n'roll of "Coda d'Italy".

Sguardo Contemporaneo is an eclectic, "mature" record, capable of eliciting both smiles and yawns.

2008 saw the release of Contact, the seventh album from a now fully Universal-ized Bugo, filtered daily through mainstream TV (the video for "C'è crisi", directed by a remarkable Lorenzo Vignolo, is gorgeous).

From the soul instrumental intro (!) onward, Bugatti's intention to add more color to the whole structure is immediately clear. The flower-power organ opening of "C'è crisi" brings this new approach into sharp, stylish focus; it's then impossible to resist the central chorus, a bare, direct, sweeping reflection on today's society. The same goes for "Nel giro giusto", where he unleashes, through a series of fiery harmonies, his whole inner need to keep constantly shifting tone, even in his social relationships.

The very Italian “Love Boat” sounds like it could have been written by Gaetano Curreri, while “Le buone maniere” could be a b-side from the electric side of Golia & Melchiorre (“Arriva Golia”).

“La mano mia” boasts a breezy gait and an ultra-carefree little tune straight out of a summer hit.

If A contemporary outlook could be regarded as a tired, transitional work, Contact brings into focus all the smudges and insecurities of the recent past, giving us the most genuinely pop side of the talent from Novara.

Three years later, without warning, Bugatti returns with New remedies for myopia (2011), an album that nonetheless falls short of expectations. Of the ten tracks, none stands out particularly from the rest. The lightheartedness, the freshness, the lucid and playful madness that made Bugo famous are now just a faded memory. The release of the single (“I miei occhi vedono”) had already hinted at as much. In fact, in the end, this very song turns out to be one of the best moments on the record.

The point is that Bugatti suddenly decided to get serious. Too serious, in fact. And to settle into musical solutions already explored at length by other Italian artists. One of these (and don't be too surprised, since our man is an admirer of his) is none other than Vasco Rossi. Yes, him, mr Nonciclopedia. At least a couple of songs seem to echo the rocker from Zocca. In “Non ho tempo” you can almost hear the Blasco of “Buoni e Cattivi”, while the sappy, bland “Comunque io voglio te” is missing only the inevitable stadium “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee”.

Even the electronics that marked some of Bugo's most inspired hits, and ran through almost the entirety of the previous Contact, are used here more sparingly and less jarringly. Sure, you can tell a lot of work went into the sound, and to a very high standard, with some fine touches (see the almost advert-like jingle on “Mattino”), but still, it all unfolds within a context of scant innovation and little desire to surprise — something Bugo has proven more than capable of doing.

Single aside, in the end perhaps the best track turns out to be the closer, “Città cadavere”, with its slow, measured gait recalling “Notte giovane”, the closing track of “Arriva Golia”. Other songs (“Il sangue mi fa vento”, “Lamentazione nr 322”) unfold over an interesting electronic backdrop (the latter in particular has something of the latest Subsonica), but come with genuinely flat lyrics, including a (indeed) lament directed at God that comes across as almost clumsy.

If Bugo wanted to move closer to a more classic singer-songwriter style, perhaps the better path to follow was the one laid out by the surprisingly (and positively) good Golia and Melchiorre, which highlighted the guitar skills of the artist, now a resident of India. Perhaps it was precisely this change of life that shaped the choices and themes of this album. For now, all that's left is to wait for the next record, to see whether New remedies for myopia was just a parenthesis or the start of something different.

Contributions by Giuliano Delli Paoli (“Contact”), Nicola Gennai (“New remedies for myopia”), Paolo Ciro (“Cristian Bugatti”)

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