Edda - Sincerity at all costs

Raise your hand if, towards the end of the 2000s, you ever wondered what the hell had become of Stefano Rampoldi, aka Edda, the unforgettable protagonist who fronted the Ritmo Tribale experience as singer/frontman. It seems that, after 1996, he first took up the occupation of heroin addict (which, as “Trainspotting” taught us, is a full-time job) and, after getting clean, that of bricklayer. He had (almost) stopped thinking about music, and music, ungratefully, returned the favour. That is, until he met composer Walter Somà and musician Andrea Rabuffetti, who pushed him to get back in the game. And so, in 2009 — thirteen years after his “disappearance” — excerpts from his debut solo album Sempre Biot began circulating on YouTube, and it was a comeback that cuts straight to the heart.

The tarantella-possessed frontman with hair down to his backside no longer exists, and in his place we find an artist with greying hair who sits and plays his acoustic guitar, accompanied by a handful of perfectly judged sounds (Taketo Gohara's production is textbook stuff). Sure, the voice is still the same: high-pitched and slightly nasal, no paragon of diction, but pulsing with life and feeling. And the songs seem written in blood, starting with the opening “Io e te”, embellished by Mauro Pagani's violin, and “Milano”, a melancholy elegy to his city, suspended in a void. “Bella come la Luna” drips with desperate passion, while the title track closes the album on a slightly more cheerful note, like an unsettling lullaby.

Every track, though, would deserve its own mention, each a piece of the mosaic that, in the author's opinion, forms what is the finest Italian album of the past decade (alongside the debut by Teatro degli Orrori).

Three years, a few rare concerts (since, in the meantime, his bricklaying work has not been abandoned) and a live EP later, Sempre Biot finds a follow-up (an extremely worthy one, though not quite on the same level) in Odio i vivi (2012), in which his sound is fleshed out with a bit of distortion, while the minimal poetry of the debut remains intact, albeit in a slightly more challenging and pessimistic form (“Odio i vivi/ ho i miei motivi ma li tengo per me” or “I miei amici hanno figli figli figli… io sempre fame”).

One can unquestionably speak of a new force in Italian music, an update for the new millennium of the singer-songwriter figure, even if the impression is that Edda is, and will remain, one of a kind.

In any case, he is the one providing the only worthy follow-up to the Ritmo Tribale adventure, a band that moved through the decades intelligently and creatively riding the changes in music, always reaping far less than it deserved.

Two years later, for Stavolta come mi ammazzerai? (2014) Rampoldi opts for a more linear, “rock” sonic medium, almost as if wanting to reconnect with his past (see Ritmo Tribale), though existential despair remains his banner. A despair that pours into the lyrics, taking shape in figures that are by now cornerstones of his poetic universe: drugs, sex, violence, paedophilia, illness, and so on. But at the centre of this latest explosion of rage and cynicism is the family (the cover image, featuring a pensive young Edda, was no accident), the place where all feelings are born and where, sooner or later, they must return. Hence, first and foremost, guitar, bass and drums to tell this story of his world, with the opening line dedicated to his father (“Every time I see my father/ I leave the house wanting to kill,” he intones in the first seconds of the opening “Pater”) and an avalanche of hatred for everyone. Even for God.

And so rough-edged rock dissertations like “Coniglio rosa” and “Stellina” (“Tu sei solo pelle e fica/ anoressica/ ti prego mangia su di me/ mangia me”), the geometric funk of “Bellissima”, the metallic scansions of “Piccole isole”, the cynical, angry irony of “Mademoiselle” and the “saturated” punk of “Ragazza meridionale” coexist with hazy blues-jazz hybrids that blend lasciviousness and a need for affection (“Mela”), absurdism in ballad form (“Yamamay”, “Ragazza porno”, “Peppa Pig” — the latter with a horn arrangement recalling the These New Puritans of “Field Of Reeds”), and a “Saibene” which, through piano, guitar and voice, suggests that life, after all, is nothing but a staged performance (“Chi dice la verità non può chiamarsi Rampoldi”).

Three more years pass, and with A graceful utopia (2017), Edda makes it clear he has no intention of turning back — quite the opposite: the traits that had begun to surface on the previous record now come fully into bloom. The melodies, as a result, are decisively rounded off, the sound is polished and highly attentive to harmony and fluid dynamics, and the vocal timbre remains slightly eccentric, yet now sits perfectly within this new musical framework. Even so, one still can't speak of standardisation for Edda: partly because, as noted, his singing style would hardly win over the wider audience now discovering the biggest names on the indie circuit, and partly because the lyrics continue to express, as in the past, unease and discomfort both with the outside world and with himself.

It opens with “Spaziale”, where a delicate, enveloping sound accompanies the tale of how emotional serenity helps one feel better without erasing the problems everyone carries inside. “Signora” relies on short, incisive keyboard and guitar riffs and a particularly immediate melody to highlight the perverse tendency to go looking for trouble even when one could simply settle for what's already been achieved. In “Zigulì” the sound is especially relaxed and open, thanks above all to the strings, but beneath it lies another tale of difficulty, in this case about breaking away from someone who feels good in the moment but will clearly bring pain in the long run. “Picchiami” is especially direct and rock-driven, describing the wish that someone move away from us in order to save at least themselves.

The lyrics retain all the traits that have made Edda's style unique and recognisable: the exposure of his feminine side, heroin, metropolitan life as a mirror of inner torment. Rampoldi, however, has by now decided that the music should no longer be in close agreement with what's being told, but should instead stand almost in contrast to the stories themselves. A contrast that, nevertheless, must still serve to enhance the narrative, so the sonic polish and care function not to placate the listener, but to gently guide them into the author's difficult world, without forcing them in as happened in the early days.

A choice once again bound to divide opinion, but, to this writer, it's far more rewarding to listen to a record with this kind of dynamic than one that simply follows along easily with the feelings expressed in the lyrics.

Barely two years later, Stefano “Edda” Rampoldi, with arrangements and artistic direction by Luca Bossi — also the bassist of his live band — comes out with an album whose title conveys lightness and frivolity, or rather, which Edda finds once more in the easy-listening songs of an Italy that was already enjoying the fruits of the economic boom.

Fru fru shares much of the melodic line of the previous record, but here makes it entirely his own, pressing down on the accelerator with guitars and keyboards. “E se” is the opening track, a dance whirlwind — driven by guitar and keyboard riffs — that grabs you instantly with a killer chorus (“Guarda come sono fatta / Guarda come son vestita / A me non me lo devi dire / Fammi godere con le dita / Guarda come sono fatta / Guarda come son vestita / E stavo con te”). The lyrics convey right away the shamelessness typical of the characters Edda gives voice to (or lives out?), in full scene-stealing mode.

“The soldati” is no less compelling: another killer chorus, more blasts of synth. The right ingredients for a second track that's all about dancing to the cry of “Sono stata ad aspettare / Sono bella come un cane / Ti ho afferrato / E ti ho baciato”. More disco-tinged than the previous one, but this too benefits from an exemplary arrangement, at once memorable and intricate.

“Italy gay” sounds — infectiously — like a knowing provocation against a country obsessed with its own navel, one that has always taken advantage of the status of model nation it enjoys thanks to its history and culture. But it's also a pride anthem that doubles as a wish for the country to recover from the barbarities that have ravaged our society.

“Edda” was recorded on the day of his mother's death (to whom the song is dedicated) — the mother who “unwittingly” lent her stage name to Stefano Rampoldi: the son who, with this placid ballad, accompanies his parent on the journey that will see her reincarnated in a young body. Karma and reincarnation, as prescribed by Hare Krishna belief. The lyrics reach the peak of spirituality here, attained with extreme grace and on tiptoe by the Milanese artist.

“Samsara” appears as a sinuous move on the record, drawing inspiration from sounds coming out of India. The track is a genuine spiritual session, and one of the most accomplished at that; moreover, it's a committed one, being a tirade against Saint Augustine as opposed to Saint Francis (allegedly a vegetarian and friend to animals). And it's mirrored by a carefree humour that wins you over, making you smile (“Sesto piano / Sto volando senza ali / Ottavo piano / Un piano in più dei sette nani”). The record heads towards its close with “Abat-jour”, where Edda is driven by a far more earthly impulse, hungry to reach the flesh (in the loftiest and most human sense of the term).

He doesn't hold back with “Ovidio e Orazio”: guilty, in his eyes, of having kept him chained — with Latin translations to grind through — during his high school years, and held in check, much to his dismay, during his first sexual urges. The closing track is a grandiloquent synth-pop gallop containing dense harmonies, among the most elaborate on the album.

Fru fru thrives throughout on brilliant flashes of inspiration: the guitar plucked like a sitar on “Samsara”, lyrics that reek of sweat, feeling and galloping hormones (“E se” and “Ovidio e Orazio” are the standard-bearers of this school of thought). Et cetera, et cetera. For afecionados of his more alt-rock and punk side, it may not win them over immediately (or perhaps at all), but hopefully they'll come to notice a record that grows richer with repeated listens. They'll learn to appreciate the flashes of inspiration and the arrangements — courtesy of a masterful, meticulous Luca Bossi — that hold together a product straddling pop (shrewd and capable) and disco. Every track is a potential single, it must be said.

Edda's metamorphosis has driven him to record albums in the most disparate genres, pulling him in multiple directions while maintaining a truly enviable consistency in quality, placing him among the most respectable figures on this music scene. Edda's worldview runs throughout his output, which works through sincerity and sheer divertissement in what he thinks and writes.

In 2022 comes Illusion, with Edda in a phase of artistic evolution that smooths out some of the rawness to make more room for an intimate side that makes us want to soften up, rather than dance as we did with the previous Fru fru, his so-called "pop" turning point, so to speak, given how jagged this character can be.

The deus ex machina of this change of course is the Midas touch of independent rock, Gianni Maroccolo, with whom he had already released "Noio; volevam suonar." in 2020, under the name Edda e Marok.

At the helm is the former Ritmo Tribale member, but Maroccolo's expert hand, producing and curating the arrangements, keeps pointing the way. Marok pushes Edda's voice into territory unexplored on previous albums, shaping it almost like an instrument and making some passages of "Illusion" truly sublime. You notice it right away in the celestial falsetto of the single "Lia," a poignant dedication to his parents' lives before they brought him into the world, and you get confirmation in the more evocative moments like "Trema" and "La croce viva".

But the former bassist of Litfiba, Cccp and Csi also convinces Edda to play guitar in the studio during recording, in order to capture the spontaneity and immediacy of the songwriting stage.

But there's a real appetite for blending new elements, as in "Alibaba," a tale of romantic unease that pairs sitar à la Claudio Rocchi with Pupo's chocolate ice cream, or "L'ignoranza," which rises from a robotic, blaring music box into bouncy pop openings. Edda's voice also fits elegantly into the rarefied, Csi-like atmospheres of "La croce viva" and "Mirai," the 70s flavors of "Buonasera Signora," the funky drive of "Brown," the jagged guitar chords of "Trema," the reverb-soaked arpeggios of the well-judged opening of "Mio Capitano," and the dirty, charging rock of "Carlo Magno".

As always, the lyrics are visionary and far from linear, left wide open to interpretation, free of the dead weight of political correctness, flitting lightly between nods to the greats of the past — the "Non è Francesca" of "Brown" and the "l'Alghero" of "Carlo Magno" — and ironic passages worthy of "Freak" Antoni, "Come bella l'ignoranza/ la coltivo dall'infanzia," moving on to the weight of the big questions in "Lia," "Sai perché si muore? I won't tell you anything more, anything more.

More intense than ever, carefully thought out and crafted (also thanks to the help of Flavio Ferri and Antonio Aiazzi) without losing its spontaneity, Edda's new release is one of those records that need a few extra listens, but once they get you, they stick to you — and this is no Illusion.

Three years after the mystical intensity of Illusion, Edda returns with Messe sporche (2025) to a more direct, instinctive rock sound.

With his trusted collaborator Luca Bossi — who handles all the arrangements and, on this album, also co-writes with the irrepressible Stefano Ramboldi — "Messe Sporche" marks a return to his roots, the same ground that defined the Ritmo Tribale years and had already resurfaced in parts of his solo work, like "Stavolta come mi ammazzerai?".

Echoes of his idolized Verdena surface in "Diavoletto," hints of Southern-fried rock appear in "5 meno meno," bursts of compressed punk crop up in "Belisotta," and, by the author's own admission, there's a nod to Formula 3 in "Mucca rossa".

His rock instinct, diluted with drops of psychedelia, takes the shape of a liberating scream in "Giorni di gloria," which sounds like an anthem to collective pushback, even though the author claims it's simply the story of a shop clerk fired by Ovs.

When the rock edge seems to step aside, the calmer moments come to the fore: "Ezechiele," with its singer-songwriter feel in keeping with Illusion, and "Macchia," probably the best track on the record, where an inspired, reflective Edda builds a refined musical creature with an explosive finale, between dark horns and elastic high notes that confirm his voice as an emotional, unpredictable instrument.

Starting with the cover image, depicting a worn pair of women's underwear — hence the title Messe sporche — the record presents itself as a vortex pulling listeners into Edda's world: a universe marked by disarming irony, surreal lyrics and absolute freedom of interpretation, an anarchic stream of consciousness with no regard for political correctness.

There's no shortage of nods to old fetishes of Italian pop culture (“Lavo meglio del Dixan”, “Sapientino clem-clem, le parole che sai non le ascolta più nessuno”, “trenini Rivarossi entrano nella grotta”), libertarian provocations (“Prostituzione obbligatoria”, “Religione senza storia”, “Foto obbligatoria degli organi genitali”), invectives against fellow musicians (“Fedez non è Hegel”), and the conviction that a Gibson guitar can even exorcise a worn-out relationship (“Portami a letto la Diavoletto”).

Less startling than the previous Illusion and with a few somewhat chaotic moments, Messe sporche needs several listens to fully reveal itself, but it confirms Edda's singularity: a restless, eccentric artist capable of turning his fragilities and visions into song. An artist who belongs to a rare breed, one that needs safeguarding and protection, for his creative freedom and his utterly one-of-a-kind strangeness.

Contribution by Stefano Bartolotta (“Graziosa Utopia”), Simone Tribuzio (“Fru fru”), Lorenzo Montefreddo (“Illusion”, “Messe sporche”)

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