Elio e Le Storie Tese - Techniques of resistance against the void

It all starts with a group of friends gathered in one of their bedrooms, each with his own stack of "figu" (sticker cards) and the ambition of landing that one, exceedingly rare Buso sticker to finally complete the Panini album. At a certain point, running predictably late, the biggest dork of the bunch bursts in, who not only has, as his sole duplicate, a dusty old Facchetti sticker — a clear sign of his social irrelevance — but also forces everyone to listen to the record by some band called Elio e le Storie Tese that, in a fit of embarrassing enterprise, he'd gone and bought that very morning. The skit, which recalls the one that opened "MonoTono" by Skiantos — though highlighting how different the era and context were — sounded, in the year of grace 1989, incredibly familiar to anyone between the ages of 10 and 25: in other words, pre-teens, teenagers, late teens, and, above all, late bloomers. It was the calling card of Elio e le Storie Tese, the band led by singer Stefano "Elio" Belisari and keyboardist Sergio "Rocco Tanica" Conforti — the latter already a collaborator of Righeira and future arranger of Fabrizio De André's album "Le Nuvole". They were a cult act in the Milan hinterland and, more broadly, across northern Italy, thanks to relentless live activity, a hard-to-pin-down number of bootlegs (including the legendary "Live in Borgomanero") dubbed tape-to-tape in near-conspiratorial fashion, and a handful of TV appearances on Mediaset's alternative programmes such as "Lupo Solitario" and "Araba Fenice".

The band — whose lineup, made up exclusively of virtuoso musicians, also included bassist Nicola "Faso" Fasani, guitarist Davide "Cesareo" Civaschi, multi-instrumentalist Paolo "Mu Fogliash" Panigada (later better known as "Feiez"), and session drummer Curt Cress — moved within the noble tradition of Italian demented music, drawing more, despite the explicit nods to Skiantos, on the far more underrated Squallor. The points of contact between Elio e le Storie Tese and Totò Savio's group are numerous: technical skill and refined arrangements, the use of the stock devices of Italian pop song for parodic, irreverent ends, a constant pursuit of provocation to catch the listener off guard, and a total absence of shame. Other clear influences on the quintet are Italian progressive rock and, above all, Frank Zappa, of whom they would go on to record numerous covers.

Musically, however, the importance of Elio e le Storie Tese is decidedly limited: their progressive collages built from the offal of Italian pop music have had, to this day, virtually no influence on the Italian rock scene (perhaps with the sole exception of Marta sui Tubi), despite the huge success of their records and TV appearances. What truly matters, instead, is the cultural weight of their lyrics on an entire generation: their early work sketched out an epic of and for suburban and small-town nerds with no ambitions beyond getting laid once in a blue moon and feeling a little less marginal than usual. A clumsy pursuit of happiness, detached from any social or political claim (this was before Silvio Berlusconi's "entry into politics", and any government was seen as "old-fogey stuff", an enemy by default of SuperGiovane — the very idea of taking sides wasn't even conceivable; even the famous "Sabbiature", which got them censored on TV during the May Day concert in 1991, should be filed less as a protest song than as a successful provocation) and whose only relief lay in banding together with others who shared the same bedroom-bound unease, to build a shared language full of running gags incomprehensible to outsiders, and to take the mickey out of the dork mentioned above.

In short: techniques for resisting the void.

Much like the early TV shows of Gialappa's Band (fellow travellers of Elio e le Storie Tese, though they would go on to take a far sadder path), the Milanese band wove those tribal languages into their songs, giving tens of thousands of kids across Italy a shared frame of reference. What's more, in that nondescript late 1980s moment, their lyrics were about as socially unacceptable as anything circulating in Italian teenagers' tape decks — proof of which are the calls from furious mothers recorded on their answering machine and later used to close the live album Esco dal mio corpo e ho molta paura.

All of this is already apparent on their debut album Elio Samaga Hukapan Kariyana Turu (1989), an already monumental work, even if not their best: every track is a classic, played with consummate skill and structured in such a convoluted way it would have driven even their guru Frank Zappa mad — starting with the opening rock charge "John Holmes (una vita per il cinema)", which, far from being an elegy to the famous porn star, is a triumph of double entendres and assonances blessed with a brilliant verbal anarchy (“Soffrivo le pene/ Per colpa del pene/ Ma più il problema non si pone/ Sì perché il pene mi dà il pane”). "Nubi di ieri sul nostro domani odierno" (as is often the case with Elio, the titles bear no relation whatsoever to the songs) is their first vandalistic raid on the world of Italian pop song ("Se mi butto nella vasca, emetto certe bolle che venendo a galla/ corron culla schiena, fandomi felice, giunte in superficie non mi piaccion più").

But it's with the following "Silos" — a scatological, food-themed anthem that starts out as a folk ditty, quotes "Song for Che" in the chorus, and then turns into a country song by the end — "Cassonetto differenziato per il frutto del peccato", a funk blend of urban legends and parish-hall anti-abortion talk delivered with an attitude that makes it impossible to tell irony from sheer messing about, and, above all, "Piattaforma di trivellazione" (in the sense that, having hit bottom, they just keep digging! By the end of the track you ask yourself: "Am I the one with a dirty mind, or is that really what the song's about?") that our heroes truly earn their place in hell.

The album's success, though, is mostly down to the skit "Cara ti amo", recorded live and the first great example of the sentimental realism at which Elio e le Storie Tese excel. The track, actually closer to theatre than to rock music, builds a dialogue between a boy and a girl in which his conflicting proposals are met each time by different refusals and insults from her. The tension is resolved with the offer of "money for a fur coat" in exchange for her womb, in a riot of misogyny.

Elio Samaga Hukapan Kariyana Turu, like all their later work, is stuffed with guests of varying renown and quotations more or less hidden — but that's more a matter for speculation, since the greatness of the record lies in its brilliant lack of respect and in its ability to build a universal language for young men everywhere.

A debut like this marks the band's first leap in status: from local cult phenomenon to national cult phenomenon. Their legend is further boosted by the historic single "SvEliatevi", which contained the first version of "Born To Be Abramo" and was soon pulled from shops following protests from Jehovah's Witnesses — mocked on the record's cover — as well as some copyright issues. "Born To Be Abramo" is yet another gem of youth-culture reworking (in this case, parish-based youth culture, at a time when the parish was still a fairly significant social hub, home to a far more varied slice of humanity than one might expect today), built on a mix of church hymns and 70s dance tracks, with a result that's nothing short of irresistible — it's still one of their live staples today. Let's draw a merciful veil, on the other hand, over the pointless Christmas mini-album "The Los Sri Lanka Parakramabahu Brothers featuring Elio e le Storie Tese", which the band themselves described as "the dud Christmas present of a record".

Their live activity at the start of the 1990s is frantic, and the band begins gathering material for what would become their masterpiece, namely Italyan, Rum Casusu Çikti. Released in 1992, it marks the band's definitive coming of age: unlike the debut, every element of the collage here is convincing, and it never feels scattershot. From the opening "Servi della gleba", a gem of Italian light rock hybridized with black music, through to the progressive tour de force of "La vendetta del Fantasma Formaggino", there isn't a single moment on the record that doesn't achieve cult status. Take the fairy-tale nonsense of "Il Vitello dai Piedi di Balsa" (featuring special guest Enrico Ruggeri), or "Cartoni animati giapponesi" — a pornographic catalogue set to absurd rhythms, almost like the soundtrack to some perverse Warner cartoon — even the most throwaway line in these songs sparks an instant reaction among the band's fans, the likes of which you wouldn't even find among Bruce Springsteen diehards.

"Uomini col borsello" (featuring Riccardo Fogli on vocals) and "Essere donna oggi" stand in relation to Italian pop music the way Fontana's slashed and torn canvases stand in relation to painting. "Urna" is pure nerd-metal, while "Pippero", the album's first single, blends urban legends and the titles of trashy, cult records from the 70s and 80s ("Ramaya", "Fly Robin Fly", "Cuba" by the Gibson Brothers, Carl Douglas's "Kung Fu Fighting", etc.) to a dance beat, backed, with an almost eerie solemnity, by the choir Le Mystère des Voix Bulgares.

"Supergiovane" is the apotheosis of their genius: a long progressive suite — almost a miniature musical — that runs through hundreds of aspects of the least mainstream corners of youth culture imaginable, neatly laid out in the opening list bellowed by Arch. Luca Mangoni (better known as "Mangoni"), Elio's old classmate and an added bonus of their concerts, where he accompanies every song with his sublimely over-the-top mime routines and his sarcastically blank face.

The album sells better than its predecessor, helped along by the singles "Pippero" and "Servi della Gleba", whose respective videos are little gems in their own right.

The following year saw the release of the live album Esco dal mio corpo e ho molta paura, made up entirely of long-standing band classics that hadn't found room on the previous two albums. It's the classic kind of record that, far from matching the heights of their other work, mainly serves to cement the cult around the band. But it also shows just how far the five of them had come from the embarrassing simplicity of their early days to masterpieces like "Supergiovane" or "La Vendetta del Fantasma Formaggino". Still, it's a thoroughly enjoyable record, whose highlights are the lengthy "Saga di Addolorato", which glides effortlessly from Tenco-style ballad to calypso, and the aching slow burner "Cavo". Worth noting is the arrival, in the lineup, of Swiss drummer Christian "Millefinestre" Meyer, who would later become a permanent member of the band.

In the first half of the '90s, though snubbed by both alternative and mainstream critics alike, Elio e le Storie Tese were among the most beloved Italian rock bands. Yet they remained a cult act, and given their ambitions, they began plotting the move that would finally earn them their big break. On paper, the springboard chosen for success was about as predictable as it gets in Italy: entering the Sanremo Festival. Less predictable, however, was the success of the song they brought with them. "La Terra dei Cachi", a fake protest song hiding a devastating mix of clichés about Italy, came second, and reportedly missed out on winning only because of Pippo Baudo's opposition. The fact remains that, of the 1996 edition of the Italian song festival, everyone remembers Elio e le Storie Tese — who also won the critics' prize — dressed like the Rockets, toupees and all, or the sped-up version of their song, while Ron's forgettable winning entry was soon consigned to oblivion.

The Sanremo exploit fuelled the success of their third album, Eat The Phikis. While not quite on the level of Italyan, Rum Casusu Çikti, it's the band's last great record. Their comic streak is more explicit here, as shown by wonderful romps like "Burattino senza Fichi" and the Latin-flavoured "El Pube" (instantly learned by heart by fans).

On the other hand, some of the skits start to reveal a certain melancholy streak, especially in the two new anthems to the ridiculous drama of adolescent inadequacy: "Mio cuggino", a delightful pastiche of clichés and teenage myths, and "Tapparella", which, thanks to its epic crescendo reminiscent of a '70s prog ballad, would become one of the band's live staples.

Worth mentioning too are "Omosessualità" — a punk bullet recalling the rawness of "Urna" — and "TVUMDB", which boasts sophisticated arrangements over a funk base. There's no shortage of filler either ("Milza" and "Lo Stato A e Lo Stato B", distinctly inferior to the version of the same song that had served as the theme for "Mai Dire Gol" the year before), but the final result still lives up to expectations.

In 1997 the band released the compilation Del Meglio del Nostro Meglio Vol. 1, which finally made room for the legendary "Born To Be Abramo", in a version featuring none other than Patrick Hernandez, the author of "Born to Be Alive", as a guest — though unfortunately the spoken lines by Rocco Tanica, which in the original created a perfect "extreme parish" atmosphere, were cut. It's still an enjoyable listen, but the very fact that the band was putting out a "best of" already signalled that ideas were starting to run dry.

The following year, saxophonist Feiez suffered an aneurysm while on stage with the Biba Band (a side project involving some members of Elio e le Storie Tese) and died instantly.

There's no telling what Craccracriccrecr (1999) might have been without the tragedy that had just struck the band. What is certain is that their fourth album marks the start of their decline. It's not a wholly dismissible record, but it's uneven, and the anarchic unpredictability of their early days gives way to a still enjoyable mannerism that has stuck with the band ever since.

Still excellent, though, are "La bella canzone di una volta", modelled on 1920s tunes with an artfully aged sound, and "Bis", whose status as homage to or parody of Italian rock songs is still up for debate.

The other tracks entertain without surprising, and the tributes/send-ups of various musical genres are fairly by-the-numbers ("Disco Music", "Rock 'n' Roll"). In short, musical blenders like "Supergiovane" or "Il vitello dai piedi di balsa" become little more than a memory.

Paradoxically, the soundtrack to the dreadful film "Tutti gli uomini del deficiente", released the same year, turns out to be more interesting, showing at least a bit more creativity — perhaps due to the very nature of the project.

The band, now joined by second keyboardist Antonello "Jantoman" Aguzzi, began taking considerably longer between albums, padding the gaps with a series of pointless live records, perhaps due to frequent TV appearances and members' side projects.

The quality, however, didn't improve: Cicciput (2003) is another mixed bag, whose success owes much to an excellent choice of singles ("Shpalman", the theme to an imaginary cartoon featuring a well-judged appearance by Max Pezzali, and "Fossi Figo", yet another melancholy-demented ballad, are genuinely irresistible). "Gimmi I", perhaps the album's best track, pays tribute to the poppier side of Zappa, underscored by an appearance from Ike Willis.

The rest of the album is less convincing: "Budi Giampi" and "Pagano" show off the usual dazzling technique, but never rise above mere self-indulgent exercises.

Slightly better is Studentessi (2008), whose variety recalls the band's best days, even if their comedy by now always carries a whiff of déjà vu. It's the usual well-played, well-produced, thoroughly entertaining record, but one that, perhaps inevitably, lacks the ability to instantly become myth and common parlance the way the band's first three records did. Still, the world-music flavour of "Parco Sempione" revives the band's legend, and both the symphonic "Plafone" and "Heavy Samba" — which unpredictably swings from bossa nova to '70s hard rock — hold up well. "Suicidio a sorpresa", on the other hand, is only really enjoyable for those (like the writer) who have a soft spot for extreme metal.

In 2013, seventeen years on from "La Terra dei Cachi", Elio e le Storie Tese returned to Sanremo as contestants (having already taken part in several editions as guests or hosts of the "dopofestival"). The fact that 99% of critics tore their hair out over a trifle like "Dannati Forever" or, worse, over a vacuous bit of navel-gazing like "La Canzone Mononota" goes to show how, since the mid-'90s, the negative bias against the band had been replaced by an equally obtuse positive one. Their new second place on the Ariston stage was infinitely less deserved than the one they earned in '96 with a song that — that one, at least — was genuinely funny and original.

However, setting aside these considerations, every new Elio e le Storie Tese record feels like coming home, and L'Album Biango (a title that's both Beatles-esque and idiotic) is no exception. Once you get past the two mediocre Sanremo tracks that open the running order, this new effort from the Milanese band is easy to warm to.

Since it seems pointless to dwell on the band's technical skill, I'd rather focus on how it's been put to use. At times superbly, especially on the album's three best tracks – "Enlarge (your penis)" and "Lampo", which poke fun at the tics of the average internet user, and "Il Complesso del Primo Maggio", a tour de force on the left-wing music that regularly okkupies the big May Day concert in Piazza San Giovanni. The track recalls the band's best moments from the early '90s (it's not on the level of "Supergiovane", but it's about as close as they've come in at least the last decade) and is enriched by an intro featuring a Eugenio Finardi in dazzling form. "Amore Amorissimo" (very Alan Sorrenti, dance-oriented) is shaping up to be the next track to get Mangoni going wild on the cube at the band's shows.

The generational streak, not without a certain melancholy, comes through above all in the lovely "Il Ritmo della Sala Prove" and in the nonsense tale "Luigi Pugilista". Rather more of an end in itself, on the other hand, is the reworking of Italian prog tropes on "Come gli Area" – with the same lineup of Tofani and Fariselli playing its instrumental intro. As usual, the interludes between tracks are an inexhaustible source of running gags and parades of absurd characters (Fiorello's thirty seconds are terrific, as is the Russian TV news report) – on this front, the band's comic flair hasn't faltered one bit.

Summing up, L'Album Biango gets a passing grade, without overreaching: the true masterpieces are behind them, and these days the Elii are content to put out reasonably good product mostly just to freshen up the setlists of their endless tours. Today Elio e le Storie Tese are well-known, respected public figures, their parodies of Sanremo songs spread like wildfire on social media, and their concerts draw crowds that would have been unthinkable twenty-odd years ago. Probably even the woman who used to flood their answering machine with threatening messages would appreciate them now. As for us, now in our 30s and 40s and raised on their songs, we keep following them fondly and, every now and then, feel a pang of nostalgia thinking back to when we had to listen to "John Holmes" on the sly so mum wouldn't catch us.

After another appearance at the Sanremo Festival, the Milanese band returned in 2016 with a new album, Figgatta de Blanc. At the end of the track "I delfini nuotano" you can hear the Elii joking and laughing. Lucky them, one might say, because this tenth effort offers precious few laughs of its own, and it's telling that this little aside closes out one of the album's most grating tracks, the classic bit of silliness that only the authors themselves find amusing, certainly not the listener. And yet the record had seemed promising. Not because of the Sanremo entry ("Vincere l'odio", much like "Canzone mononota", is a hollow, self-indulgent exercise designed to wow the Ariston crowd – and, judging by the results, this time round it didn't go especially well for them), but because the opening one-two punch, decidedly dark in tone, "Vacanza Alternativa" and "She Wants", has no ambition beyond making you laugh, and it succeeds brilliantly! Sure, the tracks use vulgarity without a shred of shame, but since when is that a problem? Let's not be hypocrites: would we even be talking about Elio e le Storie Tese today without “Quando ero piccolo/ tutti mi scherzavano/ per le dimensioni del mio pene”? So bring on lines like "dito nel sedere/ paura non fa" or "She wants in the posterior". The problem arises when they drop the vulgarity and try to get laughs through nonsense (something that, fair enough, still works for them, even if they're no longer able to conjure up romps like "La vendetta del Fantasma Formaggino" just by taking apart and reassembling a joke), or, worse, when they play the card of social satire, which – aside from Rocco Tanica's brief sketches – really isn't their forte. That's how pointless things like "Parla come mangi" or "Il rock della tangenziale" come about, redeemed only by the brilliant contributions of Mangoni and J-Ax respectively. Though rock bottom is reached with the pointless, embarrassing cover of Walter Murphy's "A Fifth Of Beethoven".

As for the rest, "China Disco Bar", "Inquisizione" and "Il primo giorno di scuola" are pleasant enough and go down easy with a faint smile, but is that really enough? Do they expect praise for yet another track where they bang on, even in the lyrics, about how good they are at playing their instruments? Personally, knowing both prog and Frank Zappa, I find it all rather tiresome. A special mention goes to the touching tribute to Francesco Di Giacomo on "La bomba intelligente", whose vocal tracks were recorded back in 2005 by the singer who passed away two years ago. Now that's a real little gem, almost incongruously tucked away inside an otherwise fairly forgettable record.

In 2017 the Elii unexpectedly announced their breakup, preceded by a Concerto Definitivo at the Forum in Assago (near Milan) and one last tour around the country. A proudly demented final farewell, sponsored by a funeral home that had been riding the social-media wave for months; quick and painless, just as they'd been doing for almost fifteen years with the "cd brulé" they themselves coined, sold at the end of shows alongside little beers and kitsch memorabilia.

Arrivedorci is also the title of the last song presented at the Sanremo Festival, a pure and simple collective embrace, an honest handshake sealing eternal peace between the Italian mainstream and its forever misfit champions. It's performed again, together with the previously unreleased "Il circo discutibile", as the opener of the live recording made on 19 December 2017.

The long parade of classics – with a few enjoyable moments from the albums closer to retirement – once again leaves a smile stamped on our faces, underscoring the stubbornness with which they kept subverting the logic of the Italian music industry from within, carrying forward an epic that's "Completamente antieconomica/ A propulsione elica [...] Dolcemente stitica, ma elogiata dalla critica". They take home the well-earned reputation of extraordinary musicians, unrepentant showmen, nostalgic for Feiez and for a "vita sbruciacchiata" on any stage, at bargain prices but with undiminished passion.

The "brown airship with no propeller and no rudder" vanishes over the horizon, and Italian music's most lovable goofballs "wave goodbye with the other hand", to the onlookers' astonishment. Arrivedorci.

Contributions by Michele Palozzo ("Arrivedorci")

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