Massimo Volume - Post-rock and Literature

A different approach

The period 1993-1995 was extremely fertile for the Italian independent scene: these were the years that produced records that redrew the musical landscape, updating the language of homegrown rock with results that were often interesting, sometimes excellent. Those years saw the release of albums such as the debut by Csi (the former Cccp, now more of a band and less of a performance), the Afterhours' turn to singing in Italian with the formidable “Germi”, and the debuts of Marlene Kuntz, Almamegretta, La Crus, and others. All important, for one reason or another, and above all genuine injections of new lifeblood into “Italian-style” rock. Most of these bands and artists are still active today, in some cases with considerable commercial success, as with Marlene Kuntz and Afterhours. There was then another band, debuting in those same years, apparently more minor, which did not survive the subsequent ebb — or rather, the absorption into the establishment — of those names and those proposals, but which managed, as much as or more than the others, to strike audiences with its originality and great expressive power, embodying through a unique sound and voice the unease lurking behind so many everyday lives. This band, destined to remain in the memory of fans of the most sincere and uncompromising music (and this is not just a figure of speech, as we'll see by the end), was called Massimo Volume.

“It was 1991, back then we rehearsed in a cellar with terrible equipment, we only had two old amplifiers, so to be able to hear the sound we kept saying: Massimo volume, turn it up to maximum volume.”

In that cellar, in Bologna, Emidio Clementi, Vittoria Burattini, Umberto Palazzo and Gabriele Ceci used to rehearse. A line-up made up of a runaway from San Benedetto del Tronto, a restless wanderer obsessed with writing (Clementi), a rocker who had cut his teeth in a previous project, Allison Run (Umberto Palazzo), a female drummer who sang when needed (Burattini), and a solid guitarist (Gabriele Ceci).

Massimo Volume's career shows how, over the short span of four albums, the band managed to impose its own personal voice thanks to a felicitous fusion of various talents, held together by a perseverance and clarity of purpose that allowed them to create genuinely innovative and expressive records. What strikes you most, listening back to the band's musical legacy today, is the sheer courage, the total detachment from the musical scene that emerged in that famous three-year span — already in itself independent and removed from overly commercial considerations — and the strength of their personality.

A demo tape recorded in 1992, now practically impossible to find, is the band's first official release, and presents a raw, unripe sound: distorted, dark and obsessive rock, but already pointing toward interesting directions. Above all, it shows just how difficult it was to blend Umberto Palazzo's singing, closer to a certain conventional indie spirit, with Clementi's voice, which limited itself to reciting the lyrics. Shortly after, Umberto Palazzo would leave the band, not without friction; it's plausible that having two such different ways of approaching vocals, and consequently the musical approach as a whole, was impossible to manage satisfactorily. The band's decision to carry on with Clementi alone would prove a fundamental step forward for the project, a progress that would be definitively completed with the arrival of guitarist Egle Sommacal, at the time a Dams student, already possessed of considerable technique. This is how the band's core line-up took shape: Vittoria provided lively, imaginative rhythmic support, especially once she lightened her patterns in favor of greater rhythmic versatility. Egle was the lead guitar, capable of noisy flare-ups, tenacious, incisive riffs, but also of refined flourishes and liquid, evocative solos. Emidio contributed, besides the bass, the voice and the lyrics: the real bone of contention. Using spoken word instead of singing was a risky gamble, dictated by obvious shortcomings (Emidio can't sing), but one that would prove a winning move from the very first full-length release.

As for the lyrical content, a brief aside is in order here. Among the bands that emerged in that three-year span, the vast majority paid particular attention to lyrics from the very start. The most significant examples are Csi, in which Ferretti diluted the poetic vein — fierce and essential in the earlier Cccp — into broader tableaux, without losing any of its evocative power. Afterhours are also very interesting, especially for singer and songwriter Manuel Agnelli's use of cut-up technique, with short phrases mixed together to produce an overall meaning that is intuited rather than understood, through a register that generally veers toward the grotesque and bitter mockery. Also worth noting are the lyrics of Marlene Kuntz and La Crus, although, especially in the former's case, there's sometimes a tendency toward overly elaborate, almost contrived word choices. Amid all this, Massimo Volume headed in a completely different direction: they favored narration pure and simple, raw and direct, entrusting brief sketches with the task of defining a life, a memory, a particular state of mind, but more in the form of prose than of “poetry”.

The vocabulary is everyday language, but every single word is perfectly balanced and precise. The first person singular is also frequently used, as if Emidio Clementi were recounting events that happened to him (which is partly true): characters and situations recur from album to album, hinting at and reconstructing the story of a life, a decidedly literary device. Even the band's detractors cannot help but recognize the high value of what is said in those songs, and it goes without saying that the union of those lyrics with that music produces explosive results.

The band signs with the tiny Bologna label Underground Records, and in 1993 their debut album, Stanze, is released.

Thoughts you can't hold back

Recorded in just three days, Stanze has a disruptive impact. Over a hard, almost post-hardcore rhythmic base, noise guitars and Emidio's spoken-word delivery burst in. The declared influences are Sonic Youth and Fugazi, but the flavor is different, thanks to the storytelling gifts of the voice. The album is more varied than it seems on first listen: Egle and Gabriele's guitars, for instance, move from razor-sharp riffs to noise frenzies, crossing paths or joining forces in derailing sonic trains. The drums (and bass, though less noticeably) hold the rhythm, grinding out beat after beat, with obsessive tones that capture the overall mood well, except on a few tracks, where they become a hypnotic or tribal backdrop. Emidio, surrounded by this sonic inferno, limits himself to declaiming, and at times screaming, his stories of urban lives so wretched they provoke discomfort and impatience. There are outpourings steeped in total nihilism ("Giorni", "Stanze"), intensely vivid recollections of past events that have left indelible traces despite their essential pointlessness ("Ronald, Tomas e io"), and narrations of everyday events that reveal the emptiness of lives crushed by gestures repeated to the point of nausea ("In nome di Dio", the latter close to the literary minimalism of Raymond Carver).

All told, it's a great debut, slightly marred by some naivety in the use of vocals and certain overly simplified musical structures. In truth, it's just a matter of fine-tuning, because the project is already fully defined in all its parts, and Clementi's lyrics are already tight, lucid and incisive. And in any case, within an already very good overall level, at least two tracks stand out for their sheer brilliance. They sit at the heart of the record, a little past the midpoint. "Ororo" rises from the ashes of the earlier "Vedute dallo spazio": a powerful opening bass riff and sustained drums give way to an overwhelming electric charge, over which Clementi's delirium rises like a possessed orator, later transfigured into what reads as a genuine statement of intent for himself and the band, before closing in a dissonant orgy of guitars. Once the fire has burned out, then... Alessandro tiene un diario. The ticking of the drums and a circular, hypnotic succession of guitar notes sustain the description, through obsessive gestures, of the life of a mentally troubled man seen from within; then, when the music suddenly explodes, there's a jolt, something that breaks, that opens up inside. "Alessandro" is probably Massimo Volume's masterpiece, as well as one of the most dramatic, intense, pure songs ever written in Italy. It observes without judging, conveying the sense of an entire existence in barely four minutes. The words dig deep and build a life, outlining its shapes and its most significant movements. An essential track, in every sense of the word, and a display of unmatched maturity.

Self-awareness within suffering

The last track on Stanze is "Cinque strade". It is, in effect, the lyric of a 1983 song (the musical backing is entirely different) by Faust'o, a forgotten old glory of Italy's first new wave season. This isn't the place to discuss Faust'o (real name Fausto Rossi) at length, except to say that he was a bold and original artist, able to fuse his loves (Beatles, Bowie, Ultravox among others) into fresh new-wave-styled songs with biting, ironic lyrics, but also, as that very 1983 album shows, capable of using a kind of automatic writing with free associations, seemingly nonsensical yet powerfully effective. Faust'o is an acknowledged idol of Massimo Volume, and he is entrusted with producing the album that follows Stanze. It must be said that not everything goes smoothly, and the man leaves the console before finishing the record (differing ideas on vocal treatment, by way of explanation), although his name still appears in the credits of the album, released in 1995 under the title Along the edges.

Meanwhile, what had happened? What happened is that Stanze had met with extraordinary critical success, hailed as a masterpiece, a point of reference, and, given the conditions under which it was released, it really is an excellent outcome. The buzz is such that the band is even signed by a major label, Wea, finding itself in the ideal conditions to further develop its own artistic path.

Along the edges represents the natural continuation of the discourse begun with Stanze, while at the same time completing it, as well as serving as a culmination point. The music, its rougher edges smoothed out, is now more evocative, closer to the idea of art-rock in the best sense of the term. The sounds are more finely chiseled, the two guitars are less noise-driven and more inclined toward elegant interplay, without losing the tension and drama, which if anything are now sharper and deeper. Musically, their formula can be described as a kind of post-rock, meaning a clear rejection of a well-defined song form (complete with bridge, chorus and so on), in favor of guitar phrasing that forms the backbone of each track, also shaping the melodic lines, sometimes supported by the bass, while the drums employ a variety of rhythms, never especially fast and very carefully produced. On some tracks the bass is handled by Franco Cristaldi, a friend and collaborator of Fausto Rossi, and his contribution is felt, with full-bodied notes that support the guitar.

Along the edges is undoubtedly better than Stanze: having lost a bit of its original fury along the way, the music here becomes more incisive and detailed, and the lyrics, already excellent on the debut, take on even more refined and cutting nuances. To grasp the scope of the work, one need only listen in quick succession to the formidable opening trio of tracks, which shows just how far the band has matured. The album opens with "Il primo dio", a passionate elegy dedicated to the little-known poet Emanuel Carnevali, an idol of Clementi's and a tragic, romantic figure. Clementi sweeps away any possible rhetoric, and the way he sketches the man's unfortunate existence while simultaneously magnifying his art is moving and dazzling: "To say something while being swept up in the hurricane, that's the only thing that can make up for not being the hurricane myself…".

Rimbaud is also cited and honored, another example, like Carnevali, of an existence utterly consumed by the fire of one's own talent. This track is followed by "Il tempo scorre lungo i bordi": here the music is slow, menacing and unsettling, and Clementi speaks of two people whose bond has been drained away by passing time, leaving only dust behind; at a certain point the track suddenly accelerates, as if the accumulated tension simply had to explode... and indeed it does, sweeping everything away and leaving only regret and frustration. Finally, closing the trio is the sensational "Inverno '85", one of the finest achievements by Clementi and the band as a whole: an insistent guitar phrase and marching-beat drums guide us through the recollection of afternoons spent searching for meaning in a tormented adolescence through the obsessive listening of a song, "Wicked Gravity" by Jim Carroll — something that has happened to everyone, shown here in all its expressive force. This is where the record reaches its peak, particularly when Clementi steals and makes definitively his own Jim Carroll's line "mi sento come il soffitto di una chiesa bombardata", which lands with the weight of a boulder, moving and furious.

For the rest, other bleak and desolate visions are explored: from the hyperrealism of "Pizza Express", to yet another outpouring of malaise in "Nessun ricordo", not forgetting two other remarkable tracks; the first is "Meglio di uno specchio", a train racing at full speed along the thread of a merciless analysis of a relationship, and the other is the closing "Ravenna", a curious and aching portrait of one's own inadequacy. Worth noting, among the contributors on this and other tracks, is the presence of Manuel Giannini, already producer of the first album as well as founder of the conceptual avant-rock band Starfuckers.

Along the edges is an extremely lucid and painful analysis of seemingly unimportant events and depictions, dissected surgically so as to bring to light the malaise and emptiness of so many lives; it's a fundamental record for Italian rock, albeit an isolated one, almost unreachable in its raw beauty.

From here to nowhere

If "Cinque strade" was a handing of the baton from the first album to the second, "Da qui", a brief interlude of guitar and voice featured on Along the edges, represents the connective link between that record and the band's new work, released in 1997 and taking its name straight from that very track. Before the album's release, a bombshell piece of news had thrilled the band's fans: none other than his majesty John Cale, yes, him, had put himself forward for the new record. Then, as they say, dreams die at dawn, and the project fell through: Clementi and his bandmates explained that it was mostly a matter of financial issues, such as John Cale's request to work in New York for the recording. Still, the mark of esteem remained, proof of the band's real stature, adding to the other satisfactions achieved so far. Production is entrusted to the skilled hands of Steve Piccolo and Kaba Kavazzuti, who had already worked on the previous album, with excellent results. In the meantime the band has gained another member, Metello Orsini. There are now three guitars, but the chiseling work is such that, rather than producing a "wall of sound", the textures become rarefied and clear, with the lead guitar often tracing liquid, expansive solos.

A notable shift in atmosphere can be felt, compared to the earlier aggressiveness. Indeed, an indefinable feeling hangs over this entire record, something aleatory that pervades the notes and words of every single track. Da qui is one continuous wandering through brief stories, narratives often compressed into quick flashes, where the music becomes almost static, and the words settle lightly and clearly: that's the case with "Sotto il cielo" and "C'è questo stanotte". Elsewhere, as in "Manciuria", "Atto definitivo" or "Avvertimento", the tension that pervaded the previous record can still be felt; but, as already noted, in this case the overall mood is more uniform, not particularly dark, but certainly not calm either; it almost feels like the diary of a thirty-something going through an existential crisis. In "La città morta", one even comes close to smiling, listening to the account of the band's thoroughly unlucky winter trip to one of those towns that only come alive in summer, like Rimini or Riccione; the memory of "Ravenna", from the previous record, comes to mind almost instantly.

In any case, the words chosen are about as far removed as possible from "youthful" conventions, freed from the emotional excesses that characterized Stanze and Along the edges, and well supported by elegant, precise music; if the label weren't already in use for a genre that's otherwise worlds apart, one could genuinely call this Adult Rock. With this album, Massimo Volume achieve a kind of formal perfection that would have been unthinkable just a few years earlier; if Da qui doesn't surpass the heights of its predecessor, it's only because it's sealed within an uncompromising internal system, whose premises one must accept and whose meaning one must share, exemplified by the fine line from A. Jodorowski placed in the inner booklet: "I then understand that it is not good to seek safety, because it leads to death. E che è meglio vivere nell'incerto". Although musically more melodic, it's a record that gives little or nothing to a casual listen, paradoxically even more so than its predecessors, which are perhaps more approachable thanks to their furious sonic onslaughts. Clementi himself would describe it as the most difficult record the band ever made.

Having already discussed some of the tracks, we still need to mention the splendid, sweeping “Sul Viking Express”, which conveys a tangible sense of disorientation; the delicate and aching “Qualcosa sulla vita”, which rests on lyrics never so well delivered, and closes on a more hopeful note than usual. And then there's “Manhattan di notte”, a nocturnal philosophical reflection with lyrics worthy of an anthology; the progression of the lines “Non c'è nessuno dentro queste stanze illuminate/dentro questo poster 'Manhattan Di Notte'/che nasconde l'interno della cucina di un ristorante cinese” is stunning. Finally “Stagioni”, which closes the album unexpectedly: a sweeping, epic track, yet another transfigured memory that catches fire at the end, as if to dissolve in one go all the tension accumulated beneath the surface. A truly significant epilogue, a fitting seal on an album that is once again excellent.

The first of (dis)c(s)

The release of Da qui must have felt, for Massimo Volume, like a sort of dead end: the band had thoroughly explored its musical approach, partly due to the self-imposed limitations, such as the choice to play almost exclusively guitar-driven rock, the use of spoken word, the kind of lyrics employed. For their new record, then, the band decides to put itself in the hands of Manuel Agnelli, the aforementioned singer and leader of Afterhours, as well as the true éminence grise of Italian rock in recent years, not least for his role as a producer (Scisma, Pitch and Cristina Donà), and also as organizer of the Tora! Tora! Italian rock festival. Manuel Agnelli shares a deep friendship with Emidio Clementi: together they will travel to India, and will collaborate on a joint tour, Agnelli Clementi. All this to say that the man seems exactly the right figure to broaden the band's scope, both musically and in terms of sales, which, despite the great enthusiasm gathered so far, had been rather mediocre.

Club privé, released in 1999, thus arrives with a series of substantial changes. To begin with, yet another lineup change: after seven years of honorable service, Gabriele Ceci leaves the band to pursue personal projects. Emidio Clementi attempts actual singing: on the record, two or three tracks see him modulating his uncertain voice. Finally, the austere guitar rock is expanded with new textures, thanks to Manuel Agnelli's production touches: the record sounds much more varied, Vittoria's rhythms are lighter and more diverse, while Emidio shifts his usual register somewhat, tackling, beyond his literary autobiographism, also a less desperate, though not exactly optimistic, vision of love. But the final result, sad to say, comes across as weak and not as successful as one might have hoped.

Club Privé is a record that is born tired, to quote a line from one of the album's less successful tracks. What doesn't work, exactly? For one thing, a touch of mannerism appears for the first time, an uninspired reuse of certain codes that elsewhere had produced such brilliant results; the lyrics are no longer as incisive, perhaps due to a move toward a more conventional song form, and even Emidio's singing doesn't stir much, beyond the understandably unexciting result. It's not a bad record, let it be clear: what's missing, though, is that formidable cohesion that bound the three previous works together: there's neither the fervor of the first, nor the ruthless analysis of the second, nor the homogeneity and otherness (or rather, austerity) of the third. There are some fine moments, of course; for instance the opening “Pondicherry”, which moves lightly with its countermelodies, the drums in odd meter, and the vocals sketching a relationship in all its contradictions, its possibilities and impossibilities. Or “Avevi ragione”, which is melancholic and hazy like the little Christmas tree lights seen after Christmas has passed. Pained and sweet. Then there's the bizarre experiment of “Il tuo corpo affamato”, perhaps the most “pop” thing Massimo Volume ever wrote, the obsessive “Privé”, built on a hammering rhythm and the continuous repetition of the line “Io non ho speranza, ma credo nella cura”, and the long mantra “Dopo che”.

Be that as it may, Club privé comes, with time, to be seen as a transitional work, necessary even in its less-than-perfect execution... Instead, after the customary tours, accompanied by two more guitarists, Marcella Riccardi and Dario Parisini, who replace Metello Orsini, and after completing the soundtrack for the film “Almost Blue”, assembled by mixing old tracks and new instrumentals, good only for completists, after all this, it happens that in January 2002 the band, with a terse statement on its official site, announces its breakup.

It's a hard blow, of course: the band could still have offered a great deal, and had barely put a foot wrong; on the other hand, the breakup came at the right time, happening before personal relationships could deteriorate and the music suffer as a result. But the dismay is great, at the close of one of the most original and sincere experiences heard in Italy, and not only in the Nineties. Original, indeed: their path was not followed by other bands, because it was too personal and shaped around the shoulders of its creators. Anyone treading the same ground would have failed miserably, lacking the power of Clementi's lyrics and the band's great ability to build around him sounds so penetrating and fitting. In fact, only around 2004 was the name Massimo Volume linked again to another band. The reference is obviously to Offlaga Disco Pax, a scrappy and irresistible outfit that also uses spoken word in a more musically ironic context, but one equally attentive to the weight of words, building a small idealized world out of 1980s adolescent nostalgia, Cccp (the band) and Pci (the political party). It's not a direct influence as such, but rather an effective reuse of that same modus operandi.

Is Everything That Separates Sacred?

Emidio Clementi had already been a solo performer since the Nineties, pursuing a career as a writer and giving life to readings in which he was accompanied by skilled collaborators (often Egle Sommacal was at his side), but after the announced breakup of Massimo Volume he was eager to turn his literary impulses back into album form. Clementi was fascinated by travel. He had already been to India with Manuel Agnelli, a trip immortalized in a couple of songs that ended up on “Quello che non c'è”. A few weeks after Massimo Volume's dissolution, he recruited Massimo Carozzi (who had been creating the soundscapes for the readings of his novel “La notte del Pratello”) and Dario Parisini (former Disciplinatha, already involved in the recording of “Club Privée”), proposing to them a new exotic destination: Morocco, Tangier to be precise, to be reached via a three-day bus journey, bringing along the equipment needed to make an album inside a hotel room, perhaps the very same hotel William Burroughs had used to write “Naked Lunch”, the “El Muniria”.

El Muniria thus becomes, not by chance, the name of the new project, a romantic and adventurous idea for a trio that, penniless as they were, had to settle for a much humbler residence, the Hotel Massilia — and it was perhaps a stroke of luck, because from there they could breathe a less "touristy", more genuine and bohemian atmosphere. Having convinced the hotelier to let them play some songs in a room, the three alternate between life as experienced in the North African city and the far-from-simple recording sessions. The backbone of those experiments lies in the electronic textures and the numerous samples crafted by Carozzi, influenced by dub and trip-hop, over which Clementi's vivid lyrical flashes and Parisini's rich guitar interferences (at times processed) interlock with skillful, finely chiseled work.

The final goal was only half achieved: of the record (released by Homesleep only two years later under the title Stanza 218) just the skeleton was completed there. It was finished in Bologna at Carozzi's home studio, with contributions from Giacomo Fiorenza and Francesco Donadello, plus Steve Piccolo's voice on "Narrating A Photograph" and Vittoria Burattini's drumming. Emidio Clementi's poetry hits you in the gut, his words tighten around your throat, take your breath away, but in a different way than the post-rock emphasis expressed with Massimo Volume: here the movements are more sinuous, nocturnal, opiate. Although Tangier is almost never explicitly mentioned, the overall atmosphere manages to evoke it. Clementi searches for words that impress a rhythm, relies on repetition, doesn't spell out complicated stories but distills the themes, lingering on a few meaningful details. It retains the flavor of Massimo Volume, while at the same time duly distancing itself from it, aiming for a different result, not necessarily comparable.

Musically speaking, several samples were drawn from records the three of them were listening to at the time (the saxophone at the end of “Santo”, the piano passage used in “Dentro questo bicchiere”), samples and voices (in “Fermati qui” it's Bukowski) are looped, combined with ambient sounds captured in the alleys, squares and markets of Tangier. The guitars weave in precious textures, brushing now against blues, now against noise avant-gardism, with the intent of making the record accessible even to an audience not particularly inclined toward electronic music. But Stanza 218 (which would remain the only release credited to El Muniria) was met with a rather cool reception, perhaps precisely because of the comparison with Massimo Volume's discography, only to be widely reassessed as time passed — indeed, some even consider it among the best moments of Clementi's career. That so recognizable sound, its being out of time and detached from trends, is what made it stand the test of time.

After Massimo Volume went their separate ways, the other historic members also continued their respective careers, engaging in new projects. Among these, worth mentioning first is Vittoria Burattini's experience with Franklin Delano between 2004 and 2005.

Egle Sommacal, for his part, was briefly a member of Ulan Bator and of Blake/e/e/e, a lineup that, as it happens, includes former members of Franklin Delano. He then made his solo debut with Legno (2007), followed by Tanto non arriva (2009), Il cielo si sta oscurando (2014) and The atlas of dust (2016).

So the story, albeit under other names, goes on... and as sometimes happens, it comes back to its starting point. Indeed, in mid-2008, following two invitations that arrived almost simultaneously, Massimo Volume in their classic lineup (Clementi, Burattini and Sommacal, plus the help of the talented Stefano Pilia, at the time busy with ¾ Had Been Eliminated), reform and agree both to create and perform a musical accompaniment for the silent film “Fall of the House of Usher” (Jean Epstein, 1928), and to appear at the 2008 Traffic Festival in Turin. In the first case, the soundtrack, taut as in their finest moments, pairs masterfully with the images unfolding on screen; in the second, it's a genuine triumph, moving for both the musicians and the many fans who turned out for the event, sealing the renewal of a thread that had never truly been broken.

The lengthy tour that followed was simply confirmation of how sorely this musical project had been missed, its memory left unscathed by the passing of time – if anything, strengthened by it. At this point, there's a palpable curiosity about how the music of Massimo Volume will evolve once (as they've promised) they shut themselves away in the rehearsal room once again. The feeling, sweet and positive, is of being faced not with some pathetic comeback, but with yet another stage in a journey that has taken different directions, only to converge once more onto a single path of great serenity and awareness.

The next step comes with the release of Cattive Abitudini, their new work after roughly ten years of silence. With Stefano Pilia now part of the family on second guitar, Emidio Clementi, Egle Sommacal and Vittoria Burattini bridge distances and build connections across far-flung seasons, reclaiming their own space. A space which, as ever, is made up of more or less significant characters, minor stories and elusive settings, but also of almost imperceptible existential nuances. Cattive Abitudini, in essence, can be read as a kind of "classic" synthesis of everything the Massimo Volume adventure has been – a synthesis that gathers up that legacy, nourishing it and projecting it into the future. In the end, the musical value of these twelve non-songs matters little, because what counts here is re-establishing contact, getting an old love story back on track, reawakening old spells.

"Showing the points where life stagnates" (to borrow a fine line from "Le nostre ore contate") seems to be the ultimate aim of Clementi's poetics. The life his words confront is made up of scattered epiphanies, to which the poet (because that, at bottom, is what Mimì is...) must pay attention, untangling himself from the cobwebs of the obvious, poised between raptures of the heart and weaknesses of the body. Around this wandering of words and images move the guitars of Sommacal and Pilia, whose interplay traces arabesques and tears open lyrical horizons made of memories scattered across time, amid the echoes of his lament ("Robert Lowell", "Coney Island"). These are song-narratives that often proceed through slow accumulation, opening up into post-rock splendour, descending into crumbling depths or giving way to noisy meanderings.

If life can be "calmly contained within a banal seaside snapshot" ("Tra la sabbia dell'oceano"), then every moment of this being-here holds within it the secret of existence itself. That's why Mimì keeps sifting through even the humblest rivulets of everyday life. Elsewhere, it's understated elegies – at times extremely sparse and charged with cryptic pathos – that attempt this climb up the sheer face of Life ("Avevi fretta di andartene", "Invito al massacro", "Mi piacerebbe ogni tanto averti qui", "In un mondo dopo il mondo"), while love persists in its wonderful enigmatic nature. And if "La bellezza violata" recalls the nostalgic brightness of "Stagioni", the neurotic edge and post-punk unease of "Fausto" and the single "Litio" bring back the most tormented moments of "Stanze". Because, deep down, time keeps slipping away at the edges. Today as then.

On the heels of their comeback in album form, in April 2011 La Tempesta released a Split Ep shared with Bachi Da Pietra, on which each band reworks a track by the other, but above all contributes a precious unreleased piece.

Obviously, the most eagerly awaited moment is the new Massimo Volume composition, and "Un altro domani" doesn't disappoint, confirming the moment of grace the Bologna band is going through. The guitars of Egle Sommacal and Stefano Pilia now chase and intertwine with each other to perfection, the solid drumming of Vittoria Burattini is a given, the backbone of the group alongside the bass and, above all, Mimì's deliberate, measured words. It's a new, important chapter in an already legendary journey, one in which "Un altro domani" scatters little seeds of itself, building a bridge toward a future from which more satisfaction is to be expected.

On October 1, 2013 came the band's sixth album, Aspettando i barbari, a work that, from a purely musical standpoint, surprises with the presence (significant, yet never overbearing) of an electronic component, able to further enrich the palette of colours the group was after. The overall picture grows harsher compared to the recent past, with the gentler touches tending to disappear almost entirely. Produced by Massimo Volume and Marco Caldera (who also handles synth and sampler on a couple of tracks), the album marks the consolidation of the quartet around the figures of Emidio Clementi, Vittoria Burattini, Egle Sommacal and Stefano Pilia. It speaks of "barbarians", of presences that arrive to disturb our existence, capable of upending our lives and destroying the already fragile certainties we've laboriously built. "The enemy advances", day after day, seizing our territory, shaking our thoughts, disturbing the already precarious balance, putting an end to every utopia, feeding disillusionment and unease. That unease is dramatically rendered by Mimì whenever he decides to raise his voice, sending shivers down the spine. In his lyrics, always visionary and engaging, this time quotations from John Cage and Mao Tse-Tung appear.

Horror is at the door, it can catch us by surprise, "La notte", amid incomparable snapshots of ordinary people who never stop fighting. Small stories that become universal. For every Osama who gets taken down ("Compound" tells the story of his demise), dozens more are ready to take his place, putting us and our loved ones at risk. "Vince chi resiste alla nausea, chi perde meno, chi non ha da perdere" (from "Dio delle zecche", the result of a cut-up of poems written by the poet and sociologist of the last century Danilo Dolci). And we're left there, contemplating the futuristic designs of Richard Buckminster Fuller ("Dymaxion Song") or the pain seeping out of the songs of Vic Chesnutt (“una corona di spine/ poggiata sul palco/ fra la chitarra e le spie”). While life is overcome by waiting and the wind shakes whatever gives way ("La cena"), we run headlong toward the days awaiting us ("Da dove sono stato"). Everything is visually distilled in the intimate image chosen for the cover: a work by Ryan Mendoza depicting two sisters embracing, in a stance of mutual protection, likely moments before some painful event arrives to shatter the balance. Aspettando i barbari is an album full of jolts, firmly immersed in the ambiguity of the present, one that will keep Clementi's new slogans stamped in fans' heads for days ("Vi piaccia o no" is what everyone will be belting out at the top of their lungs at the next shows).

If it's true that we've always loved the literary character of Massimo Volume, found in Emidio Clementi's plain, straightforward spoken delivery, it's also down to the evocative quality of their sound, an echo of New Hollywood and postwar minimalist fiction. In the works the group has devoted to cinema – from the soundtrack for "Almost Blue" (Alex Infascelli, 2000) to their spot-on scoring of Jean Epstein's "La caduta della casa di Usher" – they have indeed shown an ability to recognize the contexts in which words aren't enough, or more simply aren't needed at all. Luce mia, the debut documentary film by writer-director and protagonist Lucio Viglierchio, follows step by step the process of overcoming a serious illness, acute myeloid leukemia, aided also by the closeness and mutual support of another patient, Sabrina. Faced with such a human and sincere testimony, the quartet's music could only mirror the emotion stirred by that story, baring itself more than ever and paring its style down to the bare essentials.

Just a few, hushed notes spread across six brief sequences: musical frames that, even on their own, manage to evoke the deepest loneliness, a sense of waiting and hope, the radiant presence of another human being. The fresh perspective on reality also comes through in the luminous chords of an acoustic guitar, and we're moved even more by the simple piano melody of the finale, amid the flicker of a clean electric guitar that comes and goes as if, after the long hospital stay, one could finally catch their breath again. Music that seems to remind us that, facing life head-on, we are "better than a mirror", because we see ourselves through the other.

Between one Massimo Volume release and the next, the individual members' artistic adventures never stopped. Egle Sommacal produced two further works much praised by critics: Il cielo si sta oscurando (2014) and The atlas of dust (2016).

Stefano Pilia became one of the busiest guitarists on the Italian independent scene, joining Afterhours as a full member (he'll be part of the line-up on Folfiri o Folfox), while carrying forward his excellent hard-psych project In Zaire and a host of collaborations, among which are worth mentioning at least those with Paolo Spaccamonti, Massimo Pupillo of Zu, Alberto Boccardi, and Cagna Schiumante (alongside Xabier Iriondo). In 2015 Pilia also released a solo album: Blind Sun – New Century Chistology. His many commitments wouldn't allow him to guarantee adequate continuity within Massimo Volume: leaving the group would become inevitable, though he still left a fundamental mark on the second phase of the band's life.

Emidio Clementi, for his part, continued down paths halfway between literature and experimentation. In 2015 he released his actual solo debut, Notturno Americano. A year later he launched the Sorge project, shared with young producer Marco Caldera, which would produce the album Tomorrow's war. 2017, meanwhile, saw his artistic marriage with Corrado Nuccini of Giardini di Mirò for the album adaptation of T.S. Eliot's Quattro quartetti, followed by a tour lasting over a year.

Clementi is by now also a well-regarded writer: his literary career, begun in 1997, has produced twelve books, the latest of which is L'amante imperfetto, published in November 2017.

In early March 2019 came Il nuotatore, which marks Stefano Pilia's departure, with the band reduced for the first time to the historic trio of Clementi-Burattini-Sommacal, who continue to show authority and the need to speak only when there's genuinely something worth saying, perhaps as supporting rather than leading actors. Indeed, if you watch the footage of the 2016 massacre in Florida, the point of view isn't that of the hero, but of the one admiring the police officer shielding the defenceless with his own body, escorting them away from the vile terrorist's gunfire. The narrating voice of "Una voce a Orlando" wouldn't have the courage for that; rather, it justifies to itself its own reluctance to face the circumstances head-on, the same reluctance found in the sinuous "Amica prudenza" and in the closing "Vedremo domani". If there's a childhood memory here, it's not tied to moments of tender carefree joy, but to recalling the story of an uncle who lost everything gambling, everything, even "La ditta di acqua minerale" that he once owned and in which he found himself demoted to a mere employee, forever condemned to watch the cards as a bystander. Or to a mother asking her son to dress properly, taking the utmost care with his underwear, because if by some misfortune he ends up in hospital he shouldn't look bad – and from here a parallel is drawn with the Spanish General José Sanjurjo, who fell into the sea in 1936 along with the plane that was taking him to assume the role of Head of State. The post-rock guitars of Egle, the tom-and-snare-driven drumming of Vittoria, our own Maureen Tucker, the full-bodied bass and the stirring spoken delivery of Mimì, as vivid and focused as ever, perhaps without the furious outbursts of years gone by but strengthened by newfound maturity, by the self-assurance of a writer of real substance. Il nuotatore doesn't reach the emotional peaks of "Cattive abitudini", but maintains an extremely high overall quality, and forgoes the electronics tried out on "Aspettando i barbari": everything you hear here is guitars.

Post-rock and literature, quotes from John Cheever — recently honored by Matt Berninger too in “Carin At The Liquor Store” — and the dreamlike image from “The Swimmer,” the album's most beautiful moment: crossing the neighbors' empty swimming pools, garden after garden, with dead leaves in place of water, to reach the entrance of one's own house and find it with its doors and windows smashed in. Pulling back the veil often risks uncovering a reality worse than the one feared: better to hold onto one's own roots, without appropriating someone else's story, steering clear of deceptive appearances. There's also Dostoevsky, in the prayer of someone who feels excluded, “Nostra Signora del caso”; there's a Venetian stroll with Nietzsche in “Fred,” where we discover a Clementi who's even protective. Finally, everyone gathers in a circle to ask whether one can live without one's own dark side: would a world forever immersed in light really be so desirable? “L'ultima notte del mondo” is an omen that, unexpectedly, unsettles. Another powerful image, another moment of reflection. In these frantic times we need, more and more, to stop every so often and think. For this reason too, the second life of Massimo Volume risks becoming even more necessary than the first.

Long out of print, in October 2021 the small but enterprising label Love Boat made available again the only album released under the name El Muniria, Stanza 218, with the bonus of fifteen remix versions put together for the occasion, commissioned from Italian artists and producers, each of whom reworked the material according to their own sensibility. The result is of the highest level, with more than a few standout moments.

These are reinterpretations that, while starting from viewpoints different from those of the original authors, confirm — and in some cases amplify — the hypnotic, dark, obsessive, at times narcotic nature of the originals. What strikes most are the surprises, like when Maria Valentina Chirico, in her version of “Insieme,” uses a little girl's voice in place of Emidio's, achieving an unsettling effect, or when Blak Saagan drags us into a hyper-psychedelic thirteen-minute trip, turning “Forse fra un attimo” into an irresistibly exciting flow.

The pandemic puts the band's activity on hold, and just as the world is finally emerging from it, on 12 July 2023 comes the tragic news of the sudden death of Gabriele Ceci. Guitarist for Massimo Volume until 1998, when he left the band to take on a managerial role at Poliservice, a company that handles waste management in an area of Abruzzo, Ceci was 53 and died in a car accident while carrying out an inspection visit.

2023 closes with the release of Stagioni, a tribute album strongly championed by Mimmo Pesare of NOS Records, containing twelve songs evenly split between the pre- and post-reunion eras, in strict chronological order. Among the notable artists taking part in these reinterpretations are Mauro Ermanno Giovanardi, Sheet Music, Cesare Basile, Francesco Bianconi, Bachi da Pietra, Giovanni Succi, Marco Ancona, and Maverick Persona, the new project by Amerigo Verardi.

The different way each artist on Stagioni places the accents, enunciates the words, and brings out the situations being narrated has the merit of letting further meanings surface — meanings that escaped our ears at the time, or perhaps it's simply the passage of time, hindsight, that now brings them up, letting them magically appear. There are points we had overlooked, underestimated, taken for granted. And there are points, many points, that confirm just how high Mimì's poetry already stood back then, and how much Massimo Volume's trajectory was a one-of-a-kind, and rather underrated, presence within the golden decade of the Italian "alternative" scene.

Contributions by Claudio Lancia (“Stanza 218”, “Split Ep”, “Aspettando i Barbari”, “Il Nuotatore”, “Stanza 218 reissue”, “Stagioni”), Francesco Nunziata (“Cattive Abitudini”) and Michele Palozzo (“Luce mia”)

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