Nomadi - Notes on the Road

"Our fans send us hundreds of tapes from all over Italy. We stay in touch, we talk things over, and in the end we choose the best tracks together with them." The enthusiasm with which he tells it leaves no doubt: Beppe Carletti, founder and sole survivor of the original lineup of the historic Emilian band, still believes in the "Nomadi style" - thirty-five years of songs and successes shared in full communion with the audience. An unbreakable formula, despite the band's constant lineup changes, a "big family" open to everyone. "Every new member," Carletti explains, "knows they'll have to share our creed; there are the concerts, there are the many fan clubs scattered across Italy. Some have found it too demanding, and indeed they've left."

Those who remain, though, still have plenty of passion to turn into music. That's confirmed by the band's most recent album, "A Story to Tell". A record that deals with the death penalty, but also friendship, love, folk legends, and dreams. These are recurring themes in the nomadic production of the group. "We've always been labelled a 'political' band," says Carletti. "We don't deny our past, but our songs have always been 'social' above all; with 'Auschwitz', for instance, we wanted to sing about a moment in history, not push an ideology. Unfortunately, there have since been plenty of other Auschwitzes. Our stories are often dramatic, but in the end they always leave room for hope. We don't want to depress people, just to make them think."

This has been the band's philosophy since their debut. The first embryonic version of what would become Nomadi was born on a hot day in 1961, right in the heart of the post-boom era. A group of young men, led by Beppe and his accordion, began performing in the villages of the Modena countryside. At first they called themselves I Monelli. But they soon realised the name was limiting: they couldn't be "brats" forever. What they really felt like, in music as in life, was "vagabonds". It was 1962 when a sixteen-year-old lad joined the rest of the gang: Augusto Daolio, the philosopher, the one who would bring a touch of poetry and magic to the group.

That's how Nomadi were born, the only Italian band to have spanned thirty-five years of history. They grew and changed alongside an ever-shifting Italy, while always holding on to their own identity. Augusto's death in 1992, at just 45, was a heavy blow, perhaps marking not an ending but an important turning point. "It was the only time in all these years that I truly thought about quitting," Carletti recalls. "The idea of going on stage without him seemed inconceivable. But that same year another member of the band, bassist Dante Pergreffi, also died in a car accident. So I rebelled; I realised that the only way to keep my friends' memory alive was to carry on. And that's exactly what happened: Augusto's grave, in the Novellara cemetery, isn't a sad place; it's full of life, there's a guitar hanging there, a t-shirt, so many mementos. And every young person who comes to our concerts asks me about Augusto."

A tribute album featuring various Italian artists (including a haunting version of "Noi non ci saremo" by Csi) was released in 1995 to honour his memory. But who was Augusto Daolio really? Carletti remembers him with the emotion of a friend rather than a bandmate: "He was a complete artist: singer, painter, writer, poet. We met when we were 16; we both came from a small rural town, same story: fifth grade and then straight to work, helping out our parents. But then he did it all on his own, he started reading books, writing, and before long he was already a cut above the rest of us." Augusto's charisma was plain to see on stage, where he always gave his all. "And yet he was an introvert, he could almost seem distant, but really he was just hiding his shyness. On stage, though, all of that vanished: it was wonderful to hear him talk with the audience."

Together, Carletti and Daolio shared the joy of triumphs, but also the frustration of many lost battles. Like their ill-fated appearance at "Disco per l'estate" with what would go on to become their anthem, "Io vagabondo" (in the lead after the first night, they were then demoted to last place simply because "someone had complained"). Or like the impossible fight against Rai censorship over "Dio è morto". "They saw it as a left-wing, materialist song. Maybe some of the people who came to our concerts thought the same. In fact it was full of spirituality and hope." Radio Vaticana noticed that, and played it on air even before Rai did.

The Sixties marked the rise of Nomadi. Their music, their thirst for freedom, won over the young. They had anger inside them and a strong artistic sense, a desire to stand out but also to keep their own integrity intact. Their thoughts took flight, in an immense, imaginary music that turned their philosophy into verse. In the Sixties two members of the group left, and the bassist who stepped in was called Umberto Maggi, "a clean-cut face, a true Milanese transplanted to Modena," as Carletti describes him. Their songs won over the young, explosive and dramatically of-the-moment. This was also when the bond with Francesco Guccini began, an affection that went beyond music, so much so that Nomadi released a covers album of his songs, I Nomadi Perform Guccini. It was 1974.

The years go by, and the music world seems to turn its back on the small band of wandering philosophers.

On a Rai radio broadcast from Bologna, where they appeared as guests, the host even suggested they should quit the scene altogether, because, in his view, they had nothing left to say. Nomadi, however, carried on regardless of the criticism, though unable to make sense of the audience's sudden change of heart: "Sometimes people might not understand you, but you always have to follow your own ideals; if you're at peace with yourself, time will prove you right."

Hard times, in other words. "We tightened our belts, years with little work, but with a huge desire to take on the world." To channel their anger, Nomadi even founded a football team. The album that in some way marked their comeback was "Noi ci saremo". It was 1976, and from that point on a fiercely loyal audience formed, one that has loved and followed the Nomadi family through thick and thin ever since.

On 15 September 1983, at the Festa dell'Unità in Reggio Emilia, Nomadi celebrated twenty years together: it was a triumph, with the five band members arriving aboard a gleaming red spider, flanked by crowds on both sides. The years that followed, however, were marked by ups and downs. It seemed as though young people had grown tired of their music. Only the most loyal fans stuck around.

The Nineties, on the other hand, started off brilliantly for the band from Emilia: accolades, even rare TV appearances, new contacts. For a moment it seemed as though their old glory had returned. Until Augusto Daolio's illness and death tore through and scorched the heart of Nomadi. "The idea of carrying on at the same level seemed impossible, there was a risk of coming across like a boxer still standing but out on his feet." Yet the miracle happened again, once more thanks to that extraordinary bond with their audience. "At the end of the day, it's like another nomad, one that feels fully part of what we do. It's changed, it's gotten younger; many are the children of those who used to follow us, others are new kids who end up bringing their own parents along."

"Sempre Nomadi" is the rallying cry of their concerts. And that vagabond spirit has led Carletti and his bandmates around the world, in search of new experiences, not only musical ones. They've played with Cuban, Palestinian, Breton and Indian artists. And they've even managed to be received by international figures such as Arafat, Fidel Castro and the Dalai Lama. The latter left a deep mark on the band. "The spiritual energy he gives off is incredible. He thanked us for what we've done for the children of Tibet. He spoke in English: I barely understand the language, and yet I understood every word."

A nomadic spirit, then, but also plenty of Emilian spirit running through the band's roots. "Being from Emilia, deep down, means being stubborn, being tough and never giving up. But Emilia also means a love of dance halls, a desire to have fun. In my small village of four thousand people, there was an open-air dance hall. I was twelve, and I'd sit there listening to the musicians for hours. If it hadn't existed, I probably wouldn't have chosen this profession."

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