EGLE SOMMACAL - Legno

Egle's talent is undeniable. Undeniable since the days when he lent his guitar to the unforgettable Massimo Volume. And now that we have in our hands “Legno”, a solo-guitar record that surveys the stories of a lifetime across 8 instrumentals, it almost seems obvious that someone like him would make a record like this. A record that draws liberally from the treasure chest of American primitive guitar, exorcising, in turn, inner ghosts within the intimacy of textures that are at times diamond-sharp, at times crepuscular. The only shame is that, all things considered, we weren't given cause to cry miracle, something increasingly rare these days, though, it's pointless to deny it, we were secretly hoping for one. Just under forty minutes, and all that's left is the sense that our man has, how to put it, held back slightly, playing it safe when he could perhaps have raised his voice, thus avoiding the usual trap of merely swelling the already large ranks of followers, more or less convinced, more or less worthy, of Fahey, Basho and company.

No offense meant to good old Egle, of whom I still hold a wonderful memory made of free-flowing conversation, pasta with tuna and music in a sweltering Bologna in August '97. No offense meant, because our esteem for him remains intact, always and in any case. Because, after all, we recognized in “Legno” the artistic honesty that distinguishes him, and that is why, though not only for that reason, it is almost a duty to approach it, despite everything. He knew he was risking something, because “Gli avamposti sono minati”, because the solitary purity of fingerpicking is seemingly easy terrain to handle, but is in truth fraught with dangers and threats.

Strings, then. Caressed strings that, in complete freedom, trace horizon after horizon, despite the familiarity of their range of action and the friendly face of inspiration. The narrative thread is at times uncertain, as if weakened by heavy thoughts, unfathomable troubles, even though the surface shows a pacified face (“Lo spirito dietro al palo”). The shifting shades of “Io, te e il tuo cellulare”, a track that flows along a thin progressive line, and the warmth of “Sabbia” circumscribe spiritual territories, serving as blank pages on which to write imaginary words, sketch lines or daydreams.

Thus, the album's subterranean dimension ripples, bold, in “Nemici”, while “Cancellato” moves with a halting, pained but unresigned gait, indeed shot through with a slyly ironic tension. We move forward, we keep pace, but we don't enjoy ourselves all that much. It's hard to admit, I know. Still, “Alla fine della fila” and “Club del cuore fossile” are there to tell us that the journey has only just begun and that poetry still has arrows in its quiver. Let's not despair, then.

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22/02/2007