Elio e Le Storie Tese

Critically analyzing the work of Elio e le Storie Tese is a difficult and almost masochistic undertaking, at least for those of us who, from the very beginning, fell under the spell of that generational glue which, especially across their first three albums, the Milanese band knew so well how to conjure. Indeed – as won't happen for anyone after them, and as had happened for very few before them – even the most idiotic, seemingly throwaway line from one of their songs can trigger an instant reaction in anyone who was a teenager during that era (the '90s), and not only then. It feels strange to say so now, given how relentlessly they've populated Italian TV and the near-universal praise that follows every appearance, but their music was perhaps the last that people listened to in the dark of their bedroom with a conspiratorial air, making sure mom couldn't hear that nasal voice rambling on about "separate recycling bins for the fruit of sin" and "the penis that gives you bread."

That said, it's worth stating right away that the importance of Elio e Le Storie Tese lies above all in having forged a generational mythology, while their musical influence (aside from a few recent exceptions, like Marta sui Tubi) is actually rather limited. Once you acknowledge the sextet's stratospheric technical chops, what you mostly find on their records is the application of Zappa-esque collage technique to the stylistic conventions of Italian song – often with surprising results, sure, but anyone who claims to listen to Elio e le Storie Tese records purely for the music is a bit like someone claiming to visit YouPorn to study anatomy. The musical side, in other words, can't be separated from the overflowing nonsense comedy of the lyrics, nor from the effect of generational recognition they trigger. It's impossible not to still see yourself in their songs if you ever spent an afternoon arguing over how rare certain Panini stickers were (a far cry from "the shit" or "the methadone" fantasized about barely ten years earlier by Skiantos), or if, as a kid, you were careful not to wash down an aspirin with Coca-Cola for fear of some lysergic side effect.

Two years after their formidable debut, with its title unpronounceable to anyone outside Sri Lanka ("Elio Samaga Hukapan Kariyana Turu"), which contained heavy hitters like "John Holmes" and "Cara ti amo," the Milanese outfit delivered their masterpiece, "Italyan, Rum Casusu Çikti" (this time in Turkish, meaning "It turned out the Italian was a Greek spy"). A record that would deserve a sociological treatise devoted to each and every one of its songs. It has everything, and everything is placed exactly where it should be, glued together by a stellar production and embellished by the presence of a veritable caravan of guests, more or less improbable: Oliver Skardy, Enrico Ruggeri, the Chieftains and, above all, the backing singers of Mystere des Voix Bulgares, who appear on nearly every track.

Elii's comic streak is at its peak and keeps continually wrong-footing the listener, starting with the opening skit of "Servi della gleba" – a call and response built on a funk backing in the verses and a red-white-and-green soul chorus recounting sentimental tragicomedies, still a fixture in their live sets to this day. "Uomini col borsello (Ragazza che limoni sola)" pairs Pooh with Irish folk music, both in the styles it evokes and in the guest appearances of the Chieftains and Riccardo Fogli (who parodies himself, quoting "Piccola Katy").

The fable of Giorgio and Piero introduces the fairy-tale nonsense of "Il vitello dai piedi di balsa" (with Ruggeri on vocals), which comes across as an idiotic parody of Zecchino d'Oro-style children's songs, yet is anarchically brilliant in its wandering all over the place without offering a single point of reference, right up to its crude conclusion. Here too the references, especially to Seventies progressive rock, are countless and concealed with an almost Tarantino-esque flair.

"Cartoni animati giapponesi" is a pleasant Zappa-esque watercolor, in which the solemn accompaniment of the Mystère des Voix Bulgares acts as a brilliant counterpoint to the catalogue of "Le Ore"-style classified ads recited by Elio. The following "Cinquecento", sung by Cesareo with his voice slowed down in the studio, mocks artists like Eugenio Finardi, Enrico Ruggeri and Gino Paoli who, in those years, had written jingles for Fiat (worth comparing with the similar, and even fiercer, track by Santarita Sakkascia).

Hats off to "Supergiovane". This is, quite simply, the band's artistic high point. Formally, it could be described as a progressive track, respecting all its canons: long running time, constant changes of tempo and style (moving, with a John Zorn-like nerve, from hard rock to spiritual, with stops at swing and the big Italian ballad) and the monstrous technique flaunted by the musicians. It's a sort of brilliant cartoon, a mix of ten years of marginal youth culture at its most marginal (and precisely for that reason dear and familiar to most), starting with Diego Abatantuono's intro in terruncello mode, a genuine cult moment in an era before the forced rehabilitation of trash. The political outlook it expresses likewise harks back to the naivety that marked the twilight of the First Republic: nobody took sides for or against a given government, since, either way, it was all just stuff for the "old guard".

"Essere donna oggi" and "Pork & Cindy" are crude, chauvinist provocations (payback from the protagonist of "Servi della Gleba"?) dressed up as romantic songs – and it's worth remembering that, at the time, Elio e Le Storie's fans were 90% male – while "Pippero" ("pepper", in Bulgarian), the band's demented take on the hit single, is a dance-blender track with a jarring lyric that mixes references to the assassination attempt on the Pope with Afric Simone's "Ramaya", seen by post-1989 Bulgarians as a Western status symbol. The success of this last track also owes much to its brilliant accompanying video.

Reminding us that extreme nerdism is also one of Elii's specialties is the classical-high-school heavy metal of "Urna", complete with a quote from the "Goldrake" theme tune – a trick that, in later years, would become all too overused, but was, at the time, a total novelty – before the grand finale of "La vendetta del Fantasma Formaggino", another progressive tour de force, whose storyline winds between revamped playground (or kindergarten) jokes, quotes from "Jesus Christ Superstar" and Gianni Morandi songs, right up to a Greek-tragedy ending (another classical, i.e. schoolroom, echo) complete with a deus ex machina intervention, once again played by Diego Abatantuono.

At the time, almost all critics, especially the so-called "alternative" press, wrote off this masterpiece as mere tomfoolery, perhaps because Elio e le Storie Tese's comedy has never shied away from any kind of provocation or assorted unpleasantness, much to the annoyance of those with a rather rigid view of both music and comedy. And yet, it's precisely with "Italyan, Rum Casusu Çikti" that Stefano Belisari and co. built their path to fame – even if they only intermittently retained the corrosive brilliance that had inspired their early days.

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24/07/2011