Pierpaolo De Iulis

Record producer, publisher, documentary filmmaker, singer, DJ, event organizer, sociologist, agitator: well past fifty, Pierpaolo De Iulis is still a volcano in full eruption, a tsunami of ideas and projects that sweeps away everything in its path. A cult figure in the Italian punk-inflected counterculture, he has channeled his unstoppable energy into labels (the Rave Up holding company, with its Records, Books and Multimedia offshoots dedicated respectively to music, books and film), festivals (Rome's Road To Ruins), documentaries ("Crollo Nervoso" being the most acclaimed), books ("Vesuvio Pop", among others), bands (Ufo Diktatorz, Transex, The Illuminati) and taking part in genuine underground sagas (one above all, the Roman branch of Luther Blissett), with a stubbornness that has allowed him to turn his thousand passions into just as many professions. Fast-talking but always sharp in his thinking, he granted us this chat to help us make sense of his eventful career as a situationist troublemaker…

When did you first get into music, and how did this interest in genres like punk and new wave come about specifically?

I belong to a generational arc close to the punk explosion. In '77 I was very young, but I could already sense that atmosphere coming through in magazines like Odeon and L'Altra Domenica, or in comics like Il Monello and L'Intrepido. Punk permeated everything and I was very intrigued by it, having been into music since I was very young: already at 7-8 years old I was obsessively drawn to Rolling Stones, Ac/Dc and that whole indefinite magma I identified as "rock", then came Kraftwerk and finally punk, which struck me for its strong, syncretic approach. When you feel like you hate your parents and you set in motion a relationship between yourself and a certain worldview, you find in that universe of spiked hair, vomit, hatred and anarchy a reason for being. That's how I became a punk and started haunting the record shops of Ascoli Piceno, my hometown (mine too, ed.), looking for that stuff: Sex Pistols, Ramones, Devo, Talking Heads, still in a rather confused way, carrying around notes I'd taken from music magazines or TV shows. By the time I was 12 or 13 I already had a fairly clear identity of my own, with hair and clothes influenced by the style of that period. I already had quite a few records, some of them collector's items, and I did a lot of trading with other fans. It all started back then, roughly from 1978 to 1982.

How and when was Rave Up born?

Throughout all the years of my musical formation (especially after moving to Rome for university) I always organized concerts, making a living out of music, but the idea of starting a label came much later: first in the mid-90s with Reverendo Moon, through which I released a few minor beat and garage compilations and some unreleased recordings from the very earliest Italian punk (Dirty Actions, Gags), then a few years later with Rave Up, with which I began a systematic research project on American punk, which I prefer to the English version because I find it more connected to a direct, lively and authentic rock'n'roll instinct. I started working with collectors and enthusiasts, which allowed me to press the first records in the catalogue: Testors, Features, Reactors and several other minor bands from that era that I was keen to explore, kicking off an ongoing series that continues to this day, almost 25 years on.

Is there a reissue you're particularly proud of? For instance, releasing a legendary band like Testors must have been quite satisfying…

There are several. Some of these bands were only ever pressed by me, and only picked up by other labels years later: besides Testors, I'm thinking for instance of Dogs, an Iowa proto-punk band I adore, some very raw rednecks inspired by Stooges and MC5, or Go, a New York power pop outfit, and many others born out of my love for that period. There are some very particular things like Shady Lady, a band from '75 with a pretty extreme look, enough to rival New York Dolls, very unlucky and with little say in their official discography but rediscovered after the fact by collectors. One of the most recent was Punks, discovered by me and then picked up by others, a group of young white revolutionaries closely tied to John Sinclair's White Panther Party. Recently, Scorsese and Jagger's "Vinyl" series, dedicated to American punk of that era, brought them back into the spotlight, and the producers contacted me to secure the rights to one of their songs, performed in a scene by Jagger's son. At first I didn't realize we were talking about the same band, but as soon as I figured it out I put them directly in touch with the band, who were even invited to play at a launch party for the series! Small satisfactions. And then there's Rubinoos, an 80s Californian power-pop band I've always reissued, who won a plagiarism case against Avril Lavigne, earning a bit of money in the process…

You've always reissued exclusively on vinyl, well before the furious "analogue revival" that's been making headlines lately. What do you think of this format's new lease on life? Do you believe there are deeper reasons behind it than mere speculation?

Here's the thing: Capital tends to corner itself, in the sense that commerce very often creates the conditions for its own failure. The record industry's shift from analogue to digital generated 1:1 reproducibility of albums: vinyl could be dubbed onto cassette, but that remained a byproduct, both in terms of sound quality and format — it couldn't tell the same story as an LP, with its warm sound and its striking cover art. A CD, on the other hand, once duplicated with a colour photocopy of the sleeve, is identical to the original, and actually pricing it higher than vinyl was a spectacular own goal for the record industry. Once we got to file downloads, everything was lost for good: people got used to downloading and no longer paying for anything, and the market sank. Over the years, the rediscovery of the original format was inevitable, being both more effective sonically and more decorative as an object, with a market of its own that has more or less held up. So this comeback is very welcome: I've always favoured vinyl (even when I do DJ sets) because I consider digital an unsuitable medium for what I want to convey, and true enthusiasts have always chosen analogue.

You've also (almost) always focused on bands from the past…

Same logic: if you want to make any money out of this line of work, you have to aim at things with a stable market. Promoting new bands would take a huge amount of extra effort for much less certain results, whereas a band that already has a history and an established audience is easy to place anywhere: you'd be surprised how many enthusiasts across Europe, the United States and Japan are interested even in the most obscure proto-punk band. That said, occasionally with Rave Up I have worked with contemporary acts too, like the Roman bands Holiday Inn and The Hand. Generally speaking, though, I'm not particularly drawn to current music — it tends to reflect our present, so tamed in terms of language, youthful tension and social rebellion.

Let's talk about one of the two branches of Rave Up, the cinematic one…

Being a curious person, beyond the purely musical side I'm also interested in other forms of storytelling, and the chance to document certain styles in documentary form (I wouldn't call it cinema, because rather than an auteur I'm really a documentarian, so a collector of interviews and archival material) intrigued me right away. I've made six films, some as director, others simply as narrator, dedicated to the most disparate genres but all centred on Italy: prog (“Mellotron”), punk (“Mamma Dammi La Benza”), new wave (“Crollo Nervoso”), Italo-disco (“The Sound Of Spaghetti Dance”), beat masses (“Che Il Mio Grido Giunga A Te”) and even the new Neapolitan neo-melodic song (“Vesuvio Pop”, paired with a book of the same name). They're all phenomena of social, generational and 'resistance' significance, in which there's a correspondence between listening and a widespread perception that goes beyond the purely musical to become a representation of one's self and one's relationship with others, a kind of collective self. I'm very interested in this aspect (it's no coincidence that I have a degree in sociology as well as history), and I would have liked to document many other similar stories, like that of Italian metal, but unfortunately there's no money: at times I've found people interested in sponsoring initiatives of this kind, at others the television entertainment industry hasn't been receptive. Without funding, the solution is to look for private or institutional partners, but that's become difficult because disbursement times are very long, which makes everything more complicated. I'd like to keep going, but the video sector presents no small amount of practical and financial difficulties.

If you don't mind, I'd like to focus for a moment on the three hours of “Crollo Nervoso”, your most structured and, in some ways, most 'epic' documentary…

It all started with my role as consultant and narrator on “Mamma Dammi La Benza”, directed by the Emilian filmmaker Angelo Rastelli. That's where I got the idea of making my own documentary on Italian new wave, a hugely important moment in the country's history and a very intense one for me, since I lived through it firsthand. At the time I was 16 or 17, and every day I was caught up in witnessing this new thing live, sending letters, handing out demo tapes, going to concerts, organising events… It was a very strong pre-internet network; nowadays everything is much easier, but back then it was like a secret society of small groups united by similar sensibilities, especially out in the provinces: just to give you an idea, in Ascoli you had to contact the most charismatic person in San Benedetto or Teramo and meet up to organise these wonderful parties, where friendships, collaborations, projects, fanzines, love affairs were born… I wanted to tell this story, so rich and exciting, and I think it comes through in the documentary: in three hours, across three chapters (“Onde Emiliane”, “Firenze Sogna” and “Italy Wiva”), I documented pretty much every scene and interviewed all the most important figures involved. I would have liked to cover much more, but production constraints meant I couldn't go beyond that running time. I think it still stands as an excellent piece of work, regardless of the fact that I made it myself…

Well, I'd certainly say so. And what about the other branch, the publishing side?

So far I've published three books: “Noi Conquisteremo La Luna” (an anthology of youthful articles by my friend Federico Guglielmi on Italian new wave), “Lo Stivale E’ Marcio” (an essay by Claudio Pescetelli on the origins of punk in Italy) and “Il Luther Blissett Project a Roma 1995-1999” (on the history of the movement of the same name). Right now I'm working on another project about 1990s Rome, a significant period that stirred up a lot of intellectual energy, between countercultural criticism, new media, hacking, performance, body art, alternative sexuality and much more: a documented account of what that season really was, whose richness escaped me at the time but which I rediscovered years later, especially when compared with the scarcity of recent times. It will be called “Detonazione” and will come out at Easter.

Going back to cinema, another great adventure you embarked on was (I use the past tense because, from what I understand, there won't be a follow-up) the wonderful Roman festival Road To Ruins…

It started out as a music festival dedicated to American punk. I indulged a lot of personal wishes, like bringing to Rome legendary bands such as Crime, Avengers, Adolescents, Angry Samoans, Zeroes, Dictators and many more, all thanks to being able to secure major sponsors: having worked in advertising, I'd understood how to sell an apparently hopeless project by pitching it as a major event. The costs were always covered upfront by the sponsors, and ticket revenue was left to me as payment. It was great fun to see these bands I love live and to get to know them personally, often not long before they broke up or individual members passed away… After fifteen purely musical seasons, we moved to a concept that combined music and film, holding the evenings in cinemas and screening documentaries or music films. It was quite successful, but over time the sponsors began to drift away and my bargaining power diminished. On top of that, I was no longer working alone: as the festival grew, I'd brought other people onto the staff, and disagreements arose that ended up undermining the continuation of the whole adventure.

Among the many eccentric or extreme characters you've met, is there anyone you remember with particular fondness?

So many. I think, for example, of Sky Saxon of the Seeds, one of the most important garage bands of the 60s, an absurd character with whom, among other things, I played alongside my band The Illuminati. But I could also mention Johnny Strike of Crime, “Handsome Dick” Manitoba of the Dictators, or Cheetah Chrome of the Dead Boys — the latter a truly exceptional character with whom I've stayed on excellent terms. These were people who carried with them strong, genuine experiences, wonderful to hear about. One of the reasons I've organised events has always been to get in touch with the stories of these figures. As a fan, you can't ask for more.

You mentioned The Illuminati, perhaps the most significant of your musical projects. Let's talk about this idea, brilliant in my view, of reinterpreting beat masses through a punk lens…

The spark came at 16, when I was attending the art institute in Ascoli, where a photography teacher and former '68 activist, Gegè Polloni, who had played in a beat band called Gli Amici, was teaching. He told me they'd recorded a record, and since I was already looking for traces of my city's musical past, I asked him to get me a copy. He brought me a cassette with three tracks, two rather dull masses and one full-on garage song, “Chinati Ai Tuoi Piedi”, fast-paced with a great guitar solo. It drove me wild, and I started bombarding him with questions, but he was reluctant to talk about it, almost as if he were embarrassed, while I was busy praising that element of rupture within the churches of the time, which offered spaces for social recreation for young people, all within the spirit of openness of the Second Vatican Council. I became really passionate about that phenomenon (I later discovered that Gli Amici were the authors of the very first beat mass ever, all the way back in 1965!), and at flea markets I bought loads of records that I still have, some even psychedelic or hard-rock, because Catholic music started dissecting and absorbing pretty much every musical genre. That whole story is behind The Illuminati, which I founded together with a very dear friend of mine, Tiziano Tarli, also from Ascoli and a beat enthusiast. It was great fun because we confused people — they couldn't tell if the project was serious or a joke… We played a lot of concerts and put out two LPs, “Prendi La Chitarra e Prega” and “Lumen Gentium”, the first more beat-oriented with songs by writers from that era like Marcello Giombini, the second more psychedelic with our own material. Two really good records, musically speaking, I have to say.

Absolutely, and live you were devastating! In your career, music and politics tend to intertwine often: how have they shaped and enriched each other?

What I do has always had a popular slant: the price of my records is always very low, some cost 7 or 8 euros, I'm happy with a minimal markup, and that's one of the advantages that lets me sell records very easily, managing to shift sizeable print runs in no time. It's an ideological stance: spreading knowledge as widely as possible, which shouldn't remain the preserve of the few or something reserved for initiates — it should be given to everyone, full stop. I genuinely believe that, and I keep doing it.

Has being provincial by birth influenced you in any way?

Look, I think outsiders from the provinces are the real driving force behind big cities: living in Rome, I've noticed that the most active people when it comes to organizing things always come from elsewhere, and I imagine the same holds true for you in Bologna (I nod). There's this drive to transcend the boredom of provincial life, a stronger sense of having to prove yourself, to make an impact, to push toward something — where exactly doesn't matter. The greatest energy I've ever found in Rome has always come from students from Calabria, Abruzzo, the Marche, or other regions. I think it's a defining trait of all the kids who flee the provinces, where they feel like they can't breathe, and outside of which they find room to be their best selves.

How, and how much, has the Roman scene changed since you started out?

I think I made a really strong contribution to the scene. Taxi, a group of very young guys who later became Giuda, looked to me a lot for guidance: I caught them at a stage when they were already playing great punk, but if they hadn't met someone who gave them the chance to perform and record, they might well have broken up — and the same goes for a lot of other bands. I think my eclecticism and my sense of solidarity rubbed off on a lot of people. It seems to me that this has now taken root: Rome is full of venues and positive musical scenes, ranging from more rock'n'roll-oriented stuff all the way to electro-punk and synth-wave, a really enjoyable spread of things geared toward experiencing music in a direct, essential way, the way it should be. I don't believe in big numbers — hats off to whoever manages to pull them in, but for me, going out at night and finding myself in a gratifying situation is enough; it means something is working. A concert with twenty thousand people feels deadening to me, while the energy of an authoritative, vital band is something that makes you feel glad to be alive. That energy exists in Rome.

Since you just brought it up, tell us a bit about the Roman branch of Luther Blissett, which you were an active part of…

It was a kind of spontaneous germination among people who were passionate about certain subjects. I came from "heretical" readings: I started out with the council-communism of authors like Karl Korsch, Anton Pannekoek, or Max Hoelz — spontaneous, movement-based groups, critical of Leninism itself. Through them I arrived at situationism, which was in a way an offshoot of that kind of thinking. Once in Rome, I met a charming maître à penser from an anarchist bookshop, Carlo, and with him I dug deeper into Vaneigem, Debord, Max Capa, and so on. That's where I put together a first small group of enthusiasts, in the years when the Pantera movement was rising in Rome — a university movement I couldn't have cared less about, but which sparked a widespread rediscovery of situationist theory (in that period Rai Tre re-aired all of Debord's films) and let me meet a bunch of oddballs, with whom I built a cross-cutting, urban reading of these authors. There were few of us, and we were far from the cliché of the autonomist militant — not very "physical," very "intellectual." The Roman Luther Blissett was born as a destabilizing space that pushed provocative initiatives on every front, like psychic attacks and other symbolic actions. Lots of people joined in: if Bologna, in terms of writing, was the more advanced outpost we drew a lot from, Rome was the second hub, with media stunts that stirred up a certain furor in the collective imagination, even mentioned on "Chi L'Ha Visto?"… It was fun, especially total nonsense like parties held on night buses… Some of it serious, some less so, all collected in the book I published in 2015, which will find its natural follow-up in "Detonazione". Years ago we also put together a tribute night to that experience (I took part in that one too, editor's note).

Would you still call yourself a punk?

Absolutely. It's an attitude: not accepting the norm, refusing to be marginalized by conformist thinking, rejecting fixed definitions, constantly shaking everything up. It's like Dada and the historical avant-gardes of the 20th century: it drinks, it doesn't drink, it gives, it doesn't give, it asserts, it doesn't assert, it contradicts itself. It's subtraction and constant tension: avant-garde, precisely. I challenge myself every day; I will never accept sitting gray-haired behind a desk. Drug use, refusal of work, the pursuit of an alternative way of living, never accepting a stale form of necessity or convention, rejecting any role, whether subordinate or dominant: all of this can mean being punk. For me, nothing should be taken as given, and that goes for personal relationships and love too: if passion or excitement is missing, everything has to end, because what you're always searching for is pleasure and the Absolute. There can be no norm: let everything fall apart, let everything end, let everything heal over, let everything start again. Being dissatisfied — that's punk.

Ride the wave of great music

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