It's a bit ironic that I didn't really get into Italian music until I left Italy. I looked around a little bit, already into Verdena by then as I was, and I listened to the radio of course, with a few things sticking out to me as memorable, but I never really found the pathway into good, exciting Italian indie (or underground as my friend terms it). I'd heard of bands like ...A Toys Orchestra and Jennifer Gentle, but I was really looking for something in Italian, since English music by Italians seemed kind of unnecessary to me. Finally I heard about Scisma and checked out a bunch of bands in the same vein, namely Bluvertigo and the band whose first album I'll be delving into today, Baustelle.
Baustelle is an interesting band. I get the sense that later in their career they got really into more natively Italian music like the singer-songwriter music popularized by the likes of Fabrizio de André and the more operatic style that still dominates much of Italian pop music (Fiorella Mannoia comes to mind in that regard, even if operatic isn't quite the right adjective). Their earlier work, however, had the same youthful lust and gusto, '80's electronic pulse, and carefree ease as Pulp in its '90's heyday, and Sussidiario illustrato della giovanezza shines as an Italian His 'n' Hers, with perhaps even more consistency (although any band would be hard pressed to match the individual perfection of "Do You Remember the First Time?") and with a self-deprecating wit and honesty that eclipses any other Italian song-writer in its humor and relatability (Scisma and Bluvertigo come close at times, while Verdena and Afterhours tend to a bit darker in content excel in different qualities, especially the former, whose lyrics tend to be impressionistic rather than illustrative)
The '80's pop shimmer and bounce leaps to the forefront from the very get-go with "Le vacanze dell'83," a poppy, nostalgia fueled pastiche that eases us into the album before bursting with an energetic hook. This is the Pulp-iest song on the album (save "Cinecittà, which channels the spoken word stylings of "This is Hardcore" or "David's Last Summer"), and is almost an anti-"Disco 2000," looking back to the past rather than forward to a hypothetical future encounter. The chemistry between Francesco Biaconi and Rachele Bistreghi charges to the forefront as the chorus brings this song from a relaxing daydream to an explosion of adolescent pop. Lyrics such as "lo scrivi o no il tuo romanzo erotico-me sei finito a Rimini?" ("Will you or won't you finish your erotic novel" with the last syllable of the word "erotico" serving as the first syllable of the ponderous line, "how did you end up in Rimini") merge images of sexual liberation together into one, the semi-intellectual pursuit fusing with the most scandalous of summer retreats (Rimini is the Atlantic City of Italy). All in all, this song checks all of the boxes in foreshadowing what is to come - Pulp-y expressions of sexual confusion? Check. Carefree pop with just a hint of aimlessness? Check. Wistful nostalgia expressed through personal anecdotes? Check.
"Martina" is a bit sadder and more pensive, sketching a loose portrait of a girl who hidden behind her "abitudine" (clothing and fashion accessories) - "mascara denso per nudità," "dietro lenti scure riderai" ("heavy makeup for nudity," as if that were her true identity; "behind dark sunglasses, you will laugh"). It's a compelling portrait that contrasts the otherwise carefree "la la la" of the bridge with revelations of "piccoli catastrofi per minuti intimi," as Bianconi exposes almost a sense of disbelief in his own vulnerability as he sings, "tutto ciò vuol dire che anche tu mi tradirai" ("Everything means that even you will betray me"), noting a comprehension of Martina's insecurity that is exceeded only by his own desperate need to know her. This is followed by "Sadik," a song that initially seems to channel the same carefree nostalgia of "Le vacanze dell'83," but expresses nonetheless a complex sense of angst mixed with sexual imagery. The line, "incatena colla seta, squillo platino" ("chain up in silk, platinum prostitute") makes no bones about the notion of sexual liberation, but lines like, "Antiomologata adolescenza torbida / meglio di dovere lavorare in fabbrica" (Anti-approval, disturbed adolescence; better than having to work in the factory") and the lines from a film (?) that run in between verses of the song, desperately asking questions such as, "adesso che farai?" "Now what will you do?" "Sadik" keeps us on our toes, between the drastic shifts in tone to the quickly changing snapshots of youth. Nonetheless, the pulsing rhythm of this song seems to tie it all together into one confused package, brilliantly reflecting the challenges of youth. Fortunately, "Noi bambine non abbiamo scelta" arrives and slows things down so that we finally have a change to consider everything. Much more straightforward in its message than its predecessors, this song expresses a troublesome sense of confusion and purposelessness, abandoning all agency for faith in some figure that "Mi telefona, promette che mi rapirà, mi porterà al cinema. È la mia droga: non mi può far male" (She calls me, promises that she'll kidnap me, take me to the movies. She's my drug: she can't hurt me). Even the title and chorus, "Non abbiamo altro, non abbiamo scelta noi bambine" (We have nothing else, we have no choice, we kids) clearly express this hopelessness, ironic considering the line "Mi scrive sulla bocca le parole che non posso dire quando piango in questo mondo stupido" (She writes on my lips the words that I can't say as I cry in this stupid world). The lyrics are certainly depressing, and the fact that they're delivered with such frankness, without any undue emotion, makes them all the more impactful once you put them together. The slow pace of this song brilliantly reflects the resignation of the lyrics, and seems to brilliantly capture the pains of youthful indirection.
This is followed, however, by the best song on an overall great album. "Gomma" fuses a pulsing beat and compelling love story to an earnestly emotional chorus, containing a trademark Baustelle honesty. Indeed, it doesn't get more honest than admitting, "Settembre spesso ad aspettarti" (September I was often waiting for you), unless you're flat out saying, "avrei bisogno di scopare con te" (I would need to fuck you), as this song does. This song does everything Baustelle excels at on another level, weaving a compelling narrative about adolescent angst with a catchy chorus and bouncy beat. Finally, the chorus, "tremavo un po' di doglie blu e d'esistenza inutile" (I shivered some from sadness and this useless existence), is perhaps the most powerful emotional moment on this album.
This song seems to be sandwiched by slightly slower songs, it appears, as "Gomma" is followed by "La canzone del parco," which dances slowly through minor keys, repeating anguish ridden lines like, "domani è lontano" (tomorrow is far away). Definitely the weakest song on the album, it nonetheless serves as a strong transition into the final four tracks of the album, which are not so much about youthful angst as about redemption. To me, this album is a bit like La dolce vita if it had a happy ending: we start with depictions of confused characters, stumbling blindly through life, but finally we arrive at stories of redemption. The most symbolic is "La canzone del riformatorio," the story of a man who went to prison after a drunken assault ("con il coltello nello stivale", though I'm not sure exactly what the context was) admitting his faults and his regrets - "Adesso mi manchi te lo giuro, ... tu chi sarai è chi saremo, fuori del riformatorio, la vita perduta come gioia" (Now I miss you, I swear... Who will you be, who will we be, out of prison, my life lost like my joy). It's a song that manages to be remarkably sweet despite the violent premise, and while it expresses the same sense of immobility that we see in "Noi bambine non abbiamo scelta," it also looks to the future instead of dwelling on the past. This is followed by "Cinecittà," an intentionally theatrical song, with sweeping piano chords and violins, split up by an interview for an erotic film. It's honestly a bit cheesy, but I'm admittedly a sucker for rom-coms, so, despite myself, I do honestly enjoy this song as something of a pure fantasy, as Bianconi gets caught up in his own words and seems to leave the interview behind. This is followed by "Io e te nell'appartamento," which is a different sort of romantic encounter written into song, but the imagery here is what really captures my imagination. There's a sense of loneliness in the repeating chords, perhaps accented by the fact that Bistreghi doesn't sing much, if at all, for the first half of this song. The self doubt here for Bianconi is palpable and totally relatable, however, as he asks, "Dimmi come ti chiami? Quanti ragazzi chiami? Io non so fare niente, volevo solamente..." (Tell me, what's your name? How many guys are you talking to? I don't know how to do anything, I just wanted to...). The description of the record spinning in an empty apartment is perhaps the ultimate image of angst and loneliness, as the rest of the song matches with even more serene and silent imagery, creating a void that can only be filled by imagination. The synthesizers that slowly bring this song to a conclusion only serve to heighten our sense of longing.
The last song, of the album, is the one that really drives home the theme of redemption. With it's message of "Build the modern chansoniere!" and its references to classic European singers like Serge Gainsbourg and Fabrizio de André, we see the roots of the Baustelle aesthetic that would become more and more pronounced as time went on, perhaps to their detriment, as beyond La moda del lento and the song "Gli spietati", most of the band's later output fails to capture my attention. Nonetheless, the opportunity to look forward toward art instead of back to lost lovers here serves as a perfect closer to this album, which clearly continues to speak to many people today (simply Google any song lyric from this album and you'll see plenty of photos and blog posts dedicated to them). What Baustelle provides here is a refreshing honesty. Yeah, we like to have fun, but underneath it all we're still trying to fill that void. That transparency and openness is something that will always be invaluable as people struggle to find a place in the world.
