Tales that drift and whisper

This song is one of my portraits of the wind, according to my way of living through it. It is untitled because it is ever-changing, shifting as constantly as the wind does. As such, it is mostly based on improvisation. It does not bear, nor try to bear, any interpretation, happiness or dismay, nor solace or regret: it just flows, on the breeze, pretending to be a bird or a leaf.

I sometimes have dreamt tunes: honestly I don’t remember whether this was one of those; but I do remember that the composition of this piece evolved through a series of stages that felt like chapters of a single, multi-faceted tale. Here, the theme that defines the composition is voyage or, better still, wanderlust—the transformation that an initial impulse undergoes as it unfolds. wandering is a key concept for me, like the taoist 逍遙 xiāo yáo. do you, traveller or wayfarer, know about the lands you’re going to cross? I don’t, and to tell the truth I couldn’t care less. the flow is all that matters.

Constantly shape-shifting both in tonality & color, tempo & texture, ranging from silence to strong strumming, this is also one of the shortest pieces on the album and it’s again inspired by nature. there are many versions of this piece: the first one was electric, where the long chords where filled with digital echoes; then there appeared this acoustic version (and it’s dedicated to Sergey from Make like a tree, since I played it for him on the day we met); and finally last year I arranged a version for three players with (mostly metal) percussions, a second guitar and spoken words based on a page from The waves by Virginia Woolf. those versions will be released in time due…

A kind of partial, abstract self-portrait: it is in four parts, each one exploring a different side of the story. The third part is dedicated to my dear friend Alessandra, because I feel it is in such musical atmospheres that we met, a long time ago. The conclusion re-invents the story in major mode. my expressive goal here was to compose an endless melody, like a water stream (of consciousness?) where there is no recurring chord sequence, but still a strong sense of internal cohesiveness: this is what do in the second and third parts of the song.

This piece depicts a very precise transition, at a particular turning point in my life. The process ends with an upward movement, rising out of the inner turmoil; the final march, after a moment of recollection, is there to remind that the struggle is never over, and determination is a light that shall never falter.

A very old, simple piece, born from an intense emotion.

A gradually relaxing process, similar to the slow break of dawn after the night. The turning point is the central mixolydian improvisation: its effects reverberate slowly until the end of the song.

I became aware of Rachel’s story when I was getting involved in music making with refugees (see the Music & Resilience project), and it moved me deeply—it still does. Back in 2003 she was 23, in the Gaza Strip, standing on the way of an Israeli bulldozer, trying to prevent the demolition of Palestinian houses. She did not move, the bulldozer did not stop; and thus, she met her fate. I believe that this unfaltering determination, able to reach beyond your own self, is the ulti- mate act of faith in life, able to change the world. And so, this is a lovesong.

The album version features the recitation of two poems unrelated to Rachel’s story, but in my opinion very much related to the deeper meaning of the whole song. They were introduced in live shows to involve a singer, and they somehow inflated the song with additional sections. But I think the tenderness and further witness they bear is worth this price.

This song has never been played before twilight; not even during its composition or recording. It was born inside the night, in its womb, in its motherly and mysterious tenderness, and so it shall be.

This piece, almost in a rondò structure, was conceived as a study in odd time signatures. I like odd time changes, and this one is focused on adding or subtracting one 16th figure to or from ²/₄ bars, making them ⁹/₁₆ bars (or ⁵/₈ bars when adding two 16ths) and similar ideas, while shifting through different moods. Another example of this is the last section in That perfect moment, at the end of the second recitation. But despite being a study, I think the piece has its own character and mood.

Another portrait of the wind, born from an emotion of immense depth, while I was on top of a valley in the Appennines, and the wind blew the declining light of the day, stirring my spirit to move, and my heart to awaken.