Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Seguendo Le Tracce

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: SEGUENDO LE TRACCE (1976/2005)

1) R.I.P. (English version); 2) L'Albero Del Pane; 3) La Danza Dei Grandi Rettili; 4) Passaggio; 5) Non Mi Rompete; 6) Dopo... Niente E Più Lo Stesso; 7) Traccia II; 8) Metamorfosi.

Well, this totally makes sense: after almost three decades of waiting, finally release a live album from Banco's golden days. This particular show, played out at Teatro Verdi in Salerno on April 23, 1975, could easily have been a big hit in the old days, when double and triple live prog al­bums were steadily released on a monthly, if not daily, basis — and the excellent sound quality of the tapes would have made it a standout back in the day, too, so it is fairly odd that we only get official access to this as an afterthought. But a twenty-first century release, with progressive rock having largely regained its used-to-be-tattered reputation, is not that bad either.

As time goes by and chronology flattens out, this record is bound to become Banco's equivalent of Yessongs — capturing the band at their absolute creative peak, just before personal burn­out and changing fashion issues cause them to start faltering, and burning down the stage with abso­lute pride at their achievements. The setlist is predictably titanic, the playing is predictably tight and inspi­red, and the self-interpretations allow for variability, improvisation, and general freedom without demolishing the original constructions.

The only piece of bad news is that ʽR.I.P.ʼ is presented in its English version: with the band either working on or having just released their first English album (Banco) at the time, they were eager to try out at least one of the re-recordings, for which DiGiacomo offers the audience a blurry Italian apology post-factum. Not only that, but they also keep the loosened up, funkier rhythmic reinvention, missing a good chance to open the show with a tight, aggressive punch. A mistake, I think, echoing the even larger mistake of recording in English in the first place.

However, from then on, there are virtually no complaints. Apart from the obligatory ballad inter­lude of ʽNon Mi Rompeteʼ, one lengthy epic is played from each of their three major albums: ac­tually, ʽLa Danza Dei Grandi Rettiliʼ from Darwin! is transformed into an epic, stretched almost four times beyond its original length by means of free-flowing jazz breaks (with Maltese swit­ching to trumpet and doing his best Miles Davis impersonation) and Latin-colored percussion solos. Likewise, ʽMetamorfosiʼ gets an extra fifteen minutes to its already impressive original running time, with the Nocenzi brothers taking turns to prove us that they really need these extra fifteen minutes... not really sure about that, but they get into it with enough verve not to have me worrying all the time about pressing the fast forward button.

In other words, this here is live-and-breathing progressive rock the way we remember it — bold, ambi­tious, pretentious, self-indulgent, constantly plunging into «musical masturbation» with no respect for modesty and conciseness... and vindicated by superbly tight internal coordination and sheer technical mastery of everyone involved. Needless to say, the record is an absolute must-have for every progressive rock studioso — and an absolute must-avoid for everyone who still believes that a twenty-minute live phantasmagoria from, say, Ornette Coleman is «an inspiring feast of artistic liberty and inventiveness», whereas a twenty-minute live version of ʽMeta­mor­fosiʼ would be «a pathetically boring display of meaningless self-indulgence». Fortunately, Seguendo Le Tracce arrives at a good time for the genre, when the silliness of such oppositions becomes more and more apparent, and this brings on hope that my thumbs up for this record will not go completely unnoticed, either.

Check "Seguendo Le Tracce" (CD) on Amazon

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: No Palco

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: NO PALCO (2003)

1) Prologo #1; 2) R.I.P.; 3) Il Ragno; 4) Cento Mani, Cento Occhi; 5) Quando La Buona Gente Dice; 6) Canto Di Primavera; 7) La Caccia / Fa# Minore; 8) Moby Dick; 9) Non Mi Rompete; 10) Come Due Treni Intro; 11) 750,000 Anni Fa... L'Amore; 12) Traccia I; 13) Traccia II.

Hey, another live album — bet you didn't see this one coming. Then again, what a better way to celebrate the band's 30th anniversary than with a major live extravaganza, staged in the heart of Rome itself, with a swarm of friends, old and new (some of which are allegedly big names on the Italian stage), and a setlist that makes it pretty clear that the Eighties and Nineties never really hap­pened? And why not release it as an official CD if the performances are generally flawless, and if Nudo already showed so clearly that re-recordings of the «old shit» are so inherently supe­rior to whatever new shit they could try to come up with?

In any case, No Palco is at least interesting in that, for the last bunch of tracks, the band is joined on the stage by brother Gianni, doing a solo piano instrumental (ʽCome Due Treniʼ) and taking on the key role in ʽ750,000 Anni Faʼ and both of the ʽTracciaʼ pieces. Additionally, Mauro Pagani, one of the founding fathers of Banco's chief competitors, Premiata Forneria Marconi, makes a guest appearance on ʽNon Mi Rompeteʼ and ʽCanto Di Primaveraʼ, contributing violin parts, and even the band's old drummer, Pierluigi Calderoni, sits in on a few numbers. Meaning that the whole thing does qualify as a celebration of sorts, and is worth picking up if you are in serious love with the band.

The setlist is actually quite clever, evenly spread between most of the band's classic period up until 1979 — the only song from a later date is ʽMoby Dickʼ, an excellent choice to remind us of the band's only moderately worthwhile album from their creepiest decade of work; it is preceded by a piano instrumental (ʽLa Cacciaʼ) that seems to be new, and, additionally, ʽQuando La Buona Gente Diceʼ is expanded from its original length to become a jam session, with all the keyboard and guitar players taking turns to prove the world that Italian rock music is nothing to joke about. (Well, that still won't stop us from... ah well, never mind).

Other than the general «superfluousness» of the record, there is nothing to complain about — the setlist is respectable, the players gel perfectly, DiGiacomo remains in the finest of all possible vocal forms (his range seems invulnerable to age, and his energy and self-confidence only seem to increase), and the audience is genuinely enraptured — on ʽNon Mi Rompeteʼ, they go totally against the message of the title and interrupt the singer with such verve that he just steps away from the mike and lets them handle the first verse. Corny, but touching.

Overall, No Palco («No Stage» — excessive arrogance or heart-melting idealism?) was such a success that the band would repeat it ten years later, with Quaranta released in 2012: I have not heard that one, since (a) there are only so many BMS live albums one can take and (b) the track­list includes ʽNudoʼ, which is not a good sign, but fans should probably take note. In the mean­time, let us close the main book on BMS with a modest thumbs up to No Palco, unless the old boys garner enough strength and ambition to master another studio recording before finally heading for the great gig in the sky (with Darwin in person as MC, no doubt). But hopefully, they won't be that silly.

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Nudo

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: NUDO (1997)

CD I: 1) Nudo, Pt. 1; 2) Nudo, Pt. 2; 3) Nudo, Pt. 3; 4) E Mi Viene Da Pensare; 5) Prologo #1; 6) R.I.P.; 7) Il Ragno; 8) Emiliano; 9) L'Evoluzione; 10) 750,000 Anni Fa... L'Amore; CD II: 1) Sul Palco; 2) La Conquista Della Posizione Eretta; 3) Metamorfosi; 4) Guardami Le Spalle; 5) Roma/Tokyo; 6) La Band; 7) Bisbigli; 8) Passaggio; 9) Coi Ca­pelli Sciolti Al Vento; 10) Traccia; 11) Prologo #2; 12) Non Mi Rompete.

What good is releasing a double CD if you are only going to put one new song on it? And not a good one, at that: the three-part ʽNudoʼ suite is most definitely one of those «failed experiments» where the artist thinks he is being all smart and complex and cool and modern, but in reality just comes up with something that makes no sense whatsoever. ʽNudoʼ is very loud, very full of itself, but fails to come up with melodies that would venture outside second-rate synth-pop and adult contemporary — it is about as «progressive» as circa-Union Yes; in fact, it is a serious stylistic letdown even compared to the already lax standards of Il 13. Granted, the riffs and solos are at a much higher level of complexity than on E Via, but the synth tones, the drum machines, and the over­produced guitars make that observation pointless: in the end, there is more pomp here than style, and far more technophilia than substance.

All the more curious is the fact that the rest of this stuff, even though it all consists of oldies done anew, is delightful. The first CD, once the accursed suite is over, is then dedicated to an «unplug­ged» section where they do their classic tunes in acoustic mode, with the aid of a young colleague guitarist, Filippo Marcheggiani (who was not even born when they already recorded most of their classic albums). The results are hardly essential, but sound almost surprisingly inspired — lack of amplification does not impact the energy of the melodies, just gives them more of a «chamber» feel (actually, the lack of amplification only refers to guitars — synthesizers are still quite promi­nent, particularly on ʽL'Evoluzioneʼ).

The second disc (there is also a 1-CD edition that omits it) contains a selection of properly live titles, recorded at two shows in Tokyo; the tracks do not overlap with the «unplugged» ones, but are also mostly classic stuff, with the exception of the Vittorio-sung ʽGuardami Le Spalleʼ from Il 13 and a new instrumental, flatteringly called ʽRoma / Tokyoʼ — another pompous symph-rock composition, but somewhat more effective than ʽNudoʼ, maybe because the live environment makes it feel more like a real heated battle between all the players than just another demonstra­tion of their worship of loud-sounding technogadgets.

As for the classics, well, this is actually the first time we get to hear Banco in full-out live mode playing the classics without turning them into disco attractions — the versions of ʽConquista Del­la Posizione Erettaʼ and ʽMetamorfosiʼ in particular are quite impressive. Now they share the re­gular prog-rock live album bane («find ten differences from the originals... not»), but with twenty five years lying between the originals and the copies, who would really blame them? And while we are at it, DiGiacomo's voice has not lost a thing in terms of range or power, only gained in terms of self-assurance and professionalism.

Overall, Nudo clearly shows that at this point, Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso are only functional as a «nostalgia act», but they can be a damn fine nostalgia act if they really put their minds to it — their days as composers of quality music long since gone, their talents for melody and innovation worn out, eaten up, perhaps, by the syphilis of the reckless musical prostitution of the previous decade, or by other reasons. Much to their honor, the band members must have acknowledged this and come to terms with it — although Banco never officially disbanded, and still continue to play and record, the ʽNudoʼ suite was their last ever attempt at creating new music. If you know for sure that you are never going to create anything on the level of Darwin!, not ever again, why bother hopelessly trying? Just enjoy life as it is, that's all.

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Il 13

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: IL 13 (1994)

1) Dove Non Arrivano Gli Occhi; 2) Sirene; 3) Brivido; 4) Sirene, Pt. 2; 5) Guardami Le Spalle; 6) Anche Dio; 7) Spudorata (pi-ppò); 8) Bambino; 9) Tremila; 10) Rimani Fuori; 11) Emiliano; 12) Mister Rabbit; 13) Magari Che (Gar­garismo); 14) Tirami Una Rete; 15) Bisbigli.

Finally, a proper attempt to justify the band's obstinate craving for survivalism — an entirely new studio album of freshly composed material that tries to put the mutuo soccorso back into the ban­co, if you get my drift. An hour's worth of music that still retains plenty of «body power», but, first time in years, sounds motivated by ambition and exploration rather than pure dumb fashion — a chance to really tell the world that the true Banco never really went away, they just spent fif­teen years getting DiGiacomo's beard out of the drum machine.

Perhaps the results could have been better if they hadn't lost Gianni in the scuffle. Without one of the two key links in the chain, Banco would never be able to restore its classic sound — and, in fact, they are honestly not even attempting to do it. Instead, their conception of «seriousness» in music now involves a propensity for heavy funk — the «rock» in the «return to prog-rock» age­nda is understood as chuggy syncopated guitar riffs, jumpy bass, and loud, but simple drum pat­terns. They had already toyed with R&B elements several times in their «lost years» — now all they have to do is cleanse it from the ugliness of Eighties' production, add extra bridge sections and extend the jam parts, and presto... Art!

Well, not really. Actually, the songs aren't bad — they don't sound particularly silly, and for that reason alone, are nowhere near as offensive as it used to be (except that the chorus of ʽMister Ra­bbitʼ, with its peculiar Italian insistence on loudly pronouncing the second word as «rah-bit», brings on inappropriate visions of kindergartens). They are simply «sparkless» — no matter how fast or frenetic or ecstatic they want to make themselves look on something like ʽSireneʼ, it does not sound convincing, not even when their new guitarist Max Smeraldi breaks into a furious Van Halen-esque metal solo. ʽBrividoʼ, on the other hand, shows that they still carry a strain of the «glam-pop» virus — the song begins in atmospheric, Floydian, mode, then proceeds into the re­gular «anthemic» territory (pompous synths, big booming drums, and not a lot in the way of in­teresting melody or subtle nuances). And it isn't even contagious.

Arguably the best of the lot are several «experimental» numbers deprived of vocals — ʽAnche Dioʼ, for instance, echoes New Wave-era King Crimson with its tricky, off-balance time signa­tures and dissonant processed guitars à la Adrian Belew; and ʽEmilianoʼ is a showcase for Vitto­rio's jazz piano skills, although it is hardly likely to ever replace Thelonious Monk on your Ipod — outside of this album, ʽEmilianoʼ will probably shrivel and die in seconds. Then there are the acoustic ballads that require the usual tolerance / passion for Italian pop traditions (ʽTirami Una Reteʼ, ʽRimani Fuoriʼ, etc.) — still miles above the smelly plastic pablum of...

...yet, anyway, I do not understand why I should be forced to feel good about this record just be­cause it is less embarrassing than E Via — no Herculean feat, really, to make an album that would sound less embarrassing than E Via, especially in 1994, when musical fashion temporarily took a turn for the better. In retrospect, Il 13 is simply tolerable, but boring: Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso are on an egotistical mission to prove that they, Banco, are still a musical force — and this whole «let us make a stereotypical Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso album, and throw in a few funky arrangements to throw them off the scent» attitude is an overall failure. Oh, and it's pathe­tically overlong — a whole sixty minutes of this futuristic nostalgia? Thumbs down.

  

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Da Qui Messere Si Domina La Valle

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: DA QUI MESSERE SI DOMINA LA VALLE (1991)

1) In Volo; 2) R.I.P.; 3) Passaggio; 4) Metamorfosi; 5) Il Giardino Del Mago; 6) Traccia; 7) L'Evoluzione; 8) La Conquista Della Posizione Eretta; 9) La Danza Dei Grandi Rettili; 10) Cento Mani, Cento Occhi; 11) 750,000 Anni Fa... L'Amore; 12) Miserere Alla Storia; 13) Ed Ora Io Domando Tempo Al Tempo.

As the 1990s introduced their «revivalist» spirit, and former sellouts, one by one, started shaking off the slick commercial haze, Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso came to their senses as well — alas, at the expense of losing Gianni Nocenzi, so this here is a one-kidney band trying to restore and then preserve what can be restored and preserved of its former face.

They did it in a strange way, though: by completely re-recording their first two albums and relea­sing the new versions both separately and as a 2-CD package, subtitled with a line from ʽIn Voloʼ. As far as I understand, they were the only ones of the major prog veterans to have done that — allegedly, the «restoration» of Yes was also due to re-recordings of old classics (Keys To Ascen­sion), but those were live shows, and the compositions were taken from different albums. These, in comparison, are studio productions, completely faithful to both the sequencing and the arran­gements of the original versions. So what's the point?

In all honesty, since the original albums are classics, after all, a fully responsible review should take pains to carefully compare all the differences and present a well-researched conclusion on whether the subtle changes introduced in the re-recordings may be qualified as improvements. Particularly since some of the tracks are noticeably longer (ʽR.I.P.ʼ, ʽMetamorfosiʼ, and ʽL'Evo­luzioneʼ, in particular, have each been extended by about three minutes, by means of extended instrumental sections, so it seems, usually of the «atmospheric» variety — such as the new lengthy build-up to ʽConquista Della Posizione Erettaʼ). But I am rather loath to assume this responsibility — the task seems more appropriate for professional Bancologists, not for someone who is just here to offer a quick en-passant judgement.

Hence, my irresponsible judgement is as follows: The re-recordings are listenable, but the subtle changes, on the whole, are (predictably) detrimental. Of course, in 1991 they do have the benefit of better production values than in 1972, but that benefit is brought to nought when you realize that (a) the drums sound pretty bad, with tinny electronic effects disrupting the tight focus; (b) even though it is the piano player and not the guitarist who has left (piano parts are handled either by brother Vittorio or guest player Piercarlo Penta), it is often the guitar parts that suffer the most, as can easily be seen already on ʽR.I.P.ʼ — Maltese uses unnecessary electronic effects throug­h­out, so that, overall, the live and intimate feel of the original is replaced by digital murk that does not trigger the same kind of emotional response (to put it mildly).

DiGiacomo is completely on the level throughout, and it is not as if, having never heard the ori­ginals, you would be hard pressed to understand what all the fuss was about — the melodies, structures, and overall goals are all the same. Maybe they just thought this could eventually turn into a trend: «refresh» all the classics with the new, improved aid of modern technologies. Natu­rally, it did not, so in retrospect, this acquires the status of a misguided historical curio, for com­pletists only — not that there is any further danger of mistaking the re-recordings for the origi­nals, since the originals are back in print, and the re-recordings are out of it, possibly for ever, so that once again, time is on our side.

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Donna Plautilla

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: DONNA PLAUTILLA (1989)

1) Ed Io Canto; 2) Cantico; 3) Piazza Dell'Oro; 4) Mille Poesie; 5) Un Giorno Di Sole; 6) Un Uomo Solo; 7) Bla, Bla, Bla; 8) E Luce Fu; 9) Mille Poesie (version 2); 10) Donna Plautilla.

Finally, an Eighties album from Banco that does not at all sound like the Eighties... hmm, I won­der if this could have anything to do with the fact that all of the recordings here allegedly date from the late 1960s / early 1970s? The decision to open the vaults and flood the fans with pre-proto-nostalgic demos, recorded way back when DiGiacomo was not even a member of the band yet, and most of the vocals were handled by the Nocenzi brothers themselves, came at a strange time — just two years earlier, Gianni had left the band for good in order to embark on a solo ca­reer, and what with ...E Via being the latest and «greatest» trace of their legacy, the band must have looked essentially finished for everybody still the least bit concerned.

So the fact that they turned to their almost archaeological past was quite telling: you do not usual­ly bother publishing your teenage scraps unless (a) you happen to be one of the greatest bands in the world, in which case your legions of fans will be happy to buy anything, or (b) you happen to be totally defunct, in which case your three or four remaining fans will be happy to buy anything. And Donna Plautilla offers few revelations — by default, it happens to be the best Banco album of the decade due to utter lack of competition, but in the overall scheme of things, it is primarily of interest for the historian.

The songs are surprisingly well recorded: these are not bare-bones demos, but full, professional stu­dio productions, background harmonies, multiple overdubs and all — strange enough, there seems to be no trace of this material ever having been officially released, even though I am pretty sure that some of these songs could have been turned into (at least) modest hits on the Italian mar­ket. Rather predictably, this is mainly «sunny» Italian art-pop, already with some baroque ten­dencies, but very much derivative of the typical Italian scene, particularly in the vocal depart­ment — and, speaking of vocals, Vittorio Nocenzi's singing is not all that bad: nowhere near as distinctive, sharp, or «soulful» as DiGiacomo's, but also less manneristic and overwrought. Fans of Francesco should probably stay away in the first place, but non-fans of Francesco who hold the opinion that his singing frequently distracts one, in an irritating manner, from the intricacies of the music, could actually find satisfaction — provided, that is, that the melodies were awesome in any way, and it looks like they are not.

If the songs are arranged in chronological order (I am not sure), then there is a clear «growth» ten­dency: the first song, ʽEd Io Cantoʼ, sounds like a typical late-Sixties pop «nugget», a hybrid of hip British psychedelic style with Italian dramatism that is neither too inventive nor too catchy, while the last one — the instrumental title track — already boasts the trademark Nocenzi organ / piano duo in full flight, engaging in a flashy jazzy duel reminiscent of contemporary Traffic (some of the glissandos and stuff sound inspired by ʽGladʼ off John Barleycorn). In between you have it all — hyper-driven, corny acoustic ballads (ʽCanticoʼ); distorted heavy piano boogie (ʽPiazza Dell'Oroʼ); even an early attempt at a «universalist» epic anthem (ʽE Luce Fuʼ).

In short, they were trying hard, but the short art-pop song format just does not yield good results for these guys — they never really hit their stride until they'd finally worked out the long multi-part instru­mental form. Essentially, it is just that some bands function best in «Procol Harum mode» while others have limited pop sensibility and tend to thrive in nineteen-minute long sym­phonic rock à la Yes environments. Thus, Donna Plautilla, while listenable overall and having its occasional moments, clearly shows that, as an «art-pop singles band», the early Banco had no chance whatsoever at being noticed in the crowd — there is nothing here except for general com­petence. If you want yourself some really solid «Mediterranean» art-pop from the era, equally influenced by Romance and British (as well as Greek) spirits, check out Aphrodite's Child instead — hooks galore, plenty of atmosphere, and surprising diversity out there that expose Donna Plau­tilla for the timid training camp that it really was.

Nevertheless, the album is unquestionably of great importance for those wishing to experience and assess the Banco curve from start to finish — after all, the marvels of ʽR.I.P.ʼ and ʽMetamor­phosiʼ did not come out of nowhere. And just because the brothers' playing technique is already well established, as well as for the sake of having, that way, secured at least one mildly worthy release in the 1980s (through cheating, but would we rather have another ...E Via? no way!), I am definitely not giving it a thumbs down.

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: ...E Via

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: ...E VIA (1985)

1) Notte Kamikaze; 2) Ice Love; 3) Black Out; 4) (When We) Touched Our Eyes; 5) To The Fire; 6) Mexico City; 7) Lies In Your Eyes; 8) Baby Jane.

With your permission, I will keep this one brief. For some reason, the «moody» twist of the self-titled Banco did not appear satisfactory — and just two years later, the band fell back on its «silly Italo-pop» schtick, except, this time, with an appropriately (for 1985) larger emphasis on big stu­pid electronic drums and «sci-fi» synthesizers. Results are predictable: a record that is just as dumb as Buone Notizie, but goes even harsher on the ears.

Summarizing: a total of 4 cretinous (yes, I need to drag out my thesaurus for this) «hot» electro-pop dance numbers — I can just imagine the Nocenzi brothers, with naked torsos, getting it on with those sexy portable synths!; one deeply bathetic power ballad that might as well have been written by Diane Warren; and three calmer, adult-contemporary numbers, the last one of them with a faint, distant echo of the band's fusion legacy (but at this point, that echo is pretty much undistinguishable from the domain of soft jazz muzak).

Additionally, most of the songs are delivered in English — never a forte of DiGiacomo's, and at this point, who really cares? I seriously doubt they managed to sell a single copy of this crap out­side the borders, where everybody had their own national crap at the time. (Not to mention that a single look at DiGiacomo's facial expression on that billboard would shoo away even the buz­zards). Somebody must have gone completely wild in the marketing department — or maybe singing in English over ear-splitting electronic drum backgrounds was all the rage in Italy circa 1985, which I doubt.

As is often the case on such of the lyrics, a few of the choruses are «formalistically» catchy, but usually in the form of «idiot catchiness» — if the Italian line about dancing with the protagonist all night long from ʽNotte Kamikazeʼ gets stuck in your head for a couple hours, nothing good will come out of it anyway. Nobody except for the most corrosively perverted Eighties' buffs need ever bother about locating this record — E Via, indeed. And yes, that's the wrong way you are pointing out there, signor DiGiacomo — thumbs down, all the way, never up or even side­ways.

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Banco

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: BANCO (1983)

1) Ninna Nanna; 2) Lontano Da; 3) Moby Dick; 4) Pioverà; 5) Allons Enfants; 6) Velocità; 7) Moyo Ukoje; 8) Trac­cia III.

Stuck in between two of Banco's worst excuses for existence, this eponymous release from 1983 is marginally better — at least every once in a while it tends to veer into long forgotten «art-pop» territory, with occasional baroque vocal flourishes and flashes of intellectualism: I mean, how bad can an album with direct references to Herman Melville, the French national anthem, and a phra­seological expression in Swahili really be?

Well, it can be pretty bad, for sure, but not entirely hopeless. Granted, the audacity even to sug­gest that there may be some feeble continuity with Banco's classic legacy — as evidenced by the inclusion of a short bookmarking instrumental called ʽTraccia IIIʼ — is hardly permissible, parti­cularly in view of the fact that the song in question is a bland piece of post-New Wave dance mu­zak heavily struck with synthesizeritis. But if we bring ourselves to forget that there ever was a ʽTraccia Iʼ or ʽTraccia IIʼ in the first place, Banco has its better moments.

ʽMoby Dickʼ, in particular, is a tolerable, at times even jubilantly infectious, chunk of Euro-pop, laden with catchy choruses, decent slide guitar and ʽDancing Queenʼ-ish piano patterns, maybe the best track to stem from Banco's pop period in general — see, it isn't really that hard: all one needs is not sound too stupid and include some instrumental work that does not value flashiness and rhythm above subtlety and melodicity.

And make that a big emphasis on «not sounding too stupid» — throughout the album, the atti­tudes and tonalities are significantly shifted towards a melancholic, autumnal mood with a little bit of old-timey romantic idealism carried over from the progressive days. If only the rhythmic pulses here weren't so utterly flat and predictable, ʽNinna Nannaʼ could have been a passable jazz-rocker, and ʽPioveràʼ could have been an okayish fusion ballad. There is even an attempt at jumping on the «world music» wagon with ʽMoyo Ukojeʼ, even if its Swahili title is more or less the only «world» element to it... still, it's a bit of an improvement over ʽBacciami Alfredoʼ, if you know what I'm talking about.

It's not as if any of these observations constituted sufficient reasons for the album to exist — it is quickly and easily forgettable — but, at least, in the general context of the band's history it comes across as a weak muscle convulsion from what already seemed like something that «ceased to exist». One could even hope that, had things continued to unfurl in the same way, Banco could have been the beginning of a resuscitation. Unofrtunately, the Eighties were only beginning — Genesis, too, released their best «pop-era» album in 1983, as did Yes, and look what happened later. Could we expect anything radically different from their Italian brethren? I don't think so.

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Buone Notizie

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: BUONE NOTIZIE (1981)

1) Taxi; 2) Canzone D'Amore; 3) Si, Ma Si; 4) Buona Notte, Sogni D'Oro; 5) Baciami Alfredo; 6) Michele E Il Treno; 7) AM-FM; 8) Buone Notizie.

If possible, this is even more «pop» than its predecessor. Now there aren't even any of those stu­pid «monster riffs» like the one that opened ʽSenza Riguardoʼ, nor any attempts to preserve their jazz-fusion legacy like ʽFeliceʼ. Every single track you can dance to, sometimes in slower, some­times in faster motion, and everything is almost unbearably, disgustingly happy — in an odd con­trast with the sleeve photo, where the band members choose to look like a band of captured parti­giani, grimly preparing to meet the firing squad.

I will not deny that the arrangements are not always awful, or that the songs are not always hook­less. They could have done a lot worse: this upbeat, playful, New Wave-influenced vibe that they latch on is at least much better than choosing to drown themselves in saccharine balladry or up­date the «San Remo vibe» by refueling the pomp with synthesizer arrangements — both of these options would be very easy to implement, and the consequences would have been absolutely hor­rendous. Thus, in a way, this particular mode of selling out is probably the least painful way in which they could sell out at the moment.

This does not, however, remove the basic problem — these are simply stupid songs, as in «stupid stupid», not «cutely stupid» or «charmingly stupid» or even «silly stupid». Even if your Italian is good enough to understand such witty lines as "Ho un libro di Bukowsky sull'eiaculazione" (ʽTa­xiʼ), it does not save the situation. The texts, overall, try to be impressionistic, educated, and, oc­ca­sionally, socially relevant, but they are set to such «slap-happy» arrangements that any attempt to get a «message» out of them will be spiritually blocked. All they do is simply invite you to jump on the spot like a two-year old, in an incomprehensible paroxysm of rhythmic joy. Fast ones like ʽSi, Ma Siʼ and the title track are the worst of the lot, but slower lullabies like ʽBuona Notte, Sogni D'Oroʼ do not actually change the mood — they are less idiotic, but more boring.

By the general standards of mainstream Italian dance-pop, this is fairly decent quality, I guess: with keyboards and guitars still striving for modestly complex melodicity, and with DiGiacomo still in full control of his voice, the album is technically accomplished. But its rhythmic base is absolutely, utterly primitive, its emotional impact is negligible, and its hooks stupid and meaning­less. Consequently, yet another thumbs down — and by now, it seems all but impossible that the band will ever get a chance to see the light once again.

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Urgentissimo

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: URGENTISSIMO (1980)

1) Senza Riguardo; 2) Dove Sarà; 3) C'E Qualcosa; 4) Luna Piena; 5) Paolo Pà; 6) Felice; 7) Ma Che Idea; 8) Il Cielo Sta In Alto.

Fresh, sizzling, off-the-grill electronic Italian dance-pop from 1981, anyone? Didn't think so. Per­haps the move to a blatantly commercial sound was as inevitable for Banco as it was for the ab­solute majority of their progressive brethren — but even such brethren as Yes, Genesis, or Gentle Giant mana­ged to handle the transition with more self-esteem: thirty years on, it is still possible to think of a few reasons to dig out 90125 or Abacab other than pure childhood nostalgia. This transformation, in comparison, results in such utter shite that the only reason to listen to Ur­gen­tis­simo is strictly culturological, as in — you thought US and UK mainstream pop tastes in the early 1980s went down the drain? have a look at the Italian pop taste!

In the short term, the strategy worked: the band managed to launch several local hits on the Ita­lian charts, of which ʽPaolo Pàʼ was the biggest, convincing Banco that this was, indeed, the way to go on. In the long run, these corny abominations serve as the perfect textbook example of how it is possible to take the worst aspects of a successful «intellectual» band and use them to reforge it into a conglomeration of happy pop idiots.

It is not just that these «post-disco» Eurodance tunes are utterly primitive in comparison to you-know-what. I am not sure that, composition-wise, ʽPaolo Pàʼ or ʽDove Saràʼ are that much more «dumb» or «simplistic» than, say, some Oingo Boingo ditty from the same time period. ʽDove Saràʼ, for instance, has a fairly liberal lead guitar score from Maltese, and ʽPaoloʼ has several keyboard parts with the Nocenzi brothers still competing for the listeners' attention like they al­ways used to. Basically, if you want «totally primitive», there are much, much worse examples in the same genre.

The one thing that is really disgusting is a complete loss of a sense of «adequacy». DiGiacomo's vocal talents are now let loose to convey «serious emotions» in a musical context best fit for a teenage disco club — the songs are sung as if they are supposed to mean something when they really don't: the only meaning implied is «please keep on buying our records so we don't starve in this strange new age». And the only real purpose behind the Nocenzi brothers' keyboard hooks, this time, is to get your sorry butt wiggling to those Hot New Funky Sounds — best illustrated, perhaps, by the repetitive six-note chorus melody of ʽMa Che Ideaʼ, which could, for all I know, be an old AC/DC riff transcribed for synthesizer.

Only two of the tracks still preserve faint traces of more worthy purposes: ʽSenza Riguardoʼ, once you have suffered through its Big Heavy Mammoth Riff (which honors the slowly emerging pop-metal move­ment), has some free-form soloing in the middle, and ʽFeliceʼ has a brief nod to the band's former fusion pedigree (but even so, integrates the fusion-esque chord changes into a to­tally club-oriented dance number). Note that this paragraph has been inserted strictly out of con­siderations of courtesy and politeness — it is not, by any means, recommended that anybody go out and look for these songs as «lost delights». They are simply marginally less disgusting than the rest. Also, the brief instrumental album closer ʽIl Cielo Sta In Altoʼ is supposed to work as an artistic atmospheric coda, with two synthesizers trading «heavenly» lite-jazz lines against an irri­tatingly repetitive clavinet bassline.

Does it work? Well, even if it did, what's two minutes of soft, inobtrusive, jazz-poppy textures to us after thirty minutes' worth of complete embarrassment? Welcome to one of the cheesiest sell­outs in European pop music history, with a crashing thumbs down.

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Capolinea

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: CAPOLINEA (1980)

1) Non Mi Rompete; 2) Il Ragno; 3) Canto Di Primavera; 4) 750,000 Anni Fa... L'Amore; 5) Capolinea, Pt. 1; 6) Capolinea, Pt. 2; 7) R.I.P.; 8) Garofano Rosso.

Why these guys had to wait until 1980 to release a live album is anybody's guess — perhaps they thought it boring to jump on the «triple live album» fad while they were still playing the songs close to the originals, but now that they had so daringly reinvented themselves for the Modern Age, it was time to show the world how infinite those adaptive capacities of progressive rock really are? Particularly now that you can actually dance to those formerly tricky oldies and all?

All right, so this is not quite the brand new, Eighties-ready Banco yet. This is a transitional album: they do a selection of mostly old material, alternating between (a) tear-jerkers — ballads that need very little readjustment to set the crowds a-weepin'; and (b) old «rockers» remade according to the electro-funky standards of the day, with hot syncopated basslines that sometimes go all the way up to disco (even though in general this is not «Banco's disco album», as the fans sometimes brand it, steeping away in horror — but a dance album this is, of course).

The only new composition is the two-part title track, a fast, but relatively old-fashioned boogie piece with alternating synthesizer and guitar solos, and a bass part that pays proper tribute to the fusion genre. It's listenable and nimble, but generic, and the synthesizer tones are ugly anyway. But it may be a better proposition for the fans than the funkified rethinking of ʽR.I.P.ʼ, or the disco pounce of ʽIl Ragnoʼ, or the new life of ʽGarofano Rossoʼ as the Italian equivalent of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack.

On the other hand, in retrospect the experience is sort of amusing — it is curious to hear, at least once, how these old classic tunes behave in a «nightclub» setting, and it will ultimately depend upon your attitude towards something like Walter Murphy's ʽA Fifth Of Beethovenʼ: ridiculous, disgusting, money-grubbin' desecration or cheesy, bold, tongue-in-cheek experimentation? For Banco, scrap «tongue-in-cheek», though: there are no signs of self-irony anywhere in sight, they are clearly targeting these rearrangements at a new kind of audience — one that is accustomed to standing up and getting it on at live shows, not sitting down and contemplating.

The recording quality is fairly good (every throb of each disco line wobbles your speakers im­pressively), DiGiacomo is in fine vocal form (in fact, at this point he emerges as the most «con­servative» element of the music, faithfully reproducing the original vocal melodies), and the No­cenzi brothers do work their asses off, regardless of the goals and results. The album hardly qua­lifies for a proper end-of-the-decade «summarization» of achievements — it stares way too in­tensely into the glum future, and the song selection is too restricted — but, at the very least, it is a semi-decent way to cap off one's collection of BMS records, because, compared to what would follow, and follow very soon, Capolinea is a frickin' Mozartian masterpiece. Prophetic title, too: Capolinea means «terminus» in Italian, so take a hint before proceeding further.

Check "Capolinea" (CD) on Amazon

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Canto Di Primavera

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: CANTO DI PRIMAVERA (1979)

1) Ciclo; 2) Canto Di Primavera; 3) Sono La Bestia; 4) Niente; 5) E Mi Viene Da Pensare; 6) Inferno Città; 7) Lungo Il Margine; 8) Circobanda.

We are still not quite in the Eighties yet, and this album does not yet have the proper license to be «atrocious». At this point, it looks as if Banco are taking the relatively easy way out — instead of properly selling out, like everybody else, and going for a fully «commercial pop» sound, they are instead becoming a «soft jazz» / «lite fusion» act. Apparently, the experiment of ...Di Terra did not work out to critical or commercial success, so for their next project, they went with something that goes easier on the budget than a full-scale orchestra, and easier on the average listener than a completely instrumental «neo-classical» recording.

The album title is right on the money: the whole thing is a fairly coherent «Spring Song», with mostly bright, sunny, happy melodies, many of them with a «pastoral» flavor (title track, for in­stance), driven, as usual, by the Nocenzi interplay — the only bad thing about which is that Gianni has completely switched over to new brands of electric pianos and clavinets, so the whole experience has a decidedly «inorganic» flavor to it. Even when they throw in some folky bits, making us dance along to the opening lines of ʽSono La Bestiaʼ, they do it with these rather un­suitable keyboard tones — eventually, who needs to hear those sounds played on stiff electric keyboards when you can listen to Ian Anderson doing the same stuff on real flutes?

Worse, most of the atmospheric textures are tripartite — the annoying electric keyboards set the first layer of melody, the brand new synthesizers set the second one, and the third one is usually provided by Luigi Cinque's echoey saxophone that is not that far removed from the standards soon to be set by Kenny G — smooth, inobtrusive, «melodic», boring to the point that, if you listen to this stuff too intensely for too long, the only cure is to throw on ʽYakety Yakʼ as soon as possible, or you might develop a lifelong incurable hatred for the instrument.

The melodies are not exactly complete throwaways — there is a lot of compositional activity going on here, and from a formal technical point of view, Canto is probably not any less com­plex than ...Di Terra. But the fact that the boys are not officially «slouching» hardly means anything if there is no exciting dynamics — no rises, no falls, no climaxes, no Sturm-und-Drang, just a lot of key and tempo changes that make the separate pieces about as different from each other as the different blades of grass on that bright green spring meadow they are singing about. Where are the thrills, the chills, the kills, goddammit?

On the other hand, with the exception of the ornamental framework (ʽCicloʼ and ʽCircobandaʼ are two similar-sounding happy-fusion-esque instrumentals that bookmark the record), this is all very much DiGiacomo's show — the relatively short tracks offer full compensation for the man's ab­sence on ...Di Terra. And with that, the San Remo spirit is back as well: every song is full to the brim with flourishing mannerisms, exaggerated sentimentality, beards soaked with artistic tears, and, occasionally, some theatrical martial punch. None of it holds any serious emotional reso­nance for me, but most of it is done reasonably fine and will always have its fans.

In a certain way, what this reminds me of is a sort of Italian equivalent to Steely Dan's Aja — except that beyond the smooth, seemingly «corny», «easy-listening» surface of Aja there hides a darker, leerier heart (a common thing with Steely Dan), whereas subsequent listens to Canto Di Primavera do not reveal any surprises. I mean, Italian pop (heck, most Italian music from any time period, for that matter) usually bares it all at once, and Banco are no exception — and cer­tainly not when they try to emphasize their «national» side over their «cosmopolitan» ambitions. In the end, the only thing that prevents this ball-o'-blandness from a «thumbs down» is that... well, we are still not quite in the Eighties yet.

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Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: ...Di Terra

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: ...DI TERRA (1978)

1) Nel Cielo E Nelle Altre Cose Mute; 2) Terramadre; 3) Non Senza Dolore; 4) Io Vivo; 5) Nè Più Di Un Albero Non Meno Di Una Stella; 6) Nei Suoni E Nei Silenzi; 7) Di Terra.

If you are an old school progressive symph-rock band, and you want to avoid stagnation, and most of the world is divided into the New Wave and the disco camps and doesn't give a damn about academic approaches to popular entertainment, what do you do?

Well, normally you sell out, with faint hopes of gaining short-term advantages and avoiding long-term reputation loss, neither of which usually comes true. But every once in a while, just prior to selling out, you might make a startling, unexpected, out-of-time and out-of-touch move that will provide your future generation fans with a cool extra subject for discussion. Never be afraid of going «against the grain» — even if the results are awful, the very fact of your bravery will go down in the annals, and there will always be admiring fans who have a thing for bravery.

As you can already make out from the album sleeve, Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso have lopped the last three words from their name already in 1978. That «shortening», following in the wake of their colleagues in the business, Premiata Forneria Marconi, becoming simply «PFM», is some­times associated with the band's transition from serious prog to cheesy pop — however, that is not accurate, since the first «Banco» album, ...Di Terra, is anything but cheesy pop: on the con­trary, it is one of the most ambitious and «academic» projects the band ever came up with. A completely instrumental album, once again, but not a soundtrack like Garofano Rosso — this time, it is a full-blown seven-part symphony, recorded with the participation of the Orchestra dell'Unione Musicisti di Roma. A classical / jazz / rock hybrid that was arguably as far from «cool» with the critics in 1978 as... oh wait, I guess nothing could be farther.

Di Giacomo's absence from the album, this time around, is feebly compensated by naming all the tracks with lines from a puffed-up metaphysical poem he wrote — similar in style to Graeme Edge's poetry he wrote for the Moody Blues but, thankfully, only implied in the music, never sung or recited in itself. Still, it yields a certain hint — taken together with the grandiose pull of the arrangements, the title brings on associations with Mahler's Song Of The Earth, and even if the music itself has little (but not exactly «nothing») to do with Mahler, the ambitions are some­what comparable. As a polyphonous, multi-theme, «sprawling» instrumental concept album by a nominally «rock» artist, ...Di Terra is sometimes compared with Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells, but the two are grounded in completely different traditions — Mike's magnum opus was, after all, far more indebted to Celtic folk and stuff, whereas the Nocenzi brothers' passions steadily re­main rooted in late XIXth / early XXth century classical schools.

Anyway, the end results are impressive. Reviewing the separate movements of the piece is a task as arduous as reviewing the separate movements of a Bruckner (or, indeed, a Mahler) symphony, but a lot of well-schooled compositional activity has been invested here, with great care for dy­namics and development. The «overture» (ʽNeil Cielo...ʼ), for instance, permanently pinned to a rising-and-falling string theme, gradually transforms from a «pastoral» setting to a «parade» one, as brass instruments overtake woodwinds. Then ʽTerramadreʼ leads us into fast-paced «modern jazz» territory, with rampant dissonance and atonality — replaced three minutes later by the odd mix of baroque influences, elevator jazz, and New Age-isms that is ʽNon Senza Doloreʼ. And so on and on, right down to the «galloping» finale of the title track, which combines most of the ingredients — a little spaghetti western, a little blues-rock, a little Tchaikovsky, you name it.

There is not enough power and muscle here — there probably could not have been, had they sedu­ced Herbert von Karajan himself to direct the orchestra — to separate your lower jaw from the rest of your face, I suppose. But this is still a very good, and a very unusual, application of Banco's «synthetic» powers — all of those jazz and ambient elements that they mix in so freely with the classical make ...Di Terra a near-unique experience, and one that probably deserves much more publicity than it has among music lovers. I have no problem calling this their «last gasp of brilliance» or something like that, and a firm thumbs up is guaranteed. At the very least, it does sound like absolutely nothing else produced in the Saturday Night Fever era.

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Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Come In Un'Ultima Cena

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: COME IN UN'ULTIMA CENA (1976)

1) ...A Cena, Per Esempio; 2) Il Ragno; 3) E Così Buono Giovanni, Ma...; 4) Slogan; 5) Si Dice Che I Delfini Par­lino; 6) Voilà Mida (Il Guaritore); 7) Quando La Buona Gente Dice...; 8) La Notte E Piena; 9) Fino Alla Mia Porta.

Since this is not a soundtrack no longer, but rather a good old concept album, loosely (very loosely) based around the theme of the Last Supper, with DiGiacomo returning to his normal place as band frontman, initial hopes of getting another Io Sono Nato Libero are fairly high. But alas, as it turns out after a few listens, the main problem of Garofano Rosso was not in being a soundtrack — incredible as it may seem, the band simply started running out of fresh ideas and basic energy, and Ultima Cena continues that process.

It is still essential for the fans, since at this point, the band does not yet show any signs of «com­mercializing» their sound. Technically, we are still dealing with the same old Banco: a complex fusion of classical, jazz, rock, pop, and «San Remo» influences, formally unpredictable at every turn and aiming for an equally complex mix of emotional / intellectual reactions. Nor is there any technical sign of «slacking»: the Nocenzi brothers and Rodolfo Maltese give themselves no re­spite, churning out riffs, solos, and tonal experiments a-plenty.

Bad news, though: it no longer works so well, particularly in the context of their earlier successes. Banco's musical themes were never all that «catchy» — their approach to music was more in the classical than in the rock vein — and while it paid off well during the early stages, by 1976 the trick was getting stale. There is hardly anything here that they didn't do better on their first three albums — which is especially ironic considering how much there is: just about every single sty­listic twist, technical move, emotional pass, etc., that they were capable of will be encountered on one or several of the tracks. Everything going on at once — and nothing imprintable.

At first, I was afraid it was just me; then I began to find out that many reviewers had the same feelings — for instance, the All-Music Guide review clearly stated that the album «shows signs of breathlessness», although the reviewer was kind enough to let ʽIl Ragnoʼ (ʽThe Spiderʼ) and ʽSloganʼ off the hook for their «power» and «energy». I wouldn't be capable of the same kind­ness. Sure, ʽIl Ragnoʼ has a steady beat, a heavy bass line, and a distorted guitar riff to keep it going, and the introductory part of ʽSloganʼ tries to be dark and ominous... but none of that goes far enough, or, rather, all of it goes too far: not one of the instrumental parts has enough power to impress on its own, and, when taken together, they cancel out rather than strengthen each other. The cogs are grinding with all the required mechanical precision, but somehow, the clock does not run with the necessary effectiveness.

Some small consolation may be taken in the fact that this time around, the obligatory soft ballads are almost completely stripped of that irritating Italian suaveness — ʽE Così Buonoʼ and ʽLa Notte E Pienaʼ are formed by little acoustic-and-flute patterns that are more in the old baro­que tradition than in the «Mediterranean pop» style, and DiGiacomo's vocals sound much less manne­ristic and affected in that setting. Which is not to say that either one is a musical masterpiece of unprecedented depth and power — only to say that, with their presence, Ultima Cena reaches a consistent standard of «uninterrupted mediocrity»: an album that is bound to delight dogmatic fans of «That Classic Banco Sound», wherever it may be found, but is far more likely to disap­point those who rigidly demand «progress» from their «progressive». Because this here is not progress — this is a classic example of stagnation, and (just as it happened with quite a few other «prog» acts) it may even serve as a weak justification for the band's soon-to-be transition to an unabashedly pop stylistics.

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Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Garofano Rosso

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: GAROFANO ROSSO (1976)

1) Zobeida; 2) Funerale; 3) 10 Giugno 1924; 4) Quasi Saltarello; 5) Esterno Notte; 6) Garofano Rosso; 7) Sugges­ti­oni Di Un Ritorno In Campagna; 8) Passeggiata In Bicicletta E Corteo Dei Dimostranti; 9) Tema Di Giovanna; 10) Siracusa. Appunti D'Epoca; 11) Notturno Breve; 12) Lasciando La Casa Antica.

A soundtrack to an obscure Italian movie on the rise of fascism in the 1920s, this usually counts as a «proper» entry in the Banco discography — not only does the album incorporate several in­strumentals that were not actually featured in the movie, but most of them do not really sound much like «movie muzak». The only tangible reference to the movie theme is in ʽ10 Giugno 1924ʼ, at the beginning of which an angry crowd keeps chanting "Assassini! Assassini!" (refer­ring to the assassination of a socialist leader by fascists on that day) — but if you were listening to the album without any knowledge of its background, you wouldn't be able to guess what the hell this soundbite is doing there, other than to add a little whiff of the ʽRevolution No. 9ʼ spirit, perhaps (which would not be true: avantgarde sound collages were never on Banco's agenda).

The good news for those who, like me, are not awestruck over DiGiacomo's vocal powers (and, conversely, the bad news for those who are), is that the album is completely instrumental, with the focus placed exclusively on the Nocenzi brothers. The bad news is that it is still cursed by the typical soundtrack curse — although there are no attempts whatsoever here at «dumbing down» the sound, and from all points of view the album qualifies as rigorous symph-prog, it still fun­ctions primarily as background ambience. All the themes are tasteful and range from «pretty» to «ominous», but I was not able to spot any particularly resonant motifs. Except for one — the dark ascending piano pattern that first appears on ʽEsterno Notteʼ and then is re-introduced in ʽTema Di Giovannaʼ. Creepy, doom-laden, and... essentially, borrowed from The Beatles' ʽI Want Youʼ, once you come to think of it (the fact that they changed the last note, which only makes it less effective, only confirms the suspicion).

Overall, this is fairly mellow stuff: forty minutes of witnessing a slow, time-taking competition between the piano and the organ / synthesizer, played out according to an almost baroque code of combat. It does not strive to reach previously unexplored ground — adequately enough for a mere soundtrack, made on order — and there are no moods here that these guys had not already built up to better effect on their previous albums.

The title track, beginning with a bit of free-form «self-adjustment» and then stabilizing into a steady blues-rock jam, was deemed important enough by the band to become incorporated into their live shows — but this is really the kind of number that the Allman Brothers would have done with more spice (and more guitar! that «pastoral synthesizer» thing does get tedious after a while!) on a good day. And it is only overcome in length by ʽSuggestioniʼ, which has almost no noticeable changes in dynamics throughout its eight minutes. Ambience!

«Pleasantly boring» is what I call these kinds of records — acknowledging, at the same time, that obstinate fans of the symph-prog genre could still find plenty of minute delicacies to savor here. Unless you are really obstinate, though, don't bother — your time might be better spent reading a book on the history of the fascist movement, little as that has to do with the actual spiritual con­tent of this particular «quasi-soundtrack».

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Banco

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: BANCO (1975)

1) Chorale (From Traccia Theme); 2) L'Albero Del Pane; 3) Metamorphosis; 4) Outside; 5) Leave Me Alone; 6) Nothing's The Same; 7) Traccia II.

I am not sure if Banco, the band's first English-language album, had any serious merit in putting the band on the international market — chart information is missing (and it probably didn't chart anyway), and, besides, by 1975 popular interest in progressive rock was already waning a bit, so it is highly unlikely that the release of Banco on Emerson, Lake & Palmer's Manticore label made even a tiny handful of people aware of the existence of the fine Italian team. Regardless, though, even if Banco were to break them through internationally, it should by no means be al­lowed to go on serving as anybody's introduction to the band.

The very idea is ridiculous — «prog» audiences are generally expected to be more open towards other languages and cultures than «pop» audiences, and how's that sound anyway? «Oh no, not me, I only listen to ten-minute suites with weird time signatures and unpredictable chord changes if the lyrics are in English, otherwise it's a bit too complicated for me». Not to mention, of course, that, with certain reservations, the language of music transcends national boundaries by definition, whereas singing — and emoting — in a non-native language might be a fairly risky business.

In particular, while I personally do not care too much for DiGiacomo as the band's lead singer, there is no denying that he is a perfect natural — raised on the Italian opera / pop tradition and everything. The same style, transposed on the phonetic and verbal structures of English, at best, sounds forced, and at worst, embarrassing. Granted, DiGiacomo does his best to camouflage the proverbial Italian accent, but it still isn't good enough, certainly not on ʽLeave Me Aloneʼ (ʽNon Mi Rompeteʼ), which has no business whatsoever being sung in English with carefully preserved Italian intonations. This is not-ta too good-duh.

Furthermore, it just does not look like the band was too happy about doing this conversion. Sur­prisingly enough, they went to the trouble of actually re-recording all the tracks, maybe because they'd lost the mastertapes and were unable to wipe DiGiacomo's vocals off the originals (the completely instrumental ʽTraccia IIʼ is the only number here that has been directly carried over), but the re-recordings never reach the same level of power and enthusiasm — and they also go much easier on the electric guitar (played by new band member Rodolfo Maltese, replacing Mar­cello Todaro) and seriously heavier on synthesizers, which is not to my liking at all.

Finally, what's up with the idea of re-recording the old stuff anyway? I am not that much of a fan to spend lots of time comparing the old ʽMetamorfosiʼ with the new ʽMetamorphosisʼ, and thus, only the first six minutes of the album are of relative interest: ʽChoraleʼ, subtitled ʽFrom Traccia Themeʼ, is an atmospheric «look-how-impressively-we-synthesize-church-organ-effects» com­position that has nothing to do with either the original ʽTracciaʼ or ʽTraccia IIʼ (all three could have been constituents of a single dismembered multi-part suite, though), and ʽL'Albero Del Pa­neʼ (ʽThe Bread Treeʼ) is an uplifting, dynamic anthem built on the conjunction of ferocious acoustic strum and a sea of romantic synthesizer joy. I suppose that both were included mainly to provide the Italian sector of the market with an incentive to buy the album.

As things are, the album seems to be generally out of print today, and for a good reason. Nobody really needs to understand what the band is singing about — the finest musical masterpieces re­quire the listener to supply his own images and interpretations, and once the frontman starts bat­tling with a foreign accent, all images and interpretations start deteriorating accordingly. A curi­ous document indeed — but, even though ʽL'Albero Del Paneʼ is salvageable, it is hardly enough to save the album from a decisive thumbs down. Recommended to avoid, even if found in a used bin (or, more likely, in some forgotten dusty container that accidentally did not make it onto the Rome – New York flight).

Banco Del Mutuo Soccorso: Io Sono Nato Libero

BANCO DEL MUTUO SOCCORSO: IO SONO NATO LIBERO (1973)

1) Canto Nomade Per Un Prigioniero Politico; 2) Non Mi Rompete; 3) La Città Sottile; 4) Dopo... Niente E Più Lo Stesso; 5) Traccia II.

This record is less known than Darwin! — for a technical reason, I believe, since «second-row» progressive rock (or any rock, for that matter) bands tend to be illustrated in textbooks by just one album, and Darwin! is an obvious choice due to its thematic cohesion. «Italian prog-rockers break through with an album centered on evolution», etc. This follow-up, in comparison, tends to be overlooked: it is not as thematically coherent, has fewer songs, and a long Italian title that, even if it is really hardly in any need of translation, is still a long Italian title.

However, it is every bit as good as Darwin!, and, perhaps, in some ways even better. It does suf­fer from the usual standard issue: ʽNon Mi Rompeteʼ is yet another in the ongoing series of Banco's ro­mantic Mediterranean ballads that will either make you swoon — or cringe, depending on your genetic constitution and social upbringing. Personally, I would gladly do with just the lovely folk patterns from Marcello Todaro's guitar, watching them gradually turn psychedelic through added phasing effect and form the backdrop for Vittorio's «whistle-synth» solo. Alas, I also have to live with DiGiacomo's «proverbially beautiful» singing — but if you are a fan of that style, it is probably done perfectly.

But other than the ballad (which would, of course, go on to become a crowd favorite), the album is dang near impeccable. ʽCanto Nomadeʼ (ʽA Nomad Chant For A Political Prisonerʼ) follows up on the album title — a 15-minute suite devoted to issues of personal and political freedom that mixes classic symph-prog, folk motives, noise, jazz-fusion improvisation, and a weird tribalistic percussion-dominated section without any seeming effort, as if to prove us the point about being born free. The individual themes are not exceedingly striking on their own, but, as in all of Ban­co's best works, they have this seductive lightness and fluency to them — the track hops along butterflyishly, from flower to flower, right down to the finale, where, fed up with nectar, it finally makes the landing with a swift and satisfied bombastic thud.

Side B is dominated by two shorter epics: ʽLa Città Sottileʼ is a dark mid-tempo piano-based epic, and ʽDopo... Niente E Più Lo Stessoʼ, opening with the album's catchiest theme — a strange «pas­toralesque jig» that almost sounds childish in comparison to everything else — soon turns out to be the album's resident rock piece, with heavy electric riffs, aggressive drum patterns, and a steady build-up to a state of barely-controlled instrumental chaos... before switching back to the little-boys-and-girls whistling dance once again at the very last moment.

Does it all «make sense»? Not in any objective manner — more than anything else, Io Sono Nato Libero simply seems carried away by its flow: other than the carefully pre-composed ʽNon Mi Rompeteʼ (and the brief final crescendo theme of ʽTraccia IIʼ, ending the album with an appropri­ate slice of stately majesty), the boys are working according to the «try anything» principle, as long as the «any­thing» in question does not carry them too far away from the shores of melody, harmony, and purity (such things as «feedback» or «atonality» do not seem to be favored in Ban­co's lexicon). But that is one hell of an exciting flow anyway — as usual, not bent on lengthy «noodles-style» soloing, but on carrying on a lively dialog between various instruments, one that never sticks too long around a single topic. Hence, it never becomes boring, and hence, there is always a good pretext to return to the album again. Thumbs up.

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