THE HISTORY
You are about to enter a world that is quite unlike your own. It's a glorious, color-saturated world of zippy sports cars, plastic pop-art furniture, luxurious villas, and all-night discotheques–where the women are all gorgeous and sophisticated, the men handsome and suave, and everyone is free to dance, eat, and make love until the first ray of dawn. It is a world where twangy baritone guitars, funky Hammond organs, and wordless female vocals provide the constant soundtrack to daily life, where even the TV commercials are filled with beats so funky and melodies so lovely, you actually don't mind them sticking in your brain.
To question whether or not such a world actually exists–or ever existed in the first place–is to miss the point entirely. For it has always existed in the mind of Daniele Luppi, a young Italian composer whose view of life and music was molded at an early age by regular exposure to the 1960s and '70s films of Rome's Cinecittˆ studios, and the astonishing film soundtracks of Ennio Morricone, Nino Rota, Piero Umiliani, Piero Piccioni, Armando Trovajoli, and Stelvio Cipriani. Like the films themselves, the music of the era was shiny and exuberant, filled with unusual flourishes and surprising turns. It was the joyous sound of "la dolce vita"–a newly prosperous nation springing back to effervescent life after the forced dreariness of the Mussolini regime and the grim period of poverty and austerity that followed World War II.
Luppi studied classical piano, but found the groovy sounds of his youth–and the vibrant images they conjured–impossible to shake. Even as he began to write film scores for a living, that same "la dolce vita" vibe inexorably found its way into his work. After some diligent research, Luppi came to the realization that a unifying thread ran through both the work of his favorite film composers and the jazzy TV and radio jingles he'd heard since he was a bambino: the same handful of session musicians played on all of them. The best (and most frequently employed) of this Italian "Wrecking Crew" were bassist Maurizio Majorana, organist Antonello Vannucchi, percussionist Roberto Podio, and guitarist Carlo Pes, an incredibly versatile quartet who also recorded on their own as the MARC 4.
When Luppi began writing the music for An Italian Story, he intended it as an homage to the music and films of his youth, and when he found out that three-quarters of the MARC 4 were still alive, he knew that these men must play on his record. But would they be willing to come out of retirement for him? And, if so, would they still have their chops together?
The answer, in both cases, turned out to be a resounding S“! Initially bemused by the fact that someone less than half their age was actually familiar with their accomplishments, Majorana and Vannucchi quickly warmed to the idea of working with Luppi, especially once they realized how closely the young maestro had captured the spirit of their playing in his scores. Majorana agreed to let the sessions take place at Telecinesound, the recording studio he owns and operates out of a ritzy apartment building in Rome's wealthy Quartiere Prati neighborhood. An analog equipment lover's dream, Telecinesound hasn't been renovated since the early '70s–Majorana and Aldo Amici, his old-timer engineer, have simply never liked the way newer equipment sounded–making it the perfect place to record An Italian Story.
With Luppi now living and working in America, Majorana became the project's point man, calling up musician friends he hadn't seen in years, and organizing (in typically laid-back Italian fashion) the recording sessions. Tracking down the vintage instruments Luppi requested proved far more challenging, but expeditions into the dustiest corners of "The Eternal City" eventually unearthed a treasure trove of classic guitars, vintage keyboards, organs, and amps, as well as a few rusty fuzz and wah-wah pedals. These quasi-museum pieces proved cranky at times–Luppi battled constantly with a particularly recalcitrant Farfisa–but the sweet perfection of their sound was undeniable.
Many of the musicians on the album hadn't played together in over a decade; but once joyful reunion hugs were exchanged and the two-inch tape began to roll, the sessions for An Italian Story flowed like fine Chianti. Number after number was nailed on the first or second take, leaving ample time for the swapping of old stories over leisurely repasts of pasta and white wine at local restaurants. When they didn't go out, Majorana would whip up meals for everyone in Telecinesound's kitchen; the smell of simmering sauce often wafted into the recording room, and one could certainly say that it made it onto the tape as well. Two weeks, several mouth-watering meals, and hundreds of hilarious and bawdy stories later the album was finished.
THE MUSIC
Considering Maurizio Majorana's prominent role in the making of An Italian Story, it's only appropriate that the very first thing you should hear on the album is his bass–a warm, round sound that kicks off "Fashion Party" in a suitably groovy, er, fashion. According to Luppi, who usually composes with a specific title in mind, the song is meant as a salute to that fundamental component of nearly every Italian film from the 1960s and '70s: the party sequence. "Sooner or later, whether it's a horror movie or a fantasy movie, there is always a club scene," he says. "Or, maybe it's in a huge villa; they're having a nice, cool party; and you see them dancing–though obviously to a different speed than the music you hear, which I love!" The track is highlighted by the unmistakable presence of the great Alessandro "The Whistler" Alessandroni, whose dulcet trills will forever be associated with Ennio Morricone's spaghetti Western soundtracks.
While many of An Italian Story's tracks have specific cinematic origins, "Photochic" was written as a straight-up homage to the MARC 4. While MARC 4 guitarist Carlo Pes passed away a few years ago, Maurizio Majorana, Antonello Vannucchi, and Roberto Podio cook together on this track like they're still doing three sets a night at some Via Veneto discotheque. "When they first heard it," Luppi remembers, "They were like, 'Oh man, this is completely our stuff!'" It is indeed.
With its strutting Farfisa, squelchy Moog, and sultry feminine whispers, the up-tempo "Nightclub" is a close sonic and thematic cousin to "Fashion Party." "It's a tribute to the movie scenes, but also the music that came with them," Luppi explains. "These days, for a party scene, you'd just license some songs; back then, the composer had to do the entire score. And so you had guys like Piccioni, Umiliani, and Morricone doing party music, which is absolutely fantastic."
The album's dreamy title track, "An Italian Story," incorporates so many elements of classic Italian film music, you could write a whole graduate thesis on it. But there's nothing remotely dry or academic here; the players are obviously having a ball, especially Alessandroni, whose whistle ably conveys the song's indelible melody. "I will always remember the smile on The Whistler's face when he first heard this," Luppi says. "It was like, 'Here I am, playing with these great musicians once again!' He even told me afterwards that he kept whistling it while he was driving home–I mean, this is a guy who has a lot of melodies to whistle!"
The onomatopoetic "Free Love Sequence" could easily be an outtake from a lost Jess Franco soundtrack. "That's a tribute to the horror/erotic/sex movies of the time," Luppi explains. "I kept on imagining vampires, beautiful women, supernatural orgies . . ." Further adding to the track's disorienting aspect is the droning of a large gong, which Luppi included because "it's the most obvious instrument they would have chosen to denote an altered state of mind."
Though it sounds like music from a police chase scene, "Telecinebeat" is really an homage to the Roman studio where An Italian Story came to life and to the casual, anything-goes attitude of the musicians who hang out there. As the track took shape, Vannucchi and Majorana decided that what it really needed was a marimba; with Luppi's amused blessing, the pair dragged the unwieldy instrument up from the basement, and Vannucchi–a noted jazz vibraphonist before he moved to the organ–laid down his part on the spot. The album's lone instance of modern technological trickery occurs towards the end of this song: the neck of the ancient baritone guitar played by Silvano Chimenti was so ridiculously warped, the instrument kept falling seriously out of tune. This was soon remedied by Telecinesound engineer Aldo Amici, who performed the delicate task of "punching in" the correctly tuned part while never missing a drag on his cigarette.
"Fetish Quartet" offers a playful nod to the decadent side of '70s erotic thrillers: "It is the same kind of sexy thing as 'Free Love Sequence,' but with more black leather," Luppi laughs. "The Lost Island" is a tropical variation on the same theme–think of an Emmanuel-type movie set in Africa or Polynesia. "It didn't matter which type of country the film took place in," Luppi explains; "South American, Arabic, African, Asian–the way Italian composers always interpreted an 'exotic' soundtrack was to put in some kind of percussion." Among the "exotic" instruments on the track (which also features a very fine extended Hammond solo from Vannucchi) are a pair of woodblocks–covered with sandpaper borrowed on the spur of the moment from a nearby construction site–and an old '70s string simulator. "Stelvio Cipriani once told me, 'One day I heard the string simulator, and I called the studio and said, "Cancel all the strings players! I'm gonna bring this keyboard!"'" Luppi laughs. "Replacing strings with this sound was a 'futuristic' experiment that didn't really work . . . but that's what I love about it. It's so wrong, but it's so typical of the era."
In addition to a brilliant sitar freakout, "Hypermodels" evokes the model-centric plots of Italian films that proliferated in the immediate wake of Michelangelo Antonioni's Blowup. "Because of the huge success of Blowup," Luppi explains, "there is always a fashion model in '60s or '70s Italian movies–either she's going to be murdered, or there are parties where models are sipping cocktails spiked with illicit substances."
The eerie groover "Psychovision" was inspired by an ill-fated invention of the same era, which sounds like something William Castle might have dreamed up. "I don't remember what movie it was from, but they sold 'Psychovision' as a new, cool way of shooting," Luppi smiles. "Of course, it was a very bad idea, and it was the only movie shot that way."
An Italian Story veers into darker territory with "SX 70," a track not coincidentally named for the first Polaroid camera made commercially available to the public. The droning guitars, obsessive bass lines, mocking Farfisas, and exploding Moogs all conjure up the Free Love movement's decline into sleaziness and ugliness, a development that was of course reflected in the films of the time. "It's a tribute more to the dramas, darker movies that actually had to do with the decadence of the '70s," Luppi explains. "High society was starting to recognize that there was a seamier side of Rome behind the regular life–a world of crazy parties and decadent behavior."
But after the darkness falls, An Italian Story closes with a sliver of sunlight glancing off the wing of a jet bound for Brazil. "Jet Set" draws upon Luppi's own memories of early childhood, when his father occasionally flew from Rome to Rio for Lufthansa. "Back then, pilot and hostess, that was the coolest thing ever; everybody wanted to be that," he says. "I grew up going to school with an Alitalia backpack, eating with Lufthansa spoons. That was really exotic! And when those Cinecittˆ movies were trying to give an impression of sophistication and high-class elegance, air travel was always part of it."
THE STORY CONTINUES
At the time of this writing, nearly two years had passed since the sessions for An Italian Story, but maestro Luppi still couldn't stop smiling at the memory of the record's creation. And why not? To reunite these fantastic Italian musicians, exposing their talents to a new generation of listeners, is an impressive accomplishment in itself. To get them to play on your own material, bringing all the musical sounds and associations of your formative years to delicious, full-color life–well, that's more than anyone could possibly hope for.
Yet it actually happened, and this album is here in your hands as the impeccably groovy proof. Listen to these twelve tracks while driving along the ocean on a crisp autumn afternoon, while getting ready for a night on the town, or while sharing a good bottle of wine and a plate of pasta with your special someone. I guarantee that they will make your day, your evening, your total existence just a little bit more fabulous. After all, in these strange and uncertain times, who among us couldn't use a touch of "la dolce vita" magic in their lives?
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