Ettore Fioravanti, Marta Gadaleta, Gianni Vancheri - Fluet (2025)

As in a movement of progressive focus: a light and its deflection, its swallowing and its unveiling. A theatrical afflatus, an intrinsic dramaturgy and a marked formal sense run through, animate, this music that rests on a line-up that is both essential and exhaustive. It often proceeds by intersections, by a succession of perspectives, by peremptory pulsations and restless whispers, by unisons and fertile collisions. The matrix of timbres (the authoritativeness of the vocals, an unusually sober and, for this reason, highly effective electronic background, the warmth and colour of the bass clarinet, the almost orchestral vertigo of the guitar, the nervous richness, sumptuous in its precision, of the percussion) certainly plays a decisive role in giving the listener a compactness, a stylistic homogeneity, the wholeness that characterises this work. But it is perhaps the presence of a voice, capable of intimate suggestions and at the same time of assertive force, that makes the compositional structure almost visible, the permeability to improvisation, to dynamic variety, to the sublimation of the idea that innervates the music. In the lyrics, in the phonetic richness that stirs in the whispers, in the syllables that emerge and merge with the instrumental sound, in the words and even in the hints of speech melody that permeate this song, I perceive a ridge lyricism, always on the verge of breaking on the threshold between dream and disenchantment. Inspirational sources are perhaps at the origin of this sensation: a painting by Hopper, a dark nocturnal backdrop swallowing a reflection of light against which the solitude of a figure emerges close, a suspended enchantment of quivering melancholy. A lyric by Frost, a still and pulsating time in which we pass through the nocturnal swirl of snowflakes at the edge of a forest, certainly also interior. A recurrence, a sonic transliteration of two compositions by a master like Lenoci, a sublimation of his teaching. In Fluet, a narrative sense, in some respects oracular and impregnable. A sincere fragrance stands out, a communicative intention that caresses the deepest sense. A light, in fact, that unveils. And also a circle, a ritual made of sound houses, a material that seems to coagulate elements left in suspension, waiting for this destination. Vancheri tends here an expressive arc, a morphology drawn with maturity from distant derivations, which finds in Gadaleta’s voice and multiform textual choice a touching, when not revelatory declination and a luminous rendering in the transfiguration that Fioravanti gives, precious.’