giovanni di domenico // Polvere Di Rabbia LP

過去にtsssやcanti magneticiなどから発表してきたイタリア出身ベルギー在住のピアニストgiovanni di domenicoが、2022年4月にタリア・トレントの実験レーベルKohlhaasから300部限定でリリースしたレコードです。

フリージャズ〜スポークンワード〜アンビエントドローンなどジャンルを超越した5曲を収録。DLコード付属。

マスタリングはGiuseppe Ielashiが担当しています。

レーベルその他作品はこちら /// Click here to see more Kohlhaas releases available at Tobira. 

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" THE TRAIN - You cannot take yourself too seriously. Engine spins, with no hint of stopping. A gentle ticking, no frills, passing from one side to another. Always at exchange points, a tortuous side and a straight one. A thin layer of morbidity disappears. Like an inside-out hole, it felt confident, it kept going reverse. Generally speaking, it can always be done. And that ticking again, this time darker, and sadder. Swimming into the earth. Going through a wall. Giving it a chance. Revealing. An awful smell is passing through me. Dead-end track. Uncombed stones. Metal bushes. Abstract snow. And an endless row of passions. He has always stood out, one step after another. And here as well, concentric lines will always bring you back to the starting point. And again. His mouth was shaking, arid. He felt he was getting closer. He shouldn’t have leaned out anymore. Noticing a small dot. Detecting. And that engine again, sleepy. Deciphering the impossible. Sticking to reality. Overstepping. That humming was still behind him. Docile and thoughtful, located along a line, this time a much darker line. He cannot do without it anymore. Revealing oneself. A strong blow of breath. Buckets of color.

A SINGLE FACE - Smooth sanding, a grid of endless screams. Frenzy. Bubbles bursting. Air falling apart. Red and white lights. A sequence of thoughtful layers. Parallel lines. Movement is an illusion. Holding tight, fronting onto the unexpected. More lines. Crooked. I immerse myself in a butter of false decisions. I agree to decipher a step. Blocks. Insensitive starts. A false step. Dark reflections. Stumbling. The unparalleled illusion of emptiness. Once, twice. An infinite arc. Disillusion of movement. As if it was necessary. Another step, false. Paths, lit up in the daytime. Falsifications. Unheard-of battles. Outside, in the center, distracted fires. Absent crackles, nonsensical forms, crowds of thoughts. Burnt snow. Settlings. Cave-ins. Unconfessable secrets. Lying to survive. The void and nothing more, like an inverted ring-a-ring-o’roses. More and more in a hurry, with no smudges nor hints of tremblings. Agitated effusions, lukewarm assents, icy absences. Of many expressions, a single face. Of many faces, a single page, white. Of many blank pages, only one, for me. Of many voids, you. Dust of anger, of those that stick on you despite having no fixed abode.

AN EGG - And yet, I felt as if I had told you. I felt as if I had got inside you and done everything I could. Walked all over your veins. Swum through your bones. Swung between your nerves, which were stretched like the strings of a concrete guitar. I didn't want to, I didn't want to touch you lightly and take the bloom out of you with a sentimentalism that cannot find peace, not even within a glass of chamomile tea. I didn't want, or couldn’t, sedate you from your morning nightmares. On certain occasions it takes super-seeing, overdoing and being extra amazed.
But in this layer of insane poetry that pervades me there is nothing I can get rid of, it would be like to separate the yolk from the white. It is like being the hair when splitting hairs (a child’s hair), vague, and vagrant without an impossible destination. Are you there? I would like to tell you, again, and again and again. To intertwine your worlds with mine, to tie your pages with mine, to make a book out of them and then throwing it to the wind (the only trusted messenger between us). I wish I held you up while you sleep, I wish I made you levitate so that you won’t feel the weight of your own breathing, I wish I became a warm breath of tenderness. Yet still, there are battles of extreme wills lurking within me, with nowhere to go but the exit, a one-way exit.

WINDLESS SNOW - If in the seasons of purity one goes in search of the abyss, like self-hatred goes and ignites a fight with no defeater. If one finds a curved black broken finger in the madness glove. If everywhere one goes one comes across the same exhausted throb of old visions. If in the veiled embrace, one contorts, does sensorial somersaults and drowns. If all of this made sense, if it had a shape, and if this shape could not be touched, smelled, neither felt, but it could only be lived. If what we don’t know yet would come down to us like windless snow.  "
- Kohlhaas

Artist :giovanni di domenico

Label : Kohlhaas