Giusto Pio - Motore Immobile

Pitchfork 82

Italian progressive rock icon and all-around renaissance man Franco Battiato once sought out violinist Giusto Pio for violin lessons. A member of Orchestra Sinfonica Di Milano Della RAI, Pio assisted Battiato as his sound was undergoing a furious metamorphosis, from the prog rock of his earliest albums to a more minimalist sound of the late ’70s (in this regard, Battiato is Italy’s Brian Eno). Soon after, the duo would pivot towards pop song, with some of Battiato’s early ’80s albums selling over a million copies, which led to the two collaborating on a Eurovision hit by 1984.

In 1979, the same year Battiato made L'Era Del Cinghiale Bianco (with Pio handling arrangements), Battiato also produced Pio’s first solo album, Motore Immobile, two diametrically opposed efforts that showcased the duo’s musical range. And while the former marked the tandem’s first foray into pop, the latter stands as one of the towering beacons of Italian minimalism and one of the most sumptuous ambient albums of any era. Recently, there’s been a greater appreciation for that era in Italian music with the Milanese label Die Schachtel reissuing stark classics like Luciano Cilio’s Dell’Universo Assente and Raul Lovisonni and Franceso Messina’s Prati baganati del Monte Analogo. But Pio’s debut has long been unobtainable. Originally released on the revered Cramps Records label (home to operatic progressives like Area and Demetrio Stratos as well as albums by American composers like John Cage and Robert Ashley), Motore Immobile has been near impossible to track down since its release. And with Pio’s recent passing earlier this year, it’s a fitting tribute to the man to have his greatest work see reissue now courtesy of the newcomer Soave label.

Motore Immobile is one of Italian minimalism’s most beatific iterations, with an approach that brings to mind Italian cuisine, meaning a concentration on a handful of quality ingredients so as to reveal the profundities contained within such simple material. Though with food it’s to reveal the essence of the earth; with this music, it’s to experience something more celestial. The first side of the album features the seventeen-minute title track, wherein Pio explores the sonorities to be had in two church organs, a hum originating from the soft palette of vocalist Martin Kleist, and Pio’s own violin. A burst of organ opens “Motore Immobile” as if the start of a Sunday service, though it soon seems as if the keys are stuck, holding the note well past the breaking point. Ever so carefully, the keys of that chord peel off and the hum of a voice in harmony can be heard alongside that drone. A minute in, Pio’s violin ever so gently sneaks in alongside the two organs.

It is then that the piece appears to reach a standstill. There’s not much in the way of an “event,” but that’s beside the point. The held keys of the organs resemble the op-art of Bridget Riley, the drones producing an aural moiré. Pio’s patience is remarkable throughout, letting the horsehair of his bow move exquisitely slow across the strings, ever so subtly keying a shift in the drones. And so subtle and subliminal are the exhalations of Kleist that if you listen on headphones, you might wonder if you’re actually humming along with these held tones. When the organs again revert back to their opening chord, it gives the impression that “Motore Immobile” could just as easily continue on into infinity.

“Ananta” which comprises the second side, again uses a similar approach to suspended tones, this time with just piano and organ. With just the sparest of ingredients, Pio makes something delectable. A glissade of piano notes opens the piece before again settling into the sustained drone of the organ. The piano then carefully moves one note at a time against that continuum, to the point of where the piece seems to reach a stasis, only to have the piano break that stillness with a flurry of notes. And with every new cascade, the organ’s drone shifts its center ever so slightly. But again, the piece’s greatest attribute is that it again gives the illusion of suspending the passage of time.

It’s hard to put a finger one just what distinguishes Italian minimalism from its American counterparts, but to my ears, it ultimately boils down to lineage. While Americans trace back to the rugged and mischievous works of La Monte Young and Tony Conrad, the Italians go back to the compositions of Giacinto Scelsi, whose microtonal sound edges toward the mystic. As a result, Italian minimalism tends to be more crystalline and ascetic (read: pure) than what can be found elsewhere. It’s telling that Pio grounds both of these extended compositions not in his violin work, but in the tones of the church organ. It’s a sound that still resonates during services throughout the duomos of Italy, and one on Pio’s Motore Immobile that too evokes a sense of the divine.