Certain suitcases can be packed in one evening, but you have to drag them for the rest of your life. People do not usually decide to leave suddenly: some flee from difficulties, others are pursuing a dream, and all of them have a small piece of paper containing someone else’s address in their pocket. The reasons vary, but the journey is the same. Migration leaves its mark not only on people’s lives but also on culture.
The piece “Greaseball” by Gianfranco Malorgio deals with this intricate and moving theme and marks the conclusion of his conceptual series which examines the phenomenon of migration and memory; the title is an insult which was previously given to Italians who had gone to other countries and Malorgio has now given it dignity again. What is most impressive about “Greaseball” is the way the emotions build up slowly. The recording starts subtly, featuring a rich synthesizer which surrounds the whole thing just as fog does over an unfamiliar city at the beginning of the morning. Next, a hesitant beat shows up together with gentle claps similar to footsteps on a train platform, after which the scene comes to life. It was as though I had been given a ticket without being told where I was going.
Then Moreno Viglione plays the guitar and at that point the piece changes from being a landscape to becoming a living entity. The guitar sings as if someone who after having remained silent for years had at last gathered the courage to speak about it. Malorgio’s synthesizers fill the space around it. The finale is especially good. The piano and guitar take the melody to an emotional climax, while at the very end the sound of a bell is heard as a reminder. It is obvious that this music was intended for use in a film. When you hear it, you find yourself visualising individual scenes: a train station, suitcases, faces, and a city which has not yet become one’s home.
Yet it works very well without the use of a screen. “Greaseball” is best experienced through headphones in the evening, since that is a suitable time to reflect on the people who left everything behind and to consider what ourselves would take with us if we had to leave tomorrow.
Gianfranco Malorgio doesn’t argue with history; instead, he responds to it in a more subtle way by taking an insult left behind during the period of large-scale emigration and transforming it into thoughtful, beautiful, and stubbornly humane music, so as not to forget where one came from and not let someone else’s words determine who one is.
