Quite inexplicably, not only I had never heard the music of Osvaldo Coluccino prior to Atto but even the name was completely foreign to my memory. Not that knowing better would have helped this time, as previous opuses by the Italian have been published and performed as scores with defined instrumentation and notation, whereas this is another type of proposal altogether.
Coluccino chose seclusion in remote places to seize the essence of undetermined objects – exclusive of any proper instrument – which he mostly struck, rubbed and in some way enlivened using his hands and breath. Affirming a necessity of being alone during the creative impulse, the performer tried to establish a connection between himself, the sonic items and the (unquestionably large) environments, looking for answers that a regular compositional process could not give him at the moment in which these tracks were conceived.
A single artist was loosely coupled by yours truly while coming to terms with this receptacle of ringing rattles, collapsing masses and assorted leftovers improved by vast reverberations: David Jackman (Organum, if you like). Not because of excessive similarities in the acoustic outcome – there aren’t many extensive drones herein, although the booming ambiences do ring a bell – but primarily for the introverted exploration of a rough palette that, upon repeated attempts, reveals surprising truths disguised amidst the relative normality of unprompted gestures.
Nothing made me vibrate to the point of authentic emotional elevation. Still, the nonexistence of standard musical components – no harmony, no melody, no rhythm, at least in the conventional acceptation of these definitions – constitutes an incentive for fine-tuning our listening abilities through what appears as a collection of echoes from an historically neglected long-ago. Not composition, not improvisation: just snapshots of states of mind, translated into substantial clatter and gentler cracks in a charged silence.