Olden's Haste and Patience – Rockon.it | Concerts, music, interviews, news, live shows and photos

Review by Andrea Sanfilippo

Davide Sellariin art Oldensuspended in name between the sweet and profound egotism of Salinger's famous character and the English archaism that ennobles what time has corroded, arrives with the project “Haste and patience” on his eighth album produced by the independent label Vrec. An LP essential in form and cohesive in content, a sort of initiatory journey towards awareness, a clear and profound acceptance of what life holds for us. The fulcrum and synthesis of the album is the song of the same name, enriched by the featuring of Paolo Benvegnùa compendium of the different directions followed by the nine songs that make up the album and which condense around a single focal point and that is the need to grant the same right of citizenship to happiness and pain, as complementary and ineliminable elements of our existences.

An irrefutable coexistence that our time, imbued as it is with a constant and superficial search for ready-to-wear happiness, obtusely conceals and rejects, in an omnivorous fury that aims to consume everything immediately, art and feelings, eliminating any possible , but necessary, obstacle. And this is how Olden, in his voluntary exile among the disturbing and fertile Ramblas of culture and inspiration in Barcelona, ​​speaks without too much hesitation about his small and large personal tragedies, looking with due detachment at the swamp in which Italy obstinately and proudly wallows for years, starting from his experience to arrive at considerations of a universal nature, to indicate not a way of salvation but a path of rebirth, which from the haste of wanting to heal a wound leads to the patient acceptance of the due convalescence.

With a long background in cover bands, the singer-songwriter from Perugia boasts numerous participations and awards in the Tenco club in his CV and an artistic and cultural background that ranges from the best Anglo-Saxon tradition to Italian singer-songwriters, first and foremost Francesco De Gregori, who with his instinctive and cryptic poetics leaves a profound mark in the very short, and perfectly accomplished, piece entitled Suddenly one daysuspended between forced departures and the desire to return, between useless regrets and the desire to start making mistakes again, falling in love. And love is certainly the focal point of this album which, in a circular progression from the second track Trust me until the last one The light nature of things (in which Degregorian images of abandoned photos and consolatory philosophies of Deandreian origin peep out), between separations and memories, it constitutes a sort of manual for escaping the suffering of abandonment, a sort of Remedia amoris of our times, in which so little time is given to those who want to give time to time and not acquiesce to the neuroses of our century.

Neurosis and anxiety about arriving, no one knows where, which paradoxically translates into irremediable boredom and the need for easy scapegoats in the dream world Cinemain which in projected and obvious images we hope to find a thrill in the apathy of a cry that is now all too calm, of an addiction to indolence that narcotizes and consoles us. And the contradictions that we refuse to accept and indulge are found, variously, in the poetic dictation of Olden their complete and paradoxical representation in oxymorons and antitheses of very long intervals, bored fears, smiles that turn into yawns, loud tears, severed brakes and fortunate solitudes that allow one to emancipate oneself from the burden of goodbyes. As in the case of I dreamed of Jannaccia heartfelt tribute to the Milanese singer-songwriter who, with his genuine humanity and artistic coherence, simultaneously becomes a friendly figure to be regretted and a paradigm against which to measure our gangrenous cultural drift in bad fashion songs. A presence that becomes an illusion and leaves room for disenchantment, both for death and for love, with the impossibility of accepting that everything will end with an exit from the scene into a galvanized bed, dragged away on the shoulders of that world, which in sweetened vices and religions of eternal youth, does not accept our being nothing. Nothingness that unexpectedly becomes consolatory in Dragonflies, suddenly revealing to us the inconsistency of our obsessions in the face of the incomprehensible majesty of the universe, a sort of unexpected and undeserved occasion of Montalian memory which opposes every epiphanic and prophetic claim.

Because feelings are always wrong even though they are almost never wrong about the arrogance of reason, as stated The heart is always rightbecause, as we have been taught, everything beautiful that exists is destined to die quickly like roses, but without explaining why, between petals and stem, in an inevitable ordeal of tetanic scratches and defeats, we are consoled by the deliberate deception of a final redemption.