Paolo Angeli: Between Avant-garde and Sardinian Traditions

I had not interviewed Paolo Angeli since February 2007, when the Sardinian musician had already moved on from Bologna, a scene that gave him crucial formative experiences and laid the groundwork for his artistic maturity.

Since then, Angeli has embraced a wide range of musical experiences and collaborations, steadily building his international reputation through his presence in Europe's experimental capitals and his relocation to Spain. Increasingly central to his concerts are solo performances with his prepared Sardinian guitar, an instrument he has continually refined both technically and expressively.

His album, Lema (AnMa Productions, 2025), offers the chance to reflect on key aspects of Angeli's musical, cultural, and personal journey. His words radiate the sunny enthusiasm that defines him, along with the awareness and determination that have fueled decades of artistic exploration.

All About Jazz: Let's start with Lema. What does the title mean, and what themes did you want to explore across its tracks?

Paolo Angeli: In Spanish, "Lema" means "motto" or "slogan." Every musician has their own slogans—concepts that become central to their work over time. For me, this album reflects my thirty-year relationship with the prepared Sardinian guitar and the consolidation of my compositional approach. In a way, Lema is the tip of an iceberg, bringing into focus the patterns, harmonic cadences, timbres and phrases that have have come to define my layered guitar language. Above all, it's a kind of musical autobiography, dedicated to my mother, who passed away during the year I composed the album.

The theme of departure and rebirth runs through the three-track suite on side A of the vinyl, where I process the loss of my mother and other figures dear to me, such as Ale Sordi and Raffaele Musio, both essential to my creative growth. The music seeks out that salvific link between the living and the departed—a borderland everyone crosses in deeply personal ways. The great Mediterranean civilizations often tied this passage to the sea and its regenerative force, capable of weaving new beginnings. For me, Lema is rebirth.

AAJ: How did you select the lyrics for this emotional and intercultural journey?

PA: At first, I considered writing them in the first person. But then, leafing through 18th-and 19th-century Sardinian literature written in the Gallurese and Logudorese languages, I found everything I needed. It's incredible how often, in the creative process, what you're searching for is already right there, printed on a page. I extracted fragments of poetry and shaped them into a broader theme, almost like a collective fresco. Poets such as Don Baignu Pes, Petr'Alluttu, Antòni Cubeddu, and the contemporary Alberto Masala chart the poetic path of this work.

A different case altogether is the Gallurese translation (by Elena Morando) of "If I Must Die," by the Palestinian poet Refaat Alareer, killed in the Israeli bombings of 2023. His text became the basis of "Nakba," where I try to exorcise the sense of helplessness I feel in this moment, witnessing genocide in real time on social media. I chose this poem because, despite the horror, it carries hope—entrusting the image of a kite in flight as an escape from devastating realities. I first considered inviting an Arab singer, but in the end, I realized the fragility of my own voice—on the edge of breaking—was the right vessel for Alareer's message. My engineer, Dave Bianchi, strongly supported this choice and captured every nuance of the performance.

AAJ: Early in your career, singing with ethnic inflections might have seemed at odds with your experimental guitar work. Today, though, it feels seamlessly integrated.

PA: I had to wait almost thirty years to fully embrace the voice as part of my musicality. I still remember a 1998 review by Italian jazz critic Giampiero Cane in the Il Manifesto newspaper about my concert at the Sant'Anna Arresi Jazz Festival, organized by the legendary Basilio Sulis. The headline was "Paolo Angeli and Ornette Coleman Illuminate the Sardinian Skies"—an incredible boost for me, since at the time many saw me as a sort of troublemaker. But Cane ended the review with a sting: "Angeli seduces the audience with a vernacular melody of no interest, but demagogically strong." He was referring to the Canto in Re, one of the most complex vocal forms in Sardinian tradition, which I performed to close the concert. He framed it as a clash between two worlds: the radical reinvention of the guitar on one side, and a deeply traditional voice on the other. Cane was extremely critical, and while I don't share his view—he disliked Sardinian music altogether—it pushed me to reflect.

Some time later, at the Clusone Jazz Festival, I dedicated that same chant to him on stage, saying: "I dedicate this vernacular melody of no interest to Giampiero Cane." He joked that I should pay him royalties! Anecdotes aside, I believe the tension between avant-garde and tradition is vital. In Lema, the two have finally merged: tradition is absorbed and transformed, with the voice serving as a timbral and expressive color that enriches the guitar's orchestration.

AAJ: This album feels like the full maturity of your language, where listeners don't just hear experimental research but a rich, complete musical form born from your prepared Sardinian guitar.

PA:Thank you. I'm honored to be speaking with someone who has followed my journey for years and recognizes the slow but steady evolution of my language. Over time, I've worked by subtraction—considering the guitar's timbral and mechanical innovations not as gimmicks but as resources for orchestration. That's why I see Lema as a zenith. I've built a complex score with freedom and coherence, where each part of the prepared Sardinian guitar contributes organically. It took a long period of preparation, and on stage, the music finds its fullest intensity.

AAJ: Solo performance seems to have become your most convincing and frequent musical expression. What motivates this choice?

PA: Life often steers you in unexpected directions. I never imagined I'd become a solo performer, because I came out of large ensembles of improvised music and collective composition. In 1996 I played my first solo concerts, and for years I maintained both paths—solo tours and collaborations. Today, solo work makes up about 80% of my performances.

Honestly, when I play with others, it feels like a vacation! Playing solo, especially in theaters rather than clubs, demands a completely different mental and technical preparation. On stage, there's no safety net. The responsibility is greater—you can't let down your guard for even a moment. I feel I've contributed to bringing the guitar into the present, renewing the very idea of the solo performer. I take that responsibility seriously, following a path blazed by both experimental visionaries and more conventional musicians. In the end, every musician is a thief, building their research on the sparks left by those who came before.

AAJ: What about your current collaborations?

PA: Right now I'm listening to a recording with Tenore Murales di Orgosolo, a project very dear to me. We're exploring the dialogue between northern and central Sardinian traditions, examining differences and points of contact, and the relationship between improvisation and the freedom of traditional practices. It's been an extraordinary journey, one I hope will be recognized for its deep drive to communicate.

The recording, engineered by Marti Jane Robertson, has the urgency of a political album. Sardinia's history—often marked by the dynamics of state versus colony—emerges with radical and discursive force. I believe it will resonate deeply with those who love our land, offering pages of beauty and cultural insight.

Looking ahead, I'll be in residency with Redi Hasa, an extraordinary Albanian cellist. When we play together, the instruments dissolve into one another—you can't tell them apart. I'm also continuing long-term collaborations, like my duos with Antonello Salis and Fred Frith. And I still dream of leading a larger project with a band of my own. Each collaboration pulls me out of my comfort zone, and that's essential to keeping the music alive. I also feel a strong pull toward working with younger musicians—the scene today is incredibly rich.

AAJ: You moved to Spain many years ago. What prompted the decision, and what were the personal, cultural, or economic factors behind it?

PA: The idea first took shape in 2005, during the Zapatero years in Spain. For us coming out of the Berlusconi era in Italy, it felt like a breath of fresh air. After sixteen years of cultural militancy in Bologna, Barcelona offered something different—a Mediterranean pulse that shaped both art and life in ways Berlin never could. I wanted to explore the specificity of a Mediterranean avant-garde, and Spain gave me the chance to do that, pushing me into challenges that more static "historical avant-gardes" would have looked at with suspicion.

Spain also offered greater cultural freedom than Italy—less music "museumification," more awareness of its living traditions. Just look at how flamenco has reinvented itself, from Paco de Lucia to Camarón to Enrique Morente, who brought punk noise into dialogue with pure tradition. In Spain, I found answers I couldn't have found in Bologna.

AAJ: What led you from Barcelona to Valencia? How do the two cities compare?

PA: Economics played a major role—Barcelona had become impossibly expensive. Add to that the rise of Catalan nationalism, which undermined the city's multiculturalism, and the impact of mass tourism, which turned a once-bohemian city into a consumer postcard. When a 40-square-meter flat costs €1,400 a month, how many concerts must a musician play just to survive?

Valencia has become my home. I've found new vitality here, though I worry it may follow the same path as Barcelona. Lisbon, for instance, has already been devastated by low-cost flights, disposable tourism, with Airbnb hollowing out neighborhoods. Valencia still breathes a creative energy. There's a humus of musicians from around the world forming a vibrant, if unstructured, underground. With the right spark, it could experience something like Bologna's fertile 1990s.

AAJ: What cultural and emotional ties do you maintain with Sardinia—an "island" in every sense of the word?

PA: Sardinia is my land. It will always be the place I return to in order to metabolize my experiences. That bond is unshakable. At the same time, being an island is a disadvantage for its very active music scene, which struggles with the lack of territorial continuity and the inability of politicians to address it.

I'm privileged. I can return whenever I want, while also maintaining international ties from Spain and through intercontinental tours. This dynamic—absorbing Iberian culture while staying rooted in Sardinian tradition—is a constant source of inspiration. After twenty years, I'm deeply shaped by what I've absorbed in Spain, but the foundation will always be Sardinian.

AAJ: Your festival Isole che parlano in Palau will reach its thirtieth edition next year. It seems to have remained true to its unique, authentic, and familial spirit.

PA: From the very beginning, the festival aimed to channel the creative energy of European capitals while building bridges to Sardinian and Italian traditions. Together with my brother Nanni, who co-directs the festival with me, and a team of dedicated volunteers, we've created an event where culture, landscape, music, and socio-political reflection coexist—in unison, or better yet, in heterophony.

We've always avoided chasing big names, which has given us freedom to focus on the content itself. It's an ongoing experiment in imagining new routes, presenting music that speaks to today rather than being frozen in a museum.

AAJ: Can you give us a preview of this year's edition, scheduled for September 6-14?

PA: We believe strongly in the innovative movements shaping today's Europe. If politics closes doors to migration and integration, art responds by opening them. Italy today is not the Italy of thirty years ago, when the festival began, and Europe too has changed. Cultural awareness now drives encounters between tradition and innovation.

For the 2025 edition, we'll present the post-rock duo A Bad Day, who turn two guitars into a full orchestra; Elana Sasson's transfigured Kurdish melodies; Korhan Futaci's explosive Anatolian free jazz; and the Polish duo Maniucha & Ksawery, who reimagine folk songs while bassist Ksawery Wójciński also appears in a double-bass duo with Esat Ekoncioglu. There's also the meeting of Andalusian tradition and punk with El Perrate + ZA, and the vocal and instrumental experimentation of Mexican bassist-singer Fuensanta. From Italy, we'll feature the trio of Giacomo Ancillotto, the quintet Heavy Sound of Sabrina Coda, and a strong presence from the Sardinian scene: the hypnotic minimalism of King of Sheppard, the reworking of tradition by Arrepicos, Tenore di Illorai, and the polytonal singing of the Coro Gabriel.

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