Someone once asked me if I thought early forms of homo sapiens could outrun their prey like other predators do. They were picturing a giant lumbering mass just fucking hoofing it through the wild brush before sinking their jowls into the neck of some helpless herbivore. This shit doesn’t make sense to me. It’s a modern Wolverine Olympian lift weights big ’n strong ooga booga kind of mentality. But, be real, if early humans had any kind of superpower, it was fucking walking. Our relentless and persistent strolling. Sure, walking may not seem like much at first, but what’s a zombie’s superpower? They never fucking stop. That’s us. Picture a lonely deer, breathing hard after a good long sprint, thinking that it finally outran that terrible creature in pursuit, only to look on the horizon to see some cross-eyed gape-mouthed pig-skinned creature happily bobbing along, genitals all a-flying, with spear in hand. “How the fuck is that thing still going?!” our imaginary prehistoric deer says aloud to itself in its eloquent deer tongue.
We pride ourselves in our ability to shuffle, saunter, and schlepp. Baudelaire popularized the idea of the “flâneur” which, as far as I can tell, is an intellectual bohemian word for getting extremely high, going on a stroll, and looking at cool shit around the city (only Baudelaire could make something like walking elitist). Werner Herzog published his diary called “Of Walking in Ice” where, after hearing his friend Lott Eisner might die, he decided to walk to Munich on foot. “I walked against her death,” he wrote, “knowing that if I walked she would be alive when I got there.” She was. Now we’ve got composer Ludovico Einaudi releasing seven albums in seven months, each inspired by a bunch of walks he took through the alps. We be a bunch of mooching, stromping, trekking, and limping motherfuckers.
Ludovico is the most streamed classical artist right now. Dude hit it big with his album Elements released back in ’15. This shit reached the tops of the pops and spurred on a world tour. Remember, this motherfucker is classical. Stardom of any kind was not expected. Sure, he’s not the classic kind of classical composer you expect from the classiest and classic of classical. But he fits nicely on a park bench next to easy-flowing soundtrack-like modern and chill motherfuckers. Even if you’ve never seen a baton, you’ve probably heard his work on shit like This is England, Stargate Universe, the Intouchables, the Black Swan trailer, the music on I’m Still Here, or the fuckton of commercials he’s scored. So if you happen to be a fan of Nils Frahm, Ian William Craig, Chilly Gonzales, Peter Broderick, or the late and beloved Jóhann Jóhannsson, then Lodovico will fit snugly in your wheelhouse.
This album recalls the mindset of a solid fucking promenade. It sets notes and sounds to those mindless moments where your subconscious and conscious trade places. This is music made for those precious moments when you finally set down that stupid fucking phone, quit fidgeting with some gross jittery app, and just space the fuck out. This is where time slows down, you can finally breathe, and all that tension subsides. Shit may not seem productive, but there’s something wrong with always having to be “on”. It’s fucking unnatural. Hell, it’s inhuman. We don’t walk to lose weight (you need to walk thirty-five miles to lose a pound), we walk to clear our head. We can laugh at those early humans tottering along in pursuit of their prey, but I bet you anything that inside that imbecilic dome (that frequently worried about shit like how to run from fucking cheetahs) there was peace. That cross-eyed gape-mouthed pig-skinned motherfucker was happily bobbing along. In our modern and robotic world, it’s difficult to say we do the same. So whether you mosey, pootle, yomp, hoof, prowl, or traipse, now you’ve got a soundtrack dedicated to the craft.