in the country, Fratti joined without a moment’s hesitation. She spent the next month in La Orduña, an old factory turned squat house somewhere between Veracruz state capital Xalapa and the volcanic rainforests of Cofre de Perote (one of the most biodiverse places in the western hemisphere). Because of a job she needed to finish, she brought her cello and other equipment, but otherwise she had little to no intention to record. That changed quickly, when the full potential of La Orduña revealed itself. Here, a convergence existed of the wild and domesticated. Chickens roamed around freely, and so did the deadly violin spider. “First of all, it was very hot and humid, I was with very good friends, and it was mango season. And I love mango! Being in such a peaceful environment, you can’t help but react to the nature around you. And even though nature can be scary sometimes, there was a very soft energy, there was warmth from close friends. I don’t know. . . It just gave me a sense of ease.” Like many others, Fratti had emerged from the worst of the first lockdown hyper sensitive to social interaction. During a conversation on her first day in La Orduña, she came to think of the mind as a funnel of words and how we are only ever able to successfully convey a fraction of what we’re thinking or feeling. It became the lens through which she started to perceive life, as slowly the songs on what would become Será que ahora podremos entendernos began to take shape. The songs on the album are loose rumi nations, sometimes entirely instrumental, more often accompanied by instinctively written mantras. Fratti describes the process behind the album as “diagramation”: the act of configuring the many ways one can go from point a to point b in any given space. Practically, this meant that the songs 28 — Context
on Será que ahora podremos entendernos all had their starting point, and a general notion of the direction in which to go from there. Whatever happened largely became a process of improvisation, including freerein contributions by members of drone rock band Tajak (with whom Fratti was staying at La Orduña), experimental composer Claire Rousay, and local musicians Sebastián Rojas and Hugo Quezada. The results often mimic conversation. Aire, reminiscent of Warren Ellis’ soundtracks for Mustang and Wind River, feels like a monologue with the common thread predetermined, although it finds itself occasionally side-tracked. Un Día Cualquiera forgoes consistency entirely, like a group chat where every single contribution gets lost in translation. It turns Será que ahora podremos entendernos into an occasionally disorienting listen, where moments of miscommunication are often alternated by sudden synergy. Opening track Nadie Sabe displays a rare moment of collective agreement. Here, the fauna of Veracruz sings loudest and in full accordance with Fratti’s cello parts. “I opened the windows, because in front of me was this big, natural space and so the sound of birds would come in. In a song called Hacia el Vacío, as I was playing this part, a bird responded to me. Or maybe it wasn’t responding to me at all, but we were in a rhythm. I was like: this is great!” Since Será que ahora podremos entendernos, Fratti has further explored the intricacies and limitations of (human) interaction on her collaborative album with veteran experimentalist Gudrun Gut, Let’s Talk About The Weather. The two had met and even collaborated before, during her 2016 residency at the Goethe-Institut, so when both of them, mid-pandemic, found themselves with an excess of time, the connection was easily made. They applied for a
