Fleshgod Apocalypse, “Opera,” Nuclear Blast Records

By Kira L. Schlechter, Heavy Hags

“Life is a wonderful thing. Even when everything around us seems to be falling apart, we must find a meaning for existing. And unexpectedly, sometimes second chances can be way more exciting than the first ones.”–Francesco Paoli, Fleshgod Apocalypse, from the Nuclear Blast bio.

And he ought to know about second chances. The singer/guitarist has devoted the entirety of the Italian symphonic death metal band’s seventh album to his very personal experience with them. “Opera” is inspired by his near-fatal 2021 mountain climbing accident, which left him with internal bleeding, a host of broken bones, and nerve damage in his left arm (he now has a prosthetic elbow and has lost movement and sensitivity in that arm). He had been scaling the Gran Sasso mountains in Abruzzo when he slipped and fell.

So the album subsequently is a journey through Francesco’s ’s life immediately before the accident, as it happened, and afterwards, including the long healing process and the reassessment of his life to date.

Singer Veronica Bordacchini takes on several commentary roles in the story, including Fate (“Pendulum”), Life (“Bloodclock”), Francesco’s own soul (“At War With My Soul”), pain-killing drugs (“Morphine Waltz”), his mother (“Matricide 8.21”), Resilience (“Per Aspera Ad Astra”), and Hope (“Til Death Do Us Part”).

The rest of the band is Francesco Ferrini (piano, string arrangements), Fabio Bartoletti (lead guitar), and Eugene Ryabchenko (drums). Bassist Paolo Rossi is on hiatus.

The suitably operatic opener, “Ode to Art (De’ Sepolcri),” is somber, hushed piano and Veronica’s delicate, restrained singing, exquisitely tender. A gentle swell of strings leads her to her superb high register at the close.

The thickly layered “I Can Never Die,” dense with choir vocals, orchestration, riffing, and blazing blast beats, is a brief but detailed insight into Francesco’s personality – cocky as he pursues excitement and thrills (“Free from fears, I smile at death/As I become immortal” … I burned my nerves/I ripped my heart out/To feel alive”), reminiscent as he recalls his past (“Outcast since birth/Mocked by everyone”), and grateful for the Art that ultimately saved him and gave him purpose (“With no respite in this war/Against mediocrity/Art crusaders/True believers of this only religion”). As Art personified, Veronica reminds that through her, we live and truly become immortal: “Carving your name into eternity … Enclosing the existence in timeless words.” There’s a hint at what’s to come – and a look back – when Francesco prophetically roars, “So when my time will come/Don’t grieve for me but raise your glasses/And in my honor play this music loud.”

“Pendulum” then describes the actual accident in horrific detail, the singer himself becoming said pendulum, swinging sickeningly from dizzying heights (he said in a story on Louder Sound that he hung for an hour and a half, veering in and out of consciousness) and cursing himself for his screw-up. Set to a jagged, foreboding tempo, Francesco acknowledges that his “Love for the unknown is what brought me up here,” and he warns himself, “don’t look down,” but his mistake is soon apparent as Fate (Veronica) taunts, “This time you went too far.” He knows he’s taken chances – “Dreams made of lead fill my barrel .. Like Russian roulette” – and Fate has no sympathy – “You get the end you deserve,” an “inglorious end.” It’s a harrowing ride, especially knowing it’s a true story and not a metaphor.

“Bloodclock” is the immediate aftermath of the accident, its detail gruesome (“Wounded, swollen, bleeding/I’m hanging on this wall like a crucifix … Drop by drop/All my blood/Turns this granite to red”). His initial shock is replaced by a whispered section where he knows the trouble he’s in – “And the wind/Plucks a harp/While my soul disappears” – but the chorus rages his defiance despite the odds (“I don’t want to leave this earth today”). That chorus continues the vivid, heartbreaking observances of someone who’s lived every minute of this horror – “I can hear my wife yelling my name in vain,” Francesco remembers, “While my son holds a shovel and is digging my grave.” The end is slower; he’s holding on, determined to survive. It’s wonderful and awful, again when you remember it actually happened. 

So call “At War With My Soul” the “I told you so” moment, where Francesco argues with that soul, who’s trying to tell him this is what you get when you push yourself too hard and him saying, basically, fuck you. Its big chug and thudding chords are perfect accompaniment. “I’ve spent my whole life trying/To get rid of you” and your judgments, he says, while Veronica, as his Soul, taunts in a mesmerizing serpentine progression, “Sail over the high seas of regret/Climb up the mountain of fame,” and he counters, “No I don’t have any regret … And I’m not seeking fame.” The chorus is a harrowing back-and-forth between him and Veronica, these “Victims of ourselves,” these “bastard brothers … born with my worst enemy inside.” “Pain is the price for respect,” he snarls, “I just don’t care for your respect.” After a lilting solo section, the rhythm becomes erratic, chaotic, the music atonal, echoing this ongoing internal struggle. 

Arguably the most classically-inspired track with its blazing baroque flourishes, “Morphine Waltz” (indeed in six-eight time but you’d kill yourself trying to dance to it) is an unhinged, maniacal love song to the drug “that can make you forget the past and dance till dawn.” Veronica does a wonderful job imbuing the character with a crazy seductiveness, while Francesco helplessly gives in, begging “Take me where the pain is just a bad memory,” where he is “inebriated by this wonder of science.” But he’s also aware of the risk to himself when he wryly roars, “And I lose the last shred of my dignity.”

The heartbreaking “Matricide 8.21” (that being the date, August 21, that he was injured) is Francesco’s apology to his mother for his mistakes, for making her suffer, for “(going) too far” and “cross(ing) the very thin line.” His technique of using Veronica as a character foil to himself on this album is supremely effective here – she tells him to “Walk the earth with no regret/Don’t let your fears hold you back,” but he castigates himself for doing just that. “My ego led me astray,” he admits, “I just felt this fire inside” — “How could I do this to myself/How could I do this to you/And still deserve your love?” he cries. But she remains steadfast in her understanding, repeating her refrain throughout. This is a slower, more measured track, laden with lead guitar, including a dramatic solo on the “Mother” melody. 

“Per Aspera Ad Astra” (“as above, so below”), back to the dense, massive instrumentation, is a summation of what he’s learned from all this. He begins with where he is now, wanting to “Save the world with one hand” (of course referring to his limitations, as does “titanium will give me new strength”) and realizing that “a second chance must be deserved.” Veronica, as Resilience, gives him a pep talk in the chorus. But the real key to what this near-death experience has taught him is conveyed in one revealing line: “I’ve accepted the worst humiliation and turned it into deliverance.” 

The striking, powerful closer, “Till Death Do Us Part,” has Veronica as Hope leading the way while Francesco swears to her that he will never lose hope. Slow and stately, with terrific overdubbing, she states her devotion to him, even knowing that at this moment, “The future is buried by the past and its epitaph recites, ‘Nothing will be the same.’” She remembers what’s happened – “the time standing on top of the world … when we were just invincible” – lines made even more meaningful now that he knows he’s not (“I need you, Hope, like never before”). And when their voices intertwine, it’s so moving, as is the modulation at the end and the soloing on the chorus melody.  

The title track is also a piano-based instrumental that showcases Francesco F’s formidable skill. Gorgeous, for certain. Necessary? Maybe not, but it does dovetail nicely back to the opening interlude.

The only thing I’d wish here throughout is that the volume on the music would be toned down and the vocals brought up so you could better hear the lyrics and themes. Because “Opera” is a stunning character study of a man coming to grips with his shortcomings. I don’t think it’s to say Francesco will never climb another mountain (literally or figuratively), but now he knows the risks. And he wants to inspire others with his story, as he says in the bio:

“People need motivation, need examples that can make them restart believing in themselves,” he said. “And for me, this is part of the game – this is the best way I can give them something back after all these years of loving support.” This album, with its intense vulnerability and soul-searching, does exactly that.