What happens when a viola and a double bass go on a quiet retreat in the hills above Genova, whispering to each other in their own weathered dialects while the cargo ships below exhale diesel and secrets? "Pra’ / Prata Veituriorum" happens: an album of humble grandeur, improvised stillness, and string-born storytelling that smells faintly of salt air, wood resin, and philosophical mischief.

This second outing by Jean René and Tommaso Rolando - two travelers of different eras, joined by a shared love for friction and silence - was recorded not in a cathedral or a studio padded with bourgeois sound traps, but in a cabin-slash-storage room with sea views and a history of holding things that no longer fit elsewhere. It turns out to be the perfect metaphor for their music: a space that invites forgotten resonances, welcomes clutter, and lets things echo longer than they should.

There is no rush here. No showy acrobatics or over-polished jazzisms. Just two string instruments (viola and double bass), making choices as if they’re sculpting fog with horsehair and intuition. The opener, "Première vision obscure du tarot", sets the tone - a murky glimpse into some archetypal subconscious, like eavesdropping on two ancient cards learning how to speak. Elsewhere, "Vento Dettò" hisses like a breeze that’s trying to confess something but keeps changing its mind mid-sentence.

The tarot references continue - this is not your neighborhood mystic’s Spotify playlist, though. These "visions" feel cracked and low-lit, delivered by instruments that sound as though they’ve aged in wine and rain. "Seconde vision obscure du tarot (IL CA RRO)" is more grounded, the "chariot" less a warhorse and more a cart pulled by a goat with a philosophical limp. There’s humor in the solemnity, a smirk beneath the bow.

At its most poignant, like on "Requiem pour la colonie", the duo channels an elegy so fragile it risks vanishing entirely, like a memorial written in chalk during a thunderstorm. On "Le frelon dans la ruche", the hive gets poked - sudden gestures, buzzing textures, brief chaos that never forgets its shape. The album’s longest piece, "Sol Matta", feels like both a destination and a question mark: sunburned, wandering, perhaps slightly dazed by its own endurance. Matta, as in Arturo? Possibly. Madness, memory, or mischief? Certainly.

Rolando’s playing is like a tugboat - gritty, grounded, capable of immense subtlety in small maneuvers. René’s viola floats above and beside, more like a weather vane than a kite, never ornamental but always attuned to unseen shifts. Their communication, built over years of touring galleries, churches, and gardens, has matured into something tactile and knowing. They’re not trying to impress each other - they’re trying to surprise each other. And often do.

The album artwork, featuring Paul Goodwin’s painting "Flying Fuck", adds another layer of dry whimsy to the release. This isn’t music that pretends to be above you. It squats next to you on a hillside, opens a bottle, and quietly reminds you that beauty isn’t always tidy - or even intentional.

In the tradition of improvisation as cartography, "Pra’ / Prata Veituriorum" doesn’t chart a route. It names things by sound, by gesture, by grain. It’s music for people who like their roads winding and their maps hand-drawn in the margins of a notebook.

Recommended for lovers of lowercase drama, rustic abstraction, and those who believe that sometimes the most profound conversations are the ones where no one raises their voice.