Continuing our spotlight series called Favourite Finds, we ask some of our favourite DJs, collectors and selectors to tell us the story behind how they came across one of their most cherished records.

For the next instalment, we’ve asked esteemed collector and founder of Italian label Four Flies, Pierpaolo De Sanctis, to give us an insight into a prized record from his collection.

Now in its 10th year, the brilliant Four Flies specialises in reissuing lost Italian soundtracks and library records from the ‘60s, ‘70s and ‘80s, alongside never-before-heard music unearthed from the archives of these legendary maestros. Not stopping there, they also release contemporary music from forward-thinking Italian acts across various genres, including cinematic jazz-funk and Afrobeat. With much of the label’s output having either never been previously available outside the world of Italian film and television production or simply never released full stop, Pierpaolo is forever on the hunt for those long forgotten gems. It’s a world he has been fascinated by since a young age and, as is shown by this story, a search that never ends.

"Some records you collect. But some collect you. They change you. They choose you, even before you can choose them.

Teo Usuelli's 'Canzoni, Cori, Orchestra, Elettronica e Dodecafonica' is precisely that for me. With its surreal and unforgettable title, it's one of the four or five albums that, many years ago, ignited a spark in me, setting me on the path to discovering Italian film soundtracks, even before I knew what they were (as well as 'Kill!' by Berto Pisano , 'Rock Satellite' by Puccio Roelens, 'Laure' by Franco Micalizzi, and 'L'arcidiavolo' by Armando Trovajoli and I Marc 4).

My first encounter with it was in Rome - my hometown - in the late ‘90s, before the advent of Euros, smartphones, Google, and Maps. It was a time of pure, analogue, unaltered wandering in search of vinyl. You’d walk aimlessly, follow your instincts, and if you were lucky, you’d stumble upon something precious.

Information was scarce; it was mostly shared on the down-low in flea or street markets or among fellow enthusiasts, way more offline than on. It was the era of forums: back then, the internet wasn’t trying to be an encyclopaedia or organise everything for you like it does today. There was no established science on the subject, no unshakeable truths. Everything was still to be mapped, and to prove a record’s existence, you first had to find it physically, in person. Every discovery was a personal conquest, a stroke of luck earned in the field.

I have very precise flashes of that Saturday afternoon. I was taking just a normal walk in the city centre, near Campo de’ Fiori. By chance, I turned into a narrow, somewhat shaded alley, Via del Paradiso, the same street where legendary art gallery L’Attico was located. There, I saw a very eloquent sign: “Vinili e Cinema” (Vinyl Records and Cinema). How could I ever resist that? Without any hesitation, I stepped inside.

The place was almost empty. It looked more like the hall of a cultural association than a shop. There weren't many record crates on display, but those that were there contained true gems by Trovajoli, Bacalov, Morricone, Umiliani. And then, there it was: the Teo Usuelli album, looking absolutely stunning with that incredible cover, its artwork a blend of op art and psychedelia.

Usuelli was never in the big league of Italian soundtrack maestros. But I knew he scored most films by Marco Ferreri, one of my favourite directors at the time. Taking a closer look at the record, I realised it was a kind of compilation of his best soundtracks up to 1972, the year it came out. There were even a couple of tracks from Break Up, a crazy film starring Mastroianni and Catherine Spaak that I’d just seen in its super-rare complete version thanks to a contraband VHS circulating among us film students. Its tribal, sort of Dionysian soundtrack had literally mesmerised me.

I couldn't believe that record actually existed. That the music in my head had, for some strange alchemical reason, been physically released on vinyl. It was like touching a mirage.

I wanted to buy it, but it cost a staggering 500,000 Italian lire (I guess the equivalent of €700-800 today, more or less). Totally unaffordable for the penniless nineteen-year-old I was. I left it there, heartbroken, and walked away with nothing but a sad look on my face. Back then, I couldn’t even snap a quick photo for a keepsake; smartphones weren’t a thing, folks!

But that loss became my driving force. It fuelled my desire, my thirst for knowledge. And it convinced me to delve deeper into the mysterious universe of Italian film scores. That record became my formative obsession. It made me realise I absolutely had to learn more – to discover every name, every label, every sound connected to that world. It was the unconscious beginning of a quest that hasn’t stopped since.

Meanwhile, Usuelli's black-and-white album continued to live in my imagination like an urban legend. I only ever glimpsed at it two or three times after that, its magical copies owned by collectors who wouldn’t part with it even when you offered them an entire prog rock collection in exchange. It was utterly unattainable.

Then, many years later—right in the middle of the pandemic—a seller listed it on eBay. He clearly didn’t realize its true worth, and I finally got my hands on it without paying a fortune.

I later learned, by talking to someone who had known Usuelli, that the composer himself had self-released that record in a private pressing limited to just 200 copies. He intended it as a kind of sonic portfolio to give to friends, directors, and artists in his circle—all part of the colourful, aristocratic-bohemian scene of early-70s Rome.

Looking back, however, I now realise that finding the record wasn’t even the most important part. As with most things in life, the search itself – the desire that led me to investigate, to delve deeper, to discover – was far more vital. It was all about the encounters and experiences that not having it initially triggered in me. The journey, rather than the destination. (Yeah, I know… sounds a bit cliché, but it’s true.

And perhaps it’s the very spark I felt during that first encounter over two decades ago—and the desire triggered from the ensuing ‘loss’—that led me, years later, to found Four Flies Records, whose core mission is precisely the rediscovery and promotion of long-lost or forgotten Italian soundtracks.

A reason for living. And a young Roman kid’s dream come true. That was the real beginning. Thank you, Teo."

Big thanks to Pierpaolo for telling us this story for the series. Be sure to keep up-to-date with all of the Four Flies label releases and goings on by giving them a follow.