Francesco Guccini - Portrait of a Storyteller

Nothing can be taken for granted for a man who, on his birth certificate, goes by the name Francesco Guccini. Thirty years of career, cross-cutting attacks from the Church, institutions and the press, yet he's still standing, gathering praise and respect from three generations of listeners. Talking to him is like watching a newsreel of memories flicker in his eyes — of seasons, of time chewed over while singing in dance halls with his mind fixed on dreams of freedom still unforgotten today. In those eyes, which have seen so much, lie the answers of a fighter: no one like him, or at least as much as him, has stayed true to those ideals, avoiding easy compromises and a bargain-bin sellout just to keep the place fresh. Those thirty years of songs, of hope and politics, of feeling and nostalgia, embody the clarity of a creed, of a stubbornly enduring consistency, which shouldn't make us forget that the man comes before the struggle, and revolution is only a shared thought multiplied to infinity.

Does your aversion to the press, or to journalists if you prefer, come from a trust that was betrayed, or from a defense mechanism of your own?

No. I also worked as a journalist for years myself, so I'm a colleague. The press has a thousand faces: it can entertain or not, elevate or diminish, and sometimes it's even forced to be superficial for reasons of time. "The press" doesn't mean anything on its own. There are good journalists, mediocre journalists, terrible journalists, and excellent journalists. You can't lump them all together.

In "Addio", for example, you talk about the «invented world of the global village», «the spotlights and sequins of television». What can still be salvaged, and what's beyond saving?

In theory everything can be salvaged, in practice nothing. It depends on the trends, on how people see things, since people get overwhelmed, glued to the TV. So a lot of people shut themselves in at night and watch television, those programs that keep getting more and more mediocre, because what's at stake is the sponsor, who pushes down what experts call the target — meaning the audience. At that point a show is only worth as much audience as it can pull in, and to manage that, the quality level inevitably has to drop. When television only had one channel, back in the '50s, that was enough: either you watched it, or you went to bed, or you went out. By aiming for a lower common denominator, programs cheapen themselves, and along with them, interest in television in general.

You've made use of communication beyond songwriting too, writing books and working as a teacher and journalist: is there a common thread running through the things you've done, or still do today?

Yes. You should always be a good entertainer, whether you're a journalist, a teacher or a singer-songwriter. Always find a way to make the subject matter appealing without, because of that, making compromises, selling yourself short or embarrassing yourself.

In your view, are songs a form of communication or a form of venting?

Both. First and foremost a form of communication, because I need them to communicate. I'm not a machine, I write songs when I feel the urge. A song, then, is a method — just like writing books — for communicating with people. Sometimes I communicate with words: I talk, I speak... Sometimes I write a song or a book.

"Stagioni" is an album of dense atmospheres, melancholy, memories, awareness. Your writing style has become increasingly stripped-down and essential. Is that the result of the sixty seasons you've seen go by?

I'm not sure I write in a more stripped-down and essential way. I don't know. I feel very baroque inside, very restless, full of adjectives... So I don't think I've become especially spare and essential. My way of writing has always been the same, overflowing with adjectives and long sentences...

In an old interview you said: «For my part I'd be much more relaxed, more of a good companion, but I see the great suspicion of others, which in a way holds me back». What would that suspicion be, and what would hold you back?

I don't know. That might be a line written by a journalist. I don't know if I ever actually said it. I don't have any suspicion toward others. I'm a good companion, a real friend to people: I like being among people without any suspicion at all.

There are many songs in your repertoire that have become clear symbols for whoever sings or listens to them: La locomotiva, Dio è morto, Canzone per un'amica... Do these coincide with the songs you yourself like best? And if not, why don't you play the ones you prefer in concert?

Yes and no. I like them, but I prefer others that are more conceptual, more thoughtful. "La locomotiva", sure, has an important meaning for me, it gave me the chance to become known, just as the others you mentioned helped me: I'm very attached to these songs. And yet, a song like "Madame Bovary" represents me far better than "La locomotiva" does. In concert, unfortunately, I can't play them all, because the show lasts two and a half hours. I've written so many songs, I can't do them all. Sometimes I choose certain songs, sometimes others. There's no ideological reason, just a practical one.

The interaction between politics and song has historical roots: do you think this vein, if it still exists, still has the strength and the tools to carry on?

You saw it tonight (he's referring to his recent concert in Florence, ed.). For me it exists and it still has strength, definitely. Other colleagues thought that this strength was no longer there and changed course, against their will. Or rather, against their will they paid the price for it and, in a sense, stopped. I keep doing what I've always believed in doing, and mysteriously it's worked out well for me. I say mysteriously because, you know, those are bets I never place...

In "Autunno" you sing: «Dei tanti io sarò diventati per sempre io ero». Has it ever happened to you in your life to feel ambition, and later, regret for what has been?

Definitely, it happens even at twenty.

Who is the "papà" in "E un giorno", who seems older, more distant, bored, distracted, and who in the end says he always tried? Is it you, or people of your generation who can't keep up with the speed of the world they live in?

You used the awful term "papà". Being a bit Tuscan, I'd use "babbo"! The "babbo" is the classic dad, a father who in life finds himself, I wouldn't say in disagreement, but in some friction with his son or daughter, and inevitably has to be a pain in the neck by raising problems. I am, all things considered, a normal, easygoing father.

(Originally published in the weekly "Avvenimenti")

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