Mogol - Il mio canto libero

Mi ritorni in mente. That must be what Giulio Rapetti, aka Mogol, thought the first time he met Gianmarco Carroccia. The resemblance between the young singer-songwriter, born in Fondi (Latina), and his fellow countryman and idol Lucio Battisti is genuinely striking. Like two peas in a pod. But that's not all: Carroccia sings exactly like Battisti, with the same intonations, nuances, vocal inflections. So combining his renditions of those classic songs with Mogol's stories about their origins was child's play. And it's been paying off with countless sold-out shows across Italy. It's the show "Emozioni. Viaggio tra le canzoni di Mogol e Battisti", still touring, with a much-anticipated date at the Teatro Romano di Verona on 26 August plus others still to be confirmed in autumn (the 6 December date at the Teatro Lirico di Milano is already set). It's an unmissable opportunity to celebrate the history of a golden partnership in Italian song, that of Battisti and Mogol, but also to kick off a new chapter, with Carroccia himself as the protagonist: the tireless Rapetti has written him some new songs, the first of which, "Un vero amore", released on 24 June, is already doing well on streaming platforms. We took the chance for a long two-part conversation with maestro Mogol, condensed here into this interview, in which the eighty-six-year-old guru of Italian song looks back on a past studded with successes, but also ahead to a present packed with commitments - including his role defending copyright as president of Siae - and to the future of music, in which, he assures us, there will always be room for rock.

Maestro, what's this, starting over?

In a way, yes. I found in Gianmarco the perfect interpreter for the songs I'd written for Battisti. Not just because of the striking physical resemblance, but also for the perfect way he manages to interpret his songs. It feels like a sign of fate: as if Lucio himself had sent him to me... Among other things, I discovered he'd attended the Cet (Centro Europeo di Toscolano, the school founded and run by Mogol, ed.) and I hadn't even realized it. So I thought I'd write some songs for him too, as if in a way a new cycle was opening up.

For Carroccia I wrote a new song, "Un vero amore", it tells the story of a man who hopes he's found the woman of his life

The first one released was "Un vero amore". What's it about?

It's the story of a man who meets a woman and tries to figure out whether she could be the true love he's been waiting for his whole life. In under a month it's had 130,000 views, it's doing well. It's just that the radio stations need to be told to play it a bit more.

What happens during the show "Emozioni"?

What happens is that something that seemed lost forever resurfaces. We bring back to light songs that we discover have by now become part of our culture, because everyone sings them, everyone knows the words, at least the main ones, the choruses... Three generations united by Lucio's songs. It creates an engaging communion with the audience, who sing along. And dance. It's always the women who start, because they're braver. But it's not just a show - the musical side is very carefully put together, because Gianmarco has taken care to surround himself with excellent musicians, with a 16-piece orchestra: when they play "Anima Latina" the theatre comes down.

Do you sing too?

Of course! I started singing myself, even though I was the most tone-deaf man in the world, and now I've become a decent singer, which proves that if you get used to singing, you eventually find your pitch. I remember a show I did with pianist Gioni Barbera at the Arena di Verona: at a certain point I started singing and I even saw people crying. I thought they were crying because I was out of tune, but no! (we laugh)

Lucio would bring me the music, I'd listen to it and write the lyrics trying to understand what it was saying. Then, though, I'd tie it all back to my own life experience. And what came out certainly wasn't the portrait of a perfect man...

And then in the show there are your stories about those songs. How were they born?

Lucio would bring me the music. And I'd write the songs listening to that music and trying to understand what it was saying. The real secret of songwriting, for me, is hearing what the musical phrase says and then choosing the most fitting meaning. But then, once I found the key, I'd tie it all back to my own life experience too. So there's always been a strong autobiographical element in my songs. People enjoy it, because I always tell the truth, even in a rather brazen way. In short, what comes out certainly isn't the portrait of a perfect man. For instance, did you know I never once courted a woman? I was always afraid they'd say no. And yet I still had plenty of them anyway! (we laugh)

Which are your favorite songs among those you wrote for Battisti?

There are too many to mention them all, at least twenty. But they're the most famous ones, the ones everybody sings, and it's nice that it's that way, because if something endures over time, it means it has value, that it has become part of our culture.

And among the less popular ones?

Well, for instance "Anima Latina", which is a piece of contemporary music, like "Mission" by Ennio Morricone. Or "Pensieri e parole", a song with two melodies and two lyrics. The head of the record label had predicted: "This will be the end of Mogol-Battisti." And instead...

I didn't make up that ice cream from Giardini di marzo, we were kids and we used to wait for the truck to arrive. But at home, by the 21st of the month, the money really had run out...

Then there's one that just turned fifty: "I giardini di marzo".

It's a song that by now even fifty thousand people sing together, because they play it in the stadium when Lazio wins. It's a song that's about my own life. Because I didn't make up that ice cream. On Via Claricetti, in Milan, there were houses on one side and wheat fields on the other: I lived in the last house in the city, the first one in the countryside. So we kids always played football in the middle of the street, using little jumpers as goalposts. And when the ice cream man went by with his truck, all the kids would run to buy an ice cream, which cost 10 lire. But after the 21st of the month I stopped going to ask my mom for money, because she wouldn't give me any. It was all true: my dad got paid on the 26th of the month, so by the 21st of the following month we were already short on money. If I'd had to tell the whole truth, I should also have mentioned that I, who was 10 years old, had fallen in love with the 21-year-old widow who lived on the ground floor and had a little boy. I'd discovered that when she went to hang out the washing, her skirts would lift up too, so I could see her legs. I was a bit precocious, but children really do, ever since the Oedipus complex, have their own thoughts, innocent yet serious at the same time. "Anonimo" is also a true story from my childhood, with the dog that sank a tooth into my eyelid and my father who fainted because he thought it had eaten my eye!

With today's political correctness, would some of those lyrics cause an uproar?

Sure, but it already happened back then. For "Il tempo di morire" they crucified me as if I were the guilty character myself: by that logic they should have arrested Shakespeare for writing Macbeth. Then "Neanche un minuto di non amore" caused a stir, with the line "imperceptible to me, but so important to you". As for "Io ti venderei", they called me a male chauvinist. But what's wrong with telling the story of a small-town boy who's willing to sell his motorcycle to a girl just to be with her? The author isn't the character in the story, after all...

In the '70s they accused us of being fascists just because we didn't write politically committed songs. It had even become impossible to do concerts, and I convinced Lucio to stop doing them altogether

Indeed, even in the '70s it wasn't easy to get out alive.

Absolutely not! Battisti and I were called fascists just because we didn't write political songs, songs committed to the left. They even made De Gregori cry, and he was someone who sang with his fist raised… They accused him of being "a piece-of-shit capitalist" just because, once he became famous, he earned more money. Italy went through a period of madness that, in the end, nobody really condemned all that much, partly because many of the protagonists of that era went on to become editors of newspapers or heads of communications. It was something incredible: you couldn't put on a show without someone standing up and starting to insult you. Around that time I happened to go and perform in London, at Covent Garden, and I was amazed by the silence and respect shown by the audience. Here, on the other hand, it was chaos, you could barely put on concerts anymore. I myself advised Lucio to stop doing them.

Speaking of the '70s, a few days ago I was listening to a chills-inducing rendition by Franco Battiato of "Impressioni di settembre", the song you wrote for Pfm in 1971. And I was thinking about how universal a song it is, one that anyone can adapt in their own way and make their own. How did that lyric come about?

Francone (Franco Mussida, ed.) from Pfm came to see me and gave me this little record with his recording in fake English, like they always used to do back then. So I wrote the lyrics and brought them to him. "Impressioni di settembre" I wrote on the hill of Dosso di Coroldo, between Pusiano and Molteno. There are meadows and woods there, and I put myself in that place. With this idea of the fog, and the sun that eventually arrives, bringing a sense of rebirth.

What's your relationship with rock? Do you think it's still a vital genre today?

I like rock a lot, I've always appreciated it. I think it will last forever, because it's a music that has enhanced melody by using it sparingly and turning up the rhythm instead. It's a formula that will always work.

Deep down, Battisti had a rock soul too.

Of course. "Il tempo di morire", for instance, isn't rock Italian-style: sung in English, it becomes a proper piece of international rock. He had that special instinct.

Was that his greatest gift?

Even more important was his capacity for deep study. He was a mathematician, so he was able to grasp the substance of things, the fundamentals. Everything he did was the result of enormous work. He built up an in-depth musical culture by studying the greatest artists in the world seven hours a day. As soon as a new one came out, he'd go and study it right away. If you study one singer, you just end up a poor copy of them, but if you study the ten greatest in the world, in the end you don't resemble any of them and you've taken a bit from all of them. That's what Battisti was like. He was also very demanding: he loved criticism more than compliments, he always used to say: "Through criticism I can improve, with compliments I can only feel pleased with myself".

Bowie thought very highly of Battisti. He wrote the English lyrics for one of his songs and sang my Italian version of "Space Oddity", "Ragazzo solo, ragazza sola". It was a great honor

I've always thought of Battisti as one of our most internationally minded singer-songwriters. Could he have achieved more success abroad?

The truth is he was world-class. But Rca, who had also pressed his records in America, never gave him proper promotion. And he himself didn't want to go to America to promote his songs. A real shame.

David Bowie was also a fan of his. In 1997 he even called him "the best singer in the world along with Lou Reed".

Yes, he thought very highly of him. He also wrote the English lyrics for one of Lucio's songs, "Io vorrei… non vorrei… ma se vuoi" (for Mick Ronson's first solo LP, "Slaughter On 10th Avenue", under the title "Music Is Lethal", ed.). Then Bowie did me a great honor: I had completely rewritten the lyrics to his famous "Space Oddity", turning it into "Ragazzo solo, ragazza sola", and he wanted to sing it in that very Italian version. It was a song that Bernardo Bertolucci liked too: he came to see me and told me he'd made a film, "Io e te", inspired precisely by my version of "Space Oddity". So at the film's crucial moment, when these warring stepbrothers finally embrace, "Ragazzo solo, ragazza sola" bursts out: it still gives me goosebumps.

The Battisti-Panella period? I respect it. He told me he didn't want the new songs to be compared to the ones we'd written together, so he'd sing either in English or in nonsense verse. He chose the latter…

After the end of your partnership, Battisti told you he would only keep singing "in English or nonsense". In the end he chose the latter, opting for lyrics by Pasquale Panella. How do you rate those works from the so-called "white period"?

Lucio told me he didn't want the new songs to be compared to the ones we'd written together. But he'd also changed the way he worked. Because with me he'd write the music first and I'd write the lyrics, whereas with Panella — he told me himself — he'd have the lyrics sent to him and then build the music on top of them. It was a completely different formula, but I still respect their work and I have nothing to object to.

How did the split between the two of you come about?

It was me who stopped accepting to write with him. I'd simply asked for equal terms; at first he seemed to have agreed, then he changed his mind, and so I decided to walk away — not for money, but as a matter of principle. When we started working together, Siae rules gave 8/24ths to the arranger and 4/24ths to the songwriter, and I accepted those terms even though at the time I was already well known and he wasn't — but that was the norm. In the end, though, on the publishing side I had 9% and he had 52%; the fair thing would have been 50/50, and I asked for that in order to continue our co-publishing deal. But he wouldn't agree, so I stopped writing with him. I repeat: it wasn't about money, it was a matter of principle. You won't believe it, but money has never interested me — I don't even know how much I've got left in the bank!

Still, in the end, you two parted ways without any bitterness. The same can't be said of your relationship with Battisti's widow, Grazia Letizia Veronese. In the end you even ended up facing each other in court.

Yes, and we won the case (filed in 2012 by Mogol against Acqua Azzurra Srl, the company of which Veronese is sole director, ed.). Honestly, I've never understood her insistence on banning the reproduction of Battisti's songs — those songs belong to all of us. In the end we had no choice but to go to court, there was no other way.

Siae? We're fighting to protect songwriters, because even now digital platforms pay derisory amounts

Speaking of legal squabbles, you know a thing or two about that as president of Siae. How did the Soundreef dispute end? And what's the current state of songwriters' rights in Italy?

My job was to try to resolve the Soundreef issue, and we reached an agreement. Soundreef doesn't have its own infrastructure, so it can use ours to pay songwriters and composers. As for the promotion of copyright, we've also been to Parliament: the law has now moved on to implementing decrees, and Agcom is studying how to sort the matter out. But six months have already gone by, and I've asked for a permanent working group to be set up: we risk harming a hundred thousand songwriters, because even now digital platforms pay derisory amounts.

Among today's Italian songwriters, is there anyone you particularly like?

Well, first of all, starting with my own family: I have two sons who do this job. For instance, they've just written the new Ramazzotti song, "Ama", together — Francesco on the music and Alfredo on the lyrics. Alfredo has already had huge successes in his career. Then I like Giuseppe Anastasi, a very good songwriter who came out of our school, very skilled and interesting. In general, there's a lot of talent out there that deserves to be showcased. I'd proposed to Rai1 doing three evenings of a kind of "pop university", with the students from the school and some "godfathers" — famous singers who could support them in their performances. It would have made for a great show, but Rai only gave the go-ahead for one evening: that would have been like killing it. We'll have to wait for some more forward-thinking new director to come along and propose it again…

Is it harder for songwriters today?

There was a time when a song's worth was judged on its own merits, regardless of everything else. Today, as we can see, the songs from Sanremo don't last — they disappear after a few months or a year. All that matters is social media, followers. And radio works according to the logic we all know well by now. It's not like the old days, when there were skilled, knowledgeable professional DJs choosing the songs.

Rappers accepted among singer-songwriters? Sure, songs can be written in different ways, and they're very good at doing it using just words and rhythm. That said, I don't listen to them much, because it feels a bit like hearing the same joke twice…

There's been a lot of debate lately about whether it's right to broaden the scope of singer-songwriters to include rappers too, for example at the Premio Tenco. What do you think about that?

Songs are created in different forms. Personally, I think rappers are very talented, because they manage to do everything with just words and rhythm, without the help of melody. I don't listen to much of this genre, because I find it repetitive: it's a bit like hearing the same joke twice. But everything has value, and in the end a song has to be judged by how long it stays in the collective memory. The songs that endure are almost always the best ones.

You're also a music teacher: what's the first lesson you'd give to someone who wants to try their hand at songwriting?

Take courses at Cet! (we laugh). I set up a school that trains songwriters, composers, performers, poetic writing and record production: basically, every area is covered. I've also gone to give talks at Berklee in Boston, at Harvard. I wanted to give something back to my country - as a teacher I never took a single lira. And I've also put in 40,000 euros of my own money to keep the school running.

Sixty-one years have passed since your first song, “Al di là”, performed by Luciano Tajoli and Betty Curtis (1961), and they've been packed with hits. Besides the songs written for Battisti and “Impressioni di settembre” for Pfm, we need only think of “Perdono” for Caterina Caselli, “La prima cosa bella” for Nicola Di Bari, “29 settembre” for Equipe 84, “Una lacrima sul viso” for Bobby Solo, “A chi” for Fausto Leali, “Riderà” for Little Tony, “La spada nel cuore” for Patty Pravo, “Amor mio” for Mina, “Oro” for Mango, “Celeste nostalgia” for Riccardo Cocciante or “L’emozione non ha voce” for Adriano Celentano. You had Siae work out the overall tally, and it came to the staggering figure of 523 million records sold worldwide. Is that really possible?

It certainly seems so, and I was very pleasantly surprised. It all began with that very song by Tajoli and Betty Curtis, which won the Sanremo festival and reached number one in 27 countries. For Celentano I also wrote “Respiri di vita”, which he performed wonderfully. A song written together with Gianni Bella, who's also a truly great artist.

But sixty-one years on, you still have plenty of drive to keep doing this work...

And not just that. I'm also working on a primary disease-prevention project, which I'll be carrying out here at the cittadella (in Umbria, ed.). A wide-ranging piece of research, covering everything from the food we eat to the environment we live in. Did you know, for instance, that salt and sugar are poisons?

(Partly drawn from an interview published in the newspaper “Leggo”)

21/08/2022

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