Francesco De Gregori

Fabio Zuffanti is one of the most eclectic and representative Italian musicians. Finisterre, La Maschera Di Cera, Höstsonaten, Rohmer, laZona, Aries, La Curva Di Lesmo, L’Ombra Della Sera, Quadraphonic, R.u.g.h.e. and CHRISTADORO, alongside his solo projects, are only part of his tireless activity in the musical field, to which, since 2012, he has added that of writer, from the essay “Prog Rock” to the recent biography “Battiato: La voce del padrone“. This article is the first installment of a series titled “33 RPM Visions” written by him, which OndaRock will host on its pages exclusively.

Francesco De Gregori – De Gregori (RCA, 1978)

Inside this treasure chest are ten songs. Small precious things; two, three, four minutes each. Just over half an hour altogether. I hold the cover and the inner sleeve, pull out the vinyl and run my fingers over it, weigh it in my hand. It seems incredible, it's so fragile, and yet inside it lie some of the most beautiful things in the world. It should weigh tons for all the beauty it contains, and yet it feels almost about to take flight at any moment, it's so light.

On the front, Francesco in color chases a ball across a meadow, his figure slightly blurred by the motion, the big typewriter-style lettering: De Gregori. It looks like a beautiful day. Inside, Francesco in black and white walks seriously across the same meadow. Twenty-seven years old. He stares straight into the lens, gaze steady, eager to put himself back on the line after the protests. Poetry both real and unreal. Honesty.

I set the record on the turntable, drop the needle, and the dimly lit room fills with stories until it overflows. From the barracks where he's doing his military service, Francesco leans out of the window. It's the Terces hill, in Trentino, the setting for a series of attacks by South Tyrolean separatists between the Fifties and Sixties. In the air, still all the disillusionment of war, of any war; once the enemy is defeated, nature falls still again, dietro la collina non c’è più nessuno, solo aghi di pino e silenzio e funghi. "Generale", among the hills, in the great station barely visible from the bathroom windows of the Wackernell barracks, the memory of a peasant woman still waiting for her soldier sons. The little girl Stella, a great full moon. "Babbo in prigione", she tenderly happy, the violence gone from the walls of the house, breathing deep the cool evening air. The time signature shifts to 3/4 and her mother hums a tune under her breath while washing the dishes. I was ten years old and my mother would often sing softly while washing the dishes.

My brother used to listen to this record, bought shortly after its release. I'd go into his room in the evening and he'd hum to me mio fratello che studiava lingue misteriose. That was him back then, books lit by the desk lamp, darkness all around him and the amplifier's LEDs pulsing in time with the music. As for me, I was le fotografie dei carri armati io passavo i pomeriggi a ritagliarle a incollarle sopra pezzi di cartone. The Polymoog's sound brimming with stars, in mezzo al mare c’è qualche nuvola ma non fa niente, then that line, e sotto questo grande cielo azzurro, finalmente, mi sentivo un uomo solo. The late Seventies in Genoa, so much tension in the air, I could feel it on my skin, i miei amici lo sai, sono tutti segnati. Why were there two tracks with the same title but in different versions? But what a pleasure it was to flip the vinyl and find "Renoir" again, like two arms reaching out for an embrace, da qualche parte c’è una stanza più calda, sicuramente esiste un uomo migliore. The piano settling like turning off the bedside lamp before falling asleep, the airy metronome of the drums, sparse keyboards in black and white and in color, just like in the cover photos.

The guitars: the nocturnal reverb in "Due zingari", the slide guitar of "Natale", the acoustic used like a mandolin in "La campana". The ending of "L'impiccato", that bass line coiling in the stomach like a recurring thought.

I wasn't allowed to touch the LP, my brother was jealous of it, afraid I'd ruin it, that one and all the others in his collection. So I'd take advantage of the moments when he listened to it, sitting in the armchair in his room, and Francesco's voice was a woolen blanket on a cold Christmas night. It still is today, his timbre, more than the songs, more than the melodies, more than the lyrics. That timbre is part of our history, it lies at rest in the soul of all of us who watch the night slip quickly past a car window.

And on a hill, near the highway, two gypsies sit on the grass, drunk on stars and moonlight, watching us in turn as we speed towards life, which is always one step further on.

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03/02/2026