Francesco De Gregori

Francesco De Gregori grew tired of making records a long time ago. For several years now, his main activity has been a sort of Dylan-esque NeverEnding Tour in its various guises: with orchestra in arenas and in an intimate version in small theatres, with Antonello Venditti (read our report here) and – for a single one-off event – with Checco Zalone, mixing his historic hits with his lesser-known songs. It's precisely to the latter, which he himself dubbed “Nevergreen, Perfect Strangers” during a recent residency in Milan, that our new playlist is dedicated. A survey running through all the gems scattered across the grooves of his albums, often unjustly overshadowed by his hits. So no “Rimmel,” “Generale” or “La donna cannone,” and none of the two ubiquitous tunes forever tied to TV ads (“La storia” and “Sempre per sempre”). This selection aims to give space to his most glorious nevergreens, along with a few gems well known to fans but perhaps left a bit further from the spotlight, tracks we might call “almost-hits.” We picked 32 of them, just like the “pearls in the night” of the girl in “Due zingari,” for one of the many possible selections, still capable of giving a fairly faithful and complete picture of De Gregori's poetic universe.

Dolce signora che bruci

One of the standout feats of “Theorius Campus” (1972), De Gregori's debut album alongside his Folkstudio companion Antonello Venditti. A duo with no future together, save for reuniting fifty years later for a successful live tour. Written by the Prince and sung as a duet, this poignant ballad – revived precisely on the live dates of the tour that began in 2022 – hints that the unlikely tandem, while not exactly the Italian answer to Simon & Garfunkel, would hardly have looked out of place doing so: smooth and ironic, it sketches another disarming female portrait: “Dolce signora che bruci, per che cosa stai bruciando?/ i gerani al tuo balcone si stanno consumando… il tuo album di foto sta andando alla deriva/ e il tuo amante prezioso se ne è andato un’ora fa/ ma io posso capire la tua età”.

La casa di Hilde

A recurring theme in De Gregori's songbook, childhood is often precisely the vantage point from which the narrative unfolds. Through the candour and directness of children's language, the Prince unmasks reality, stripping it of all its hypocrisies and superstructures. Ahead of many other forays into that world, “La casa di Hilde” is exactly the story told by a child. It's the tale of a mountain trip experienced in childhood by Edoardo De Angelis, the mastermind behind the solo debut “Alice non lo sa.” De Gregori turns it into a song, taking care to credit it also to the friend who told it to him. Something changes in the final lyrics: the smuggler wasn't the father but someone met at the mountain hut. But these are details. What remains unchanged is the sense of a wholly childlike astonishment, of a daydream, of a terrifying yet fascinating initiation (“Io mi ricordo che avevo paura, quando bussammo alla porta” and again “il cielo sembrava più grande, ed io mi sentivo già uomo” and finally “il mezzo bicchiere” of wine drunk together with the adults). The story, caressed by country-folk guitar flourishes, unfolds through a sequence of flashes that illuminate exactly the details most astonishing to a child's eyes: the father's shadow twice as large, Hilde's zither in the dark and the glittering diamonds it hides, the customs officer's rifle, the father raising his hands, the souvenir photo, the only thing left in his pockets, the goat captured beyond the border. Everything is wrapped in a dreamlike, fairy-tale atmosphere. But in the end the thrill of the adventure seems to dissolve into bitterness: “Quando fu l'alba lasciammo la casa di Hilde/ Oltre il confine con molto dolore.”

Saigon

Never performed live, “Saigon” remains one of the rough-cut gems of the solo debut album. The seemingly peaceful everyday life of a Vietnamese girl conveys the sense of horror, past or still looming: “Donna giovane del Vietnam/ com’è strano coltivare il mare/ quanti fiori ti ha dato già/ quanti altri te ne potrà dare/ da qui a Saigon la strada è buona”. As if in a dream, the sea where the threatening shadows of American helicopters once churned becomes a blooming field; for a moment you can almost smell its scent instead of the acrid stench of napalm. The Vietnam War was the great political watershed of those years. De Gregori had already denounced it through satire with “La Ballata di Spiro Agnew” back in his Folkstudio days, but here he adopts a calmer, more reflective tone. An immature but already lyrically powerful narrative, driven by a pulsing bass, Roberto Ciotti's blues guitar and Edoardo De Angelis's backing vocals. It perhaps pays the price for a slightly naive, artificially exotic arrangement. In 1989 Paola Turci recorded a cover so beautiful it left De Gregori himself “astonished,” and he would go on to call it superior to the original. “It wasn't a real city, but a place of the mind and of the world, a symbol of freedom,” he would explain, “Saigon has stayed close to me, maybe because I never moved on far enough to disown anything.” And he would add: “Maybe those years and those impressions were, for many of us, just like ‘Wonderland.' And the whole Alice album is steeped in the spirit of that time, a time when perhaps we imagined ourselves better than we actually were.”

Niente da capire

Granted, it was the single from the misunderstood “La Pecora” LP, but “Niente da capire” never quite claimed the spotlight among the Prince's biggest hits, and he has performed it only sparingly in concert. Yet it's one of his early masterpieces: carried by an elegant arpeggio and insinuating melismas, De Gregori puts plenty of himself into it: the sarcasm of the title – a response to accusations of obscurity – a mocking opening line (“Le stelle sono tante, milioni di milioni,” lifted from a well-known cured-meats ad) and a daring (for the time) allusion to a wife a bit too free and easy. Explosive stuff, in the middle of the divorce referendum. And indeed it wouldn't get radio play until the fateful 13 May 1974. An even worse fate awaited Giovanna's “giochetti da impazzire.” Even though she was “la migliore,” she evidently couldn't go quite that far. So, to protect Italian ears from such ardour, the line was turned into the far more innocuous “però Giovanna è stata la migliore, ma è un ricordo che vale dieci lire.”

Cercando un altro Egitto

De Gregori's songbook has often proven prophetic. Even about himself. That's the case with the premonition found in this 1974 song, which anticipates by a couple of years the threats and the famous "trial" at the Palalido. "It was early morning and they call me to the window/ they tell me: 'Francesco, they want to kill you'". Echoing the episode recounted in the Gospel of Matthew (2:13-23), in which Joseph, together with Mary and the infant Jesus, flees to Egypt after learning that King Herod the Great wants to have all the children in the region killed, De Gregori, with a touch of irony, imagines himself facing a similar threat and dreams of fleeing too, taking with him everything that is good. This other Egypt thus becomes an allegory for a fairer, more peaceful society. The song is a bizarre, cinematically-minded patchwork, in which a play of cuts and fades strings together images and references, including some unsettling ghosts from 20th-century history: “L’ufficiale uncinato che mi segue da tempo/ mi indica col dito qualcosa da guardare/ le grandi gelaterie di lampone che fumano lente”. Namely: the Nazi camps, seen through the innocent, dreamy eyes of a child, or deliberately "disguised" so as to deceive him.

Bene

There's also something strange about the reticence De Gregori shows toward what is without doubt one of his most beautiful songs, yet has remained – for the wider public – a "nevergreen". "Bene" is an abyss of melancholy tied to the memory of a youthful love. Everything about it is too intimate and too moving to be sung live. And indeed it has never found a place in his concert setlists. A shame, because the song is a marvel of restrained melody – the guitar that "weeps gently", the tolling piano underlining a linear harmonic theme, now higher, now lower – and another spell of minimal lyrics. A farewell letter that stops right at the edge of nostalgia ("Ricordi che giocavo coi tuoi occhi nella stanza e ti chiamavo mia, ben oltre la coperta ad uncinetto, c'era il soffio della tua pazzia"), just in time to hold back the tears, perhaps with the help of irony: "E adesso puoi richiuderti nel bagno a commentare le mie poesie". But it's also a heartrending, proud ode to fading adolescence ("Mia madre è sempre lì, che si nasconde dietro ai muri e non si trova mai", "Le navi di Pierino erano carta di giornale"). With all the vulnerability of that tender farewell: "Ma puoi chiamarmi ancora amore mio". Chill-inducing, and with the barest of frills.

Arlecchino

De Gregori's solo career will always have roots firmly planted in the basement of Via Garibaldi, the home base he'll keep returning to with affection and nostalgia. As in this story of a tightrope-walking artist suspended on the wire of a life spent enchanting audiences ("Arlecchino è già sul filo, la gente vuole vedere cosa fa") where the opening line – "Fiori falsi e sogni veri tra gli eroi della friggitoria Chantant" – celebrates precisely the early days at the Folkstudio, where "non era importante neanche mangiare, bastava sorridersi, bastava comunicare". A tender memory of those clandestine early days in the Trastevere version of Greenwich Village, out of which a whole new generation of singer-songwriters emerged.

Pezzi di vetro

Here too, acclaim hasn't been lacking, especially among fans of the Principe, but never enough for what remains one of the peaks of his songbook, included on "Rimmel" (1975). Half encrypted love song, half manifesto for an entire life, "Pezzi di vetro" is one long vertigo of emotions and suspended moments. The protagonist is a figure of the people, but he's no sideshow freak ("niente a che vedere col circo, né acrobata né mangiatore di fuoco"), he's a street performer, cocky and mocking. A "barefoot saint", dancing under the blessing of his own personal star, beneath his "right angle". He's a Felliniesque character, an archetype of vitality, of youthful recklessness, but above all he's a pretext for describing the enchantment of falling in love. Walking on sharp shards, however, inevitably exposes one to the vulnerability of feelings, to the wounds of abandonment and the fleetingness of that "first time". And that's all there is to it. Because this time there's really nothing to figure out. The visionary lyricism of the lyrics, dense with literary references (Pavese's "La luna e i falò", the Montale of the "cocci aguzzi di bottiglia"), is set within a sober, elegant musical frame, with its intricate, unusual textures: the crystalline sound of an acoustic guitar, the dreamlike clarity of the fingerpicking, the hushed tone of the vocals, a melody that slips in among the arpeggios, tender and skipping.

Le storie di ieri

Another terribly prophetic song. Originally placed at the start of the Pecora album, it was blocked by Rca and only reissued a year later on "Rimmel", by which point evidently – as De Gregori would later joke – "anti-fascism had become more acceptable even for the mass media". That same year it would also appear on "Volume VIII" by Fabrizio De André, the album born precisely from the collaboration between the two songwriters. The lyrics unmask the fascisms of yesterday, but above all those of today, in three-piece suits: "I nuovi capi hanno facce serene/ e cravatte intonate alla camicia". In the original version, instead of "nuovi capi", he named names: Giorgio Almirante, secretary of the Movimento Sociale. De André would opt for a middle ground: "Il gran capo". De Gregori instead plays on synecdoche: it's not Mussolini speaking to the courtyard, but rather "the jaw", and the vast crowds that filled the squares are reduced to a "courtyard". A counterpoint tinged with sarcasm, recalling the blood price paid for that collective delusion ("troppi morti lo hanno smentito, tutte gente che aveva capito") and closing with an illuminating chess metaphor: "A giocare col nero perdi sempre". And if it's true that "Mussolini ha scritto anche poesie", then poets must really be "brutte creature", to the point that "ogni volta che parlano è una truffa". "Stories of yesterday", yet terribly relevant today.

Giovane esploratore Tobia

Recently dredged up from long obscurity precisely at his recent "alternative" concerts, this odd track from "Bufalo Bill", co-written with Lucio Dalla, is a fable about the good American boy, the spotless boy scout, chasing cheap thrills through his everyday explorations. A squeaky-clean character, but a prisoner of convention. With "an childhood behind him that was hygienically perfect: measles, sadness and no other illness". De Gregori paints a sardonic, mocking portrait of him. "What's frightening about young explorers is their inconclusiveness; they learn to light fires… – he would explain in an interview – He's a wholesome, American character, who nonetheless, all things considered, dreams. He carries the heavy baggage of a clean, precise, lonely childhood, probably a neurotic one. But really I meant to refer to all those people who live out Marxism in a Catholic way, even in an evangelical way. It's a song I wrote after having conversations with young people who shocked me with their lack of preparation and their glibness in calling themselves left-wing".

Disastro aereo sul canale di Sicilia

Speaking of history, past and future. Four years before the Ustica massacre, with "Disastro aereo sul Canale di Sicilia" (1976) De Gregori wrote the most staggering of his prophecies. On June 27, 1980, when the Itavia DC-9 tore apart in mid-flight and vanished into the sea, many would think back to those very lines. And perhaps that's partly why Marco Risi called on De Gregori to write the soundtrack for his "Muro di gomma", the 1991 film recounting the mysteries and cover-ups surrounding one of the darkest chapters in the history of the Italian Republic. The American pilot of a NATO F-104 fighter acts unwittingly, carrying out orders and completing his deadly missions. With the complicity of an eternally subservient Italian ally, given a scathing prologue all his own: “Risulta peraltro evidente anche nel clima della distensione/ che un eventuale attacco ai paesi arabi vede l’Italy/ in prima posizione”. The greatness of the song also lies in the contrast between the bleakness of the lyrics and the Mediterranean sunniness of the melodies, further bolstered by strings and a chorus that's unmistakably seventies.

Ninetto e la colonia

Again from the enchanted grooves of "Bufalo Bill", another prescient American story, this time foreshadowing the drama of plunder and exploitation by multinational corporations in Third World countries, well ahead of the age of globalization. The indictment actually names names: Boston's United Fruit Company, which also exports the Chiquita brand and which had swallowed up most of the arable land in Latin American countries. In a setting of magical realism à-la García Márquez, Ninetto meets his sad end: unaware of the fate awaiting him, "with one hand in his pants", he keeps playing at the cinema, right before the marines ("three angels in the night, with chains under their jackets") burst in and shoot everyone. Picking their way through the bodies strewn on the ground, the necktie-wearing company men will gather up their bananas and go off to sell them: “E dietro un fondale di stelle/ gli impiegati della compagnia/ rubarono tutta la frutta dagli alberi/ e la portarono via”. Made all the more incisive by a pulsing bass line that drives the narrative forward at a tight cadence, the song also reveals a De Gregori unusually bold in his singing, even when called upon to deliver an almost theatrical performance.

Atlantide

This one isn't a true "nevergreen" either. It's been performed live many times and was also the theme song of the (superb) TV program of the same name hosted by the late Andrea Purgatori on La7. Yet a feat like this ought to be De Gregori's hit of hits, and inexplicably, it never has been. For many years, "Atlantide" (from "Bufalo Bill") stayed submerged, just like the legendary continent. Perhaps because of its bitter, hard-to-decipher lyrics: the admission of a defeat, of an (ir)responsibility: “Io la conobbi un giorno ed imparai il suo nome/ ma mi portò lontano il vizio dell’amore… Ditele che l’ho perduta quando l’ho capita/ ditele che la perdono per averla tradita”. But while in "Bene" the confession was in the first person, here De Gregori steps out of the scene and gets behind the camera. "He" sought refuge in a submerged world, another place of the soul. He fled to California, tried to build a new life, but remained chained to a memory that still hurts. So now he lives "in the third ray," as if in prison, "where he's learned not to ask questions anymore like: 'Do you happen to know a girl from Rome whose face recalls the collapse of a dam?'" In this dreamlike sequence of images, one stands out above all: the "can of desperate beer" hidden under the bed, a stroke of genius that, in the most absurd of emotional transferences, manages to explain everything. The originality of the lyrics is matched by one of the most beautiful and intricate pieces of music De Gregori ever wrote: a slow, dreamy sonic flow, between the celestial chimes of the piano, the dark cloak of the Eminent organ, subtle guitar arpeggios and an enveloping, deeply sad melody, the kind that melts your heart. While the debt to "Three Angels" by his mentor Dylan is undeniable, "Atlantide" still deserves credit for a uniquely suggestive, unmatched power.

Santa Lucia

It was above all Lucio Dalla who brought this gem back into the spotlight — the closing track of "Bufalo Bill" — calling it his favorite De Gregori song and performing it alongside him on the tour marking their "reunion" after the historic experience of "Banana Republic" ("Work in progress", 2010). "Santa Lucia" is a secular prayer of touching compassion, an intercession not only for the wretched of the earth, but for all "the men who cannot see." Because sometimes "they have eyes and a heart that isn't enough for their eyes," or they're "easy people who never have doubts." It's the plea of someone afraid of being left alone, "at the crossing of the winds," ending up "burned alive," or simply worn down, day after day, by "our crown of stars and thorns," by "our fear of the dark and of imagination." Only the saint who protects eyesight can bring safely to harbor the "broken boat" of a blind humanity, left at the mercy of social injustice, pain and loneliness. In its own way, then, a social hymn, a hymn of brotherhood, where the invocation of the saint recalls the humble language of folk song. Set to a solemn, poignant musical backdrop: Toto Torquati's piano supporting the hushed vocal, with bass and drums entering on tiptoe in the last verse, then the crescendo and a bluesy electric guitar coda that repeats the melody over an organ bed. It moves you without ever reaching for the tears.

L'impiccato

Looming over the splendid self-titled 1978 album, propelled to success by "Generale," is history itself. Contemporary history, the Years of Lead, terrorism and the special laws of the time, which take on grotesque tones in the reportage of this stark, moving piano-and-voice ballad with a sinuous blues gait, built around a relentless sequence of events captured as if live. As in a neorealist ordeal, five characters pass through the police station's back room: the young "son of a bitch and thief too," who refuses to answer, flaunting his "smile all dog's teeth"; the family man with the "lost gaze"; the third man "accused of outrage" and forced through violence to confess; the fourth, named Tommaso, who "prayed and wept" after being abandoned by his own lawyer; and finally the fifth, "taken in for a flimsy piece of evidence" and "crucified with iron and fire" without anyone quite knowing why, amid general indifference (the only doubt being "what sign the dead man was born under"). Sarcasm is the register chosen to denounce the repressive climate of those years, when you could be "taken in" to prison with unsettling ease, and the psychosis of terror was eroding the democratic guarantees of the rule of law. In short, a pamphlet in defense of due process — back when "garantismo" hadn't yet become a byword for impunity for the powerful.

Renoir, 2nd version

Of the two-faced song from "De Gregori" (1978) — first thunderous and ramshackle (with Francesco himself on the countermelody), then wistful and achingly sweet, as if they were two readings of the same painting — we've chosen the second version, with its minimal arrangement for acoustic guitar and scattered piano phrases. Another magnificent cartography of dreams and fantasies, where planes belong to the sky as ships belong to the sea. But departure doesn't sever the thread of the story, and the pain of goodbye dissolves into the memory of that moment, as if something, mysteriously, still remained. The image of parting thus takes center stage: “Chi di voi l’ha vista partire/ dica pure che stracciona era/ quanto vento aveva nei capelli/ se rideva o se piangeva/ la mattina che prese il treno/ e seduta accanto al finestrino/ vide passare l’Italy ai suoi piedi/ giocando a carte col suo destino”. The card-game metaphor from "Rimmel" returns, this time with an unfathomable opponent (fate). And the narrating voice opens up a kind of direct dialogue with the outside world, with a vague crowd of busybodies who judge and condemn. "It isn't true that I lost her, forgot her, like people say": the final line rings out like an unusual self-defense, after so many "my alibis" and "your reasons."

Il '56

For De Gregori, childhood is also a place of memory, of nostalgia for an unselfconscious, unrepeatable happiness. In 1978, with the restlessness of early youth now settled — he was 27, married and the father of two — he winds back the tape of memory and snaps the tender polaroid of "Il '56." Set to a rock'n'roll drive in the vein of "Crocodile Rock" (Elton John), between a driving guitar riff and a lovely piano counterpoint. The contrast rings jarring: 1956 is, after all, the year Warsaw Pact troops invaded Hungary, one of the most tragic events of the Cold War, one that would also tear apart the Italian left itself. But Francesco doesn't know that. He's 5 years old, and from his home in Pescara, where he's moved with his parents and his brother "who studied mysterious languages," he experiences the event with a child's carefree spirit: cutting Soviet tanks out of magazines to build his own personal cardboard army, while waiting for Christmas: “…Era una festa vera/ cominciavo ad aspettarlo quattro mesi prima/ i regali mi duravano una settimana”. Childhood is the permanent enchantment that transfigures reality and makes everything possible.

Raggio di sole

A mourned childhood, a mythologized place, a symbol of an everyday family life to be savored again. And a childhood rediscovered, through fatherhood. The poignant "Raggio di sole," dedicated to twins Federico and Marco, born around that time, reveals all the tenderness De Gregori has always let show through the inscrutable folds of his lyrics. A radiant, melancholy ballad, its threads of acoustic guitar laid over a soft bed of keyboards and percussion, it's not merely an ode to new life. It's a travel itinerary, stretching from childhood ("you'll have crayons to play with") to adulthood ("a passport to go far away"). A journey scattered with cars ("the morning car horns"), trains ("this strange railway, one of a kind in where it can go") and ships ("far off a ship goes by, all its lights on"). Like a drawing sketched by a child on a sheet of paper.

Due zingari

It has always been imaginative force, not "message," that drives De Gregori's songs. So even when he trains his lens on a microcosm of deprivation and marginalization like that of "Due zingari" (again from "De Gregori", 1978), the Roman songwriter filters it through the distorting lens of dream, of fantasy. As in a Fellini film, illuminating details surface: "the knife blade hidden in the boot" and the girl's smile, "thirty-two pearls in the night." And as in Claudio Lolli's memorable song ("I've Also Seen Happy Gypsies"), the imagery of gypsy life is linked to the art of survival, to the will to live freely, outside the rules of the pack. De Gregori brings the camera close to the two characters, capturing their love dialogue as if live. A supernatural enchantment, straight out of magical realism ("two gypsies stood leaning against the night, maybe hand in hand, holding each other in their eyes") that shatters with the girl's abrupt farewell, as the perspective suddenly widens onto the street, where "cars go by quickly" and "trucks eat up the miles." It's a genuine cinematic cut, the break with the "urban dream," the return to a reality of suburban desolation. Musically the song unfolds in two stages: one more ethereal and dreamlike, with only the shimmering glints of guitar accompanying the voice, the other more orchestral and robust, sealed by the aching sax solo of Mario Schiano. The osmosis between the endless sweetness of the melody and Lilli Greco's refined arrangements is a marvel of grace and balance.

Stella stellina

Journeys of sorrow and nostalgia, but also journeys of illusion and uprooting. Like that of the girl with "nail polish on peasant hands" who leaves the countryside of the South ("Italy's Africa") only to lose herself in another metropolitan dream. In "Stella stellina" the childlike language returns, the key to dreams, to fairy tales that, however, often remain nailed to the ground. So the golden world of Rome's cinema (the "city that bites, that protects and that threatens") turns out to be a deceptive Eden. The song's magic rests on a play of contrasts. Against the almost cloying sweetness of the melody, propped up by horns, and the tender flow of "dear diary" memories, stands the harshness of a line – "don't meddle any more in your own life, it's none of your business" – which bitterly hints at how that dream ended up.

Gesù bambino

Another nursery rhyme, this fiercely naive Christmas letter once again resorts to childlike language as an illusory filter that soothes pain and exorcises fear. So even war becomes "clean as a tiny little wound" and "brief as a snowflake". An awaited, almost purifying event ("let it carry away bad death and illness"), as if it were a playful, fleeting escape from reality ("let it be short and like a game"). It's another bloodied fairy tale, only the reversed perspective makes the horror even more insidious and terrifying. As the following lines paint the nightmare more clearly, the invocation suddenly takes on disenchanted tones ("baby Jesus bought on installments"), and the hope becomes one of returning to reality, of the terror ending. Then comes the chilling final verse, where, having accepted the inevitability of war, the child turns to a baby Jesus now "adrift" with one last, anguished prayer: "If this war really must be fought, let it not be cruel... and when it's finally over, let no one remember it". The fairy-tale intensity of the lyrics is matched by the music: a humble, precious melody, a striking mandolin insert and smooth arrangements of organ and keyboards. Although De Gregori recalls it as his favorite song from "Viva l'Italy", he rarely performs it live, which is the "excuse" for including it in this selection, despite it being a relatively well-known song.

Terra e acqua

Alongside Ivano Fossati, De Gregori is perhaps the songwriter who has most clearly outlined a "poetics of the journey". A lyrical universe expressed in every shade: from the physical dimension of the solitary crossing to the choral fresco of the Titanic, which combines the metaphor of the end of the Belle Epoque with the tragic reality of migrants and their dream of redemption sunk to the bottom of the ocean. The long road of "Viva l'Italy", ideally begun with "Capo d'Africa", reaches its final landing. "Land!" The cry longed for by those traveling by sea turns into "Terra e acqua", a secular prayer inspired by a song from the Nuovo Canzoniere Italiano. "Tera e aqua (Polesine)" is a folk song composed in 1961 by Gigi Fossati and Sergio Liberovici. De Gregori, who has known that musical world intimately since his days at the Folkstudio, turns it into a heartfelt, mournful litany, where the invocation to the Lord reveals no sudden Dylan-style conversion (a label that would be systematically slapped on him for every song with religious undertones, from "Santa Lucia" to "L'agnello di Dio"), but rather seeks to return to a primal dimension of folk simplicity, that of someone who, finding themselves in trouble, can do nothing but turn to God, entrusting Him with their soul. A hymn to travel as an exercise in solitude ("earth and water and no sun, earth and water and spit in the face, and no one to embrace me") and as an eternal cycle of life ("you always return to where you're going, earth and water never change"), "Terra e acqua" is another gem of arte povera: the noble tradition of Italian folk wrapped in elegant keyboards and choral openings.

L’abbigliamento di un fuochista

Aboard the Titanic, De Gregori also brings along one of his historic guiding lights since his Folkstudio days: Giovanna Marini. The best possible counterpoint for this moving story of departures and farewells. The elegy of a mother's grief that overflows from the grooves with throbbing intensity. As in Kafka's "Amerika", the stoker is the first to appear. In the confrontation between mother and son unfolds the drama of those who will have to feed that futurist marvel with soot and sweat. A device borrowed from the classic iconography of emigration stories, that of "Mamma mia dammi cento lire che in America voglio andar...". Even though the dialogue is imagined: the ship has already set sail, while the mother, left alone on the dock, laments for the son leaving "with no tomorrow", destined to marry "probably in an American brothel" and to have "children with a strange woman who don't speak Italian". But the proletarian sailor is aware of his fate as an outcast, a sacrificial lamb. And he no longer feels any bond of identity with his land, with his language, trapped in the steel belly of the "black black ship": "But mother, to tell you the truth, I don't know what Italian is/ and even though I cross the world I don't know geography". A flowing vocal duet carried by the accordion, with its bare melody woven on three simple chords, "L'abbigliamento di un fuochista" is the understated masterpiece of "Titanic". A sepia-toned snapshot of a story that repeats itself endlessly. Whether they are Italian migrants bound for the Americas or African refugees packed onto boats off Lampedusa. For them, the journey is a necessity, but often, at the same time, the proof of a failure.

San Lorenzo

Even less known, "San Lorenzo" stands apart within "Titanic". If only because it marks the first time De Gregori plays piano on one of his albums. He wrote it in one sitting, inspired by a photo a friend showed him: Pope Pius XII spreading his arms amid the rubble. It's another historical flashback, recalling one of the fiercest bombings suffered by Rome at the hands of the Allies, also quoting the famous partisan song "Pietà l'è morta" by Cuneo-born Nuto Revelli. The destruction of San Lorenzo, a small working-class district occupied by the Nazis, comes back to life in another dry chronicle, sung in the vein of folk song. The language is indeed that humble and naive one of the common man (bombs "falling like snow", the angelic Pope), yet there's always that visionary touch that ignites the story: the sudden cut to the dead "resurfacing", the macabre powder magazine seen from the windows of St. Peter's, and finally the hope of finding normality again, made up of small familiar things ("there'll be plenty of butter", day trips "out of town to Cinecittà", new weddings to celebrate). A sketch that only seems minimal, because in this portrait of Rome as an open city struck to the heart, one finds reflected the collective memory of an entire country and a sweeping historical perspective. A universal humanism that would find fuller expression three years later in De Gregori's quintessential "historical" song ("La storia").

A Pa’

If there is a political stance that can reasonably be attributed to De Gregori, it is "Pasolinian". A crucial guiding figure in his songbook, for him Pier Paolo Pasolini has nothing to do with the "Poets for Summer" whom he skewers in bitter verse. He embodies the sincerity of a gaze that is always lucid and full of life. So, on the tenth anniversary of his death, De Gregori dedicates to him this poignant song inspired by "Lamento per la morte di Pierpaolo Pasolini" by Giovanna Marini. A dry-eyed tribute, featuring the Pasolini who, in jacket and tie, lets himself get drawn into football matches in the heart of the borgata ("Fermete, a Pa', dà du' carci co' nnoi!"). There's the last snapshot of his life: the sea at Ostia, where he met his death on the night between November 1st and 2nd, 1975, and a blurred memory of the "street kid" Pino Pelosi, who would be convicted of his murder. And there's Pasolini's own poem "Preghiera su commissione" ("Caro Dio, facci vivere come gli uccelli del cielo e i gigli dei campi"), which resurfaces in the aching final invocation. In "A Pa'" the emotion is held back, tucked within the folds of a score that is once again bare and minimal, with the harmonica taking over from guitar, bass and organ, carrying the narrative forward on a musical level. In short, it's the most Pasolinian tribute Pasolini ever received.

Capatáz

“Non siamo nati mica ieri/ non siamo mica prigionieri/ dentro la stella di questa bella modernità/ non siamo nati mica per morire qua”. A timeless song of the exploited, more valid than ever today, in these new, unsettling times, Capatáz. The protagonist of this song with its placid country-folk languor, tucked away among the grooves of "Scacchi e tarocchi", is not so different from the "padrone" of "Pablo". But this time awareness has matured and hints at an imminent sense of redemption: “Quanto persone che non contano/ e invece contano e si stanno contando già/ stanno soltando aspettando un segno, Capatàz… Questo vecchio legno quando si alza il vento navigherà”. So this is a subtly optimistic De Gregori, the one of "Capatáz". But the wind would be slow to rise, and over the years disillusionment would only grow sharper.

Stelutis alpinis

There's also a historical episode linking Pasolini and De Gregori. It's 1945, and a war within the war is being fought, a war among partisans. In the mountain huts of Porzus, in Friuli, lies the headquarters of the Osoppo brigade, the "white partisans" born from the Christian Democrats and the Action Party. At their head is "commander Bolla", that is, Francesco De Gregori, the Roman songwriter's uncle. On February 7th, about a hundred pro-Tito communists storm the Osoppo bunker and kill commander Bolla. Sixteen other Osoppo members are taken prisoner, among them Guido Pasolini ("Ermes"), the writer's brother, who would be executed a few days later. All were accused of opposing the policy of alliance with Tito's Yugoslav resistance and of dealing with the Germans and with Borghese's fascist X Mas. History would later disprove all this and try to right that wrong, convicting 36 of those responsible for the massacre in 1952 and posthumously awarding commander Bolla the gold medal for military valor. The events would also inspire the film "Porzus" by Renzo Martinelli. It's an open wound within the De Gregori family that perhaps resurfaces in "Prendere e lasciare", through the recovery of "Stelutis alpinis", the old Friulian song by composer Arturo Zardini (“Se un mattino tu verrai/ fino in cime alle montagne/ troverai una stella alpina/ che è fiorita sul mio sangue”). From his grave, buried among the Friulian rocks, a young soldier killed in war speaks to his beloved with words of comfort. But there's no direct reference to the historical episode. De Gregori has never commented on the matter, showing himself in fact quite irritated by any question that tried to find a contradiction between his political sympathies and the killing of his uncle at the hands of pro-Tito partisans.

The Attack on Togliatti

History, faithful companion to De Gregori's songbook, reread through the lens of folk song. In concert, De Gregori dusts off that devoted traditional and clearly relishes it. Folk song is being (re)born. And no one can contribute to the cause better than Giovanna Marini. So the Roman singer-songwriter reunites with his old inspiration from the Folkstudio days for "Il fischio del vapore", 14 twists and turns through the memory of Italian folk. Starting from this naive chronicle written by Marino Piazza, which resurfaces from the archives after so many years, wrapped in new folk suggestions, with the magical two-voice interplay of the Prince and his muse: "The arrangements are absolutely contemporary," he explained in an interview, "we didn't want to do an academic revival, or some dusty archival exercise. I simply asked my band to play those songs as if I'd written them myself." Even so, it's precisely "that classic 'zum pa pa'" that makes this track irresistible.

La testa nel secchio

The rock side of De Gregori you don't expect. On this blazing (and underrated) track from "Pezzi" (2005), the Roman singer-songwriter lets himself be seduced by desert-rock suggestions, for a creeping, slow-burning ride steeped in à la Cohen atmospheres, J.J. Cale-style blues fragrances and desert sounds worthy of Calexico, with its swaying gait and its epic western guitar work. And with a De Gregori more melancholy than ever, digging deep inside himself for another poignant metaphorical journey (“E chissà quanto ho viaggiato/ quante volte sono stato /quanti ponti ho attraversato/ quante scale che ho salito/ quando tu indicavi il cielo/ mentre io guardavo il dito”). A low, sweeping flight of electric guitars magically underpins yet another masterful performance from the Roman singer-songwriter, at the peak of what remains probably his last great album. Complete with the ultimate metaphor of that train which is leaving and hasn't left yet.

Il panorama di Betlemme

More fiery – and highly effective – riffs from the rock revelation that was "Pezzi". This time they're dedicated to illuminating "Il panorama di Betlemme", a mystical, spiritual place but also a land torn apart by brutal conflicts. The Roman singer-songwriter tears through the Middle East's "curtain of flames", with its daily martyrs, like the soldier (Israeli or Palestinian, it doesn't matter) who calls out for one last breath before dying: “E sente la terra che chiama/ sente la notte che sta per venire/ E dice Signore ti prego/ lasciami respirare/ lasciamo un po’ riposare/ prima che devo morire”. Another missed hit that had everything going for it: the sound (a blistering slice of classic rock) and the lyrics, another bitter fragment of history, still tragically relevant today.

For Short, Called Artist

“Martire da palcoscenico e vittima d’aprile/ che macina i cuori, che calcola i cani/ e dà la buonanotte ai fiori”. The most disenchanted and lighthearted De Gregori of the 2000s gives himself the most mocking of definitions, in the autobiographical title track of his 2008 album. Acoustic caresses and draping strings frame a ballad steeped in memories and dreamlike suggestions, playing with the theme of doubles and opposites ("if he were Abel he'd be Cain," "an alibi without a murderer," "forgive me if I keep my distance and look for me up close"). A song that almost seems to close a circle: "Francesco De Gregori, from now on referred to for brevity as 'the artist'" read a legal clause on his first record contract. Years later, he decided to have some fun with it, picking up a line straight from the fateful (and never released) De Gregori è morto: "He was a swollen boy, referred to for brevity as 'the artist'". Artistic history repeating itself...

Omero al Cantagiro

Even a single can remain a "nevergreen" in these strange times for Italian music. That's what happened to this track too, taken from the album "On the Road" (2012), De Gregori's most recent album of original material to date. Under a relentless downpour, a figure named Omero takes the stage and sings of the Trojan War. A none-too-subtle metaphor for the crisis facing the music industry, and a biting snapshot of fans' "deification" of artists. An amused De Gregori duets with Malika Ayane on a track with a Latin swing, somewhere between a 1930s piano, a Mediterranean mandolin and a chorus that recalls old megaphone voices of a bygone era. "I'm fond of the memory of the Cantagiro; back when I wasn't in this business yet, that world fascinated me, the singers seemed like mythological figures, Caterina Caselli was a goddess..." he recounted. "And so I imagined a singer called Omero, or maybe he's Omero himself, who appears amid the everyday routine of that world to offer something poetic, to reclaim a dignity for this job that's so often denied." That same dignity the Prince has always claimed with aristocratic grace, in spite of the "cursed gossips" who have dogged him throughout his career.

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16/02/2026

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This article is an English translation of the original Italian text by Claudio Fabretti, published on OndaRock.it. It was translated with the help of artificial intelligence, under the editorial responsibility of OndaRock's editor-in-chief, Claudio Fabretti.

Read the original in Italian · About the English edition