Lucio Dalla, Francesco De Gregori

"And they walk through the night on foot to cheat melancholy out of its due". Deep down, we could picture the two friends exactly like that, ready to set off, sweeping away the clouds. A meeting that was written in the stars, dating back to the days of “Pablo” and “Giovane Esploratore Tobia”, but which only truly came to fruition at the close of the 1970s. A time when the night of the Republic had already left its trail of terror, and Italy was searching for a way out of the Years of Lead. Perhaps chasing after tropical atolls or Cuban-Caribbean political hideaways. “Banana Republic” could be that eldorado. Or perhaps it's Italy itself, the country “half garden and half prison”, where governments last no longer than a summer. And where, instead of corrupt politicians, it's the singer-songwriters who end up in the dock. Both of them know something about that: Francesco De Gregori endured a brutal “trial” at the Palalido in Milan at the hands of a group of autonomists, while Lucio Dalla had a Molotov cocktail thrown at him on stage during a concert at the Castello Sforzesco.

Swindling melancholy out of the Palalido isn't easy, though, for De Gregori. It takes at least two years. A few concerts in trusty Emilia, just to get back in touch with the stage. Then comes the event that changes everything. It's his friend Walter Veltroni, at the time head of press and propaganda for the PCI, who comes up with the idea: a concert at Rome's Stadio Flaminio, with Dalla and De Gregori together on stage. Both of them like the proposal. And the audience likes it even more, flocking in droves: 40,000 people in the stands of the capital's second stadium — a sight perhaps never seen before.
But it all happens quickly, with a good dose of chance. The two friends take the train together, and in their compartment they start sketching out the setlist. Then, on stage, guitar and clarinet intertwine, setting the Flaminio ablaze. Rome welcomes De Gregori back like a son, comforting him, encouraging him to forget the Milan nightmare. It's a celebration, in short, and RCA rubs its hands together, glimpsing the chance of a sold-out tour everywhere.

The odd couple

The two of them fit together beautifully. Dalla is the street poet, the wandering balladeer of bizarre, surreal stories from the outskirts of town, where provincial Emilia becomes a mirror of the whole world. He's also a remarkable performer with a soul-inflected style, and a theatrical character, mixing spoken syntax with dialect, always ready with a sharp quip. De Gregori is his aristocratic alter ego, the melancholy, fascinating prince, who puts his literary figures and learned references at the service of true stories — the kind that, to quote George Brassens, “crucify the world”.
But there's also plenty of fun between the two. De Gregori has rediscovered the joy of singing. He's already written part of a song with a bouncy rhythm and an ironic lyric. Dalla adds his own unmistakable touch. And the song, “Ma come fanno i marinai”, is ready to become a hit single. It even makes it onto Discoring, the RAI's flagship music show, where the two stage a mocking pantomime, with Dalla unscrewing his clarinet and De Gregori letting his guitar crash to the floor, while the music carries on regardless, in the name of playback.

Dalla, meanwhile, is at the peak of his popularity. His self-titled album has topped the charts, winning over even the sternest critics with its heartrending ballads (“L'anno che verrà”, “Anna e Marco”, “Stella di mare”) and its electro-rock apocalypses (“L'ultima luna”). And the tracklist includes another fruit of his partnership with De Gregori: “Cosa sarà”, sung as a duet, with music by Rosalino Cellamare aka Ron and lyrics by Dalla. It's also the B-side of the single “Ma come fanno i marinai” and will go on to become a staple of their future shows.

Down there in the land of the Tropics

Everything, in short, is ready for the ship to set sail “laggiù nel paese dei Tropici, dove il sole è più sole che qua”. “Banana Republic” is the name of the tour and of De Gregori's superb Italian adaptation of the song written and recorded by Steve Goodman and later made a hit by Jimmy Buffett in 1977. A melancholy ballad, sung as a duet, in which a marginal, desperate America once again surfaces, sick with loneliness and nostalgia:

⟦Q1⟧

Dalla's last doubts dissolve during a conversation with his friend Gianfranco Baldazzi: “'It's going to be a huge success' — the latter recalls telling him without hesitation. 'It'll do Francesco a lot of good, but it'll do you even more good... It'll send you into orbit. Francesco will lend you the one thing you don't have: his charm.' 'But you know how good Francesco is on stage, and besides, he's... a prince,' Dalla replies. 'Yes, but you're a magician, and you're even more of a tart. Either way, you two are going to have a great time,' his friend concludes.”
While the two leading men finish rehearsing in Rimini, a supergroup takes shape to back them: Ron handling the arrangements, plus the entire future nucleus of Stadio, who were backing Dalla at the time — namely Ricky Portera on guitar, Marco Nanni on bass, Giovanni Pezzoli on drums, Gaetano Curreri and Fabio Liberatori on keyboards — while De Gregori brings along George Sims on guitar and Franco Di Stefano on drums.
But beyond this extraordinary “cast”, which gives an unusual rock energy to Italian songwriting, the tour will also go down in history for its sheer scale: a huge stage, set up directly by RCA, unleashing 40,000 watts of firepower. And the audience is no less impressive: the great arenas and stadiums, always packed. A different kind of audience too, varied and cutting across categories, no longer made up solely of young people, music lovers and fans, but of entire families.
Never before had two songwriters of this calibre performed together. And it's no exaggeration to say that with “Banana Republic”, the era of great mass concerts was reborn in Italy, after the years of protest. De Gregori also describes how, during that tour — “therapeutic” for him — his famous reserve toward audiences finally melted away: “I remember one evening, we'd just finished a concert, I had turned around to sort out the amplifier, or maybe put the guitar away, and then I turned back and saw thousands and thousands of lit matches, and it was beautiful.”

An Italian road movie

The father of all stadium-filling blockbuster tours kicks off in Savona on 16 June 1979 and packs stands across half of Italy: Genoa's Luigi Ferraris, Turin's Comunale, Naples' San Paolo, Rome's Flaminio, Cagliari's Sant'Elia, where it will close shop a month and a half later, on 28 July.
In a kind of epic Italian road movie, the two (though it might be more accurate to say three, since the presence of Ron is anything but marginal) put together a genuine show, fed by gags, plot twists, improvisations. The diminutive Dalla is the stage clown, the crowd-charmer, but also the more "musicianly" of the two: he juggles sax, piano and clarinet when he has to back up his more disciplined partner-in-crime, seven years younger and several inches taller, who in turn supports him on guitar and percussion whenever he hands over the microphone. Even the way the two voices trade off - Dalla's rough, full-blooded one, with its unmistakable Bolognese accent, against De Gregori's more veiled, softer one, with its barely-there drawling Roman inflection - sparks the magic.

It's the jingle of the triangle opening "Banana Republic" that sets the tone for every show. Then the classics take turns. Naturally there's "Pablo", which Dalla fleshes out on sax and piano, giving it a more layered coat. Or "Bufalo Bill", also reinvigorated, thanks to Portera's cutting electric feedback. "Niente da capire", on the other hand, stays barer, in its acoustic dress, just lightly embellished by a few jazzy flourishes from Dalla on clarinet. On "Quattro cani" Dalla handles the backing vocals, while for "Santa Lucia", the Prince's favourite of his own songs, he leaves him alone, to brood in that abyss of melancholy.
Dalla of course has his own warhorses too, from "Anna e Marco" to "4 marzo 1943", by way of "Piazza Grande".
But there's no promotional purpose behind the pair's intentions. Certainly not in De Gregori's, who even forgoes performing tracks from his latest, self-titled album, released a year earlier (save for the odd sporadic rendition of "Natale" and "L'impiccato") and from the one that would come out just months after the tour, namely "Viva l'Italy" (the title track and "Gesù Bambino" will crop up only in a handful of shows, and will in any case be left off the final tracklist of the "Banana Republic" album).

The setlists also make room for a few covers, such as Paolo Conte's "Gelato al limon", which will prompt the Avvocato himself to quip "You've only left me the title", and will also end up on the record, while a cover of Jackson Browne's "The Road", translated by Dalla, will morph into one of Ron's great anthems, "Una città per cantare", with De Gregori taking the lead in the chorus verse. The grand finale, meanwhile, is always an eccentric medley of an a cappella "Addio mia bella Napoli" fading into the choral "Ma come fanno i marinai", which never fails to set the audience ablaze.
The "Banana Republic" tour isn't just the phenomenon of the summer, it's one of the greatest events in the history of Italian music. Dalla and De Gregori ferry the singer-songwriter tradition from the elites to the masses, joyfully dissolving that ideological shroud in which they themselves had become entangled. Both of them, in fact, despite their declared allegiance to the left-wing archipelago, had repeatedly been accused of betraying the cause of militant singer-songwriting by selling out to the music business. Nor were they alone: international heavyweights too, such as Led Zeppelin, Chicago, Lou Reed, Santana, had been forced to cut their shows short, under a hail of molotov cocktails and tear gas. As a result, Italy had been cut off the map of major world tours.

"Banana Republic", then, reopens the door to live music: it's no coincidence that Patti Smith returns to Italy that very September of 1979. But it isn't just a musical matter. The mainstream press notices too, devoting articles and cover stories to the event. Including Italy's most important weekly magazine. L'Espresso's editor, Livio Zanetti, and his finest reporter, Giorgio Bocca, turn up in Pescara ahead of a show. But the interview with the most celebrated musical duo of the moment proves far more complicated than expected. Giorgio Lo Cascio tells the story like this: "When the two journalists arrive, the stadium is still empty. Lucio and Francesco are sitting on two separate benches. When the blue car pulls up, Lucio stands up, walks over to them and immediately addresses Giorgio Bocca: 'Dear Giorgio, do you remember me? I phoned you two years ago about the Bologna events: I wanted to talk to you about the Bologna events, but you replied that you didn't know who I was and that you had urgent things to do!'. Bocca is caught off guard and Zanetti steps in to mediate, since he's keen for the piece to get written". Only Dalla will end up on the cover, for a very simple reason: De Gregori had made it known that he had no intention whatsoever of giving that interview. It will perhaps be the most famous of his many "no"s. In truth, even backstage on the tour there's no shortage of sparks, with good old Ron often playing peacemaker. Stress and tension pile up, show after show. Sims, for instance, clashes with Dalla and leaves the company.

The live album

But despite everything, the "Banana Republic" ship sails on. And by the time it reaches its final port of call in Cagliari, it has already become a record, mixed by veteran producer Alessandro Colombini at Rca's studios in Rome. With a genuinely rather slim tracklist, drawn from just three dates: Brescia, Verona and Bologna. Only ten tracks make it onto vinyl: "Banana Republic", "Gelato al limon", "La canzone di Orlando", "Bufalo Bill", "Piazza Grande", "4/3/1943", "Santa Lucia", "Quattro cani", "Addio a Napoli" and "Ma come fanno i marinai".
Either way, the album sells 400,000 copies, becoming the second-best-selling Italian record of 1979, right behind Lucio Dalla's own self-titled solo album. That run of concerts up and down the peninsula will also spawn a concert film, a rarity for the time, directed by Ottavio Fabbri and produced by Vides. With Dalla as the undisputed leading man. "The difference between me and Dalla does exist, it's true", De Gregori will later admit, "Lucio sings four more songs. But I understand why. In the editing room there was a push to energise the film, and Lucio on stage is a burst of energy. I do quieter songs".

But the theory of a De Gregori once again relegated to the background by his more exuberant companion doesn't really hold up this time. The tour is a two-way exchange, of banter, ideas and musical instincts. As well as, of course, the product of a genuine friendship, as comes through in the famous letter sent by the Prince (a nickname seemingly pinned on him by Dalla himself, and one he's never quite warmed to) to his Bolognese partner-in-crime.

Dear Lucio,
you are without doubt the friend, the singer, that I love and admire most of all. And that much is known; it's already been said. What perhaps isn't known is that I've "taken" a great deal from you, artistically and humanly; I've copied from you, you're the only artist who's taught me so many things: I don't rule out that you may have done the same with me, in the past, after all you keep showing me your esteem, every day we work together in the recording studio... And that makes me happy, it boosts my drive, my energy during the creative process, which you know how wonderful and hard it is, how delicate and full of doubts.
It's true, we're very alike: we're both unpredictable, it's very hard to foresee even half an hour ahead; I am, perhaps, apparently more rational than you, less available, less kind, less sweet and affectionate than you... But that depends, besides my character, also on a very deliberate choice: I defend myself in advance, I've built an invisible wall of protection around my intimacy; you, on the other hand, don't need to defend yourself, you're a street kid, used to constant clashing as much as to constant encounter. And yet the results are the same in the end: the same unpunctuality, the same deadlines not always honoured, the impossibility of planning, I won't say a year ahead, but not even a single day.
You're eight years older than me, but you're much younger, more inexperienced, more defenceless, more clueless than me. You're a small, hairy man, I'm tall with a little less hair; even when we're temporarily apart, somehow, we keep communicating, I don't know how, we keep copying each other: even at a distance we find a constant correspondence in our work. And so we keep working together, creating together, without planning, because we're incapable of it, leaving everything to chance, as has been the case until now. Our "Marinai" (people probably don't believe this) was born over lunch, when, after coffee, we started playing together... Shortly after, I was writing something; the next day, you came back and we finished the song! On stage we even improvised "4-3-1943", having fun and making others have fun... It's too wonderful, Lucio, to sing the same song together, let's keep going, let's see "cosa sarà", together. And meanwhile Lucio, I agree with you - long live the song - but today also - long live the song for two!".
Yours, Francesco

Splitting up out of friendship

It's precisely in the name of this friendship, paradoxically, that the two part ways. Perhaps so as not to give up their respective identities. Perhaps so as not to become that "song-spewing machine for two round eyes like two-hundred-lira coins" evoked by Dalla in one of his most beautiful and least known songs, "Madonna Disperazione".
No, the two can't become the Italian Simon & Garfunkel, because it would cost "too much effort, financially, psychologically, musically", as they explain in the "Banana Republic" film. There will always be a city to sing in, in other words, but never again together. Except once: "After touring together we made a pact, we'd never do a revival, to avoid the sadness of being has-beens", Dalla recounts, "But when De Gregori came to sing at Turin's Palasport, backed by Ron, I decided to play a prank on him. I had myself shut inside a wooden crate where I stayed like a fakir for about twenty minutes, then on the intro of 'Cosa sarà' I jumped out with the sax and he was left there gobsmacked".

From then on, Dalla and De Gregori practically never shared a stage again for many years. With one exception: the concert of 31 December 1997, in Assisi. It's the Notte degli Angeli, in aid of the populations hit by the earthquake in Umbria, broadcast live on Raiuno to mark New Year's Eve. They perform with roles reversed: Dalla sings "La donna cannone" and plays sax on "Pablo", De Gregori answers with "Tutta la vita". Then, the classic duet of "Cosa sarà". But it ends there, without any particular involvement or enthusiasm.
The two carry on with their respective artistic paths at a strict safe distance. Indeed, a false legend even takes hold that bad blood has come between them. But as in all good stories, a final plot twist can always be lurking. Even without any real announcement.

The Work In Progress reunion

The spark is reignited by a show directed by Lucio Dalla in Piazza Castello, in Solferino, commemorating the battle of the Risorgimento with texts by Roberto Roversi, recited by Marco Alemanno. It's June 24, 2009, and, if the numbers don't deceive, it might not be a coincidence. Because exactly thirty years have passed since the opening night of "Banana Republic". For the occasion, Dalla has invited De Gregori to sing some of his songs tied to Italy's history. On stage, the two size each other up, reconnect, and get emotional. In the end, they sing an intense "Santa Lucia" together. It seems to end there, but curiosity grows, despite a heap of suspicion and wariness.
Times have changed. And in the internet age, all it takes is a few lines posted on an online ticket-selling site (TicketOne) to announce a sensational comeback, thirty-one years in the making. On the calendar, January 22, 2010, is scheduled exactly that: a live performance by Francesco De Gregori and Lucio Dalla at Vox Club in Nonantola, a small venue near Modena. Nothing like the gigantism of the 1979 blockbuster. Yet there's a sense that this duo performance could be the prelude to a new tour. Even the title chosen for the night at the Vox, "Work in progress", invites the suspicion that it's something more than an impromptu musical reunion between friends.

At 9pm De Gregori steps on stage, in a grey cap and blue hooded sweatshirt, and Dalla, in a dark-striped havana pinstripe jacket over a polo shirt. A soft start, with the Prince on Dylan-esque harmonica, the little man on clarinet and a piano backing them: they strike up an instrumental, touching rendition of "Over The Rainbow" (a 1940s song made famous by Judy Garland's voice, as well as a historic gay anthem) and the anticipation dissolves into a long round of applause. An audience of old and new fans: there's even someone who, back in the days of "Banana Republic", hadn't yet been born.
Then the dive into the past: "Ma come fanno i marinai" still has them having fun. But it isn't a tired repeat of the script from thirty-one years earlier. No nostalgia-trip, no reliving past glories, just the feeling of walking into a rehearsal room, where two old friends are enjoying playing together again. Perhaps digging up overlooked gems, like "I matti", the aching fragment from the album "Terra di nessuno", or a version of "L'agnello di Dio" enriched by Dalla's sax incursions. Or again a vibrant "I muscoli del capitano", with the chords of the folk song "Il tragico naufragio della nave Sirio" blending with the chorus of "Que sera, sera", testament to a rapport and a playfulness rediscovered between the two.

Dalla dusts off "Piazza Grande", "Anna e Marco", "Tutta la vita", "Canzone". De Gregori plunges into the depths of "How Deep Is the Sea", proving an ever more mature interpreter, then brings back his own classics such as "Viva l'Italy", "I muscoli del capitano" and "Buonanotte fiorellino", the latter in a new (and questionable) shuffle version. Nor could the one song everyone was certain would be played be missing, "Santa Lucia", which Dalla introduces by once again confessing his envy at not having written it himself.
Closing out the night at the Vox, the two encores: the unreleased "Non basta saper cantare" and a thorough classic, "4 marzo 1943". And above all there's the announcement everyone was waiting for: a new run of concerts, in theatres, up and down Italy, with the "Duemiladieci Work in Progress Tour". "I can't stand De Gregori", Dalla jokes, "but I don't mind playing with him. Besides, I've never heard him sing as well as he does now. So, even though I can't stand him, we'll probably do more things together".

The two move through each other's songs with total ease. And they often play around, swapping roles on stage and tackling with lightness and irony even evergreens like "Just A Gigolo", turned into a hilarious duet. They also seem more willing to talk about themselves, to share a few juicy anecdotes, to open up to the audience. The "Work in Progress Tour", born almost by chance, seems instead to have no intention of ever ending: after a remarkable run of sold-out shows, the two embark on a long string of summer and autumn dates. Playing together in the evening, then each heading home on their own, confirming two wildly different personalities that, precisely for that reason, complement each other. "It's not a celebration, but a show of youthfulness", explains De Gregori. "Ours is a game of roles in which we have an absolute blast, maybe more than the people listening to us", adds Dalla. "Since the '79 'Banana Republic' tour we've both improved, matured, and yet the curiosity about each other's different way of seeing things has stayed the same". Asked what's changed since those days, Dalla answers with a touch of nostalgia. "In '79 the situation was turbulent, but there was vitality. Our choice was a bold one, we opened up the stadiums to the wider public. Today I miss the curiosity there was back then, I see everyone looking a bit the same now... but that's the only thing, for me the past is a blur. Singing each other's songs, I think, is a game that the audience enjoys too: it's like stepping into the other's soul and mind, and then knowing that together we step into people's hearts. Even the songs that sold less well, when performed together, become extraordinary songs for us". "What I admire in Dalla", De Gregori confesses, "is his innate and boundless musical ability". And Dalla: "What I envy in him is the purity of his musical vision, a gift for synthesis that's rare even among the great classic songwriters".

The two friends decide to carry on their adventure onstage all the way through the spring of 2011, closing out 2010 with a double live CD titled, fittingly, “Work In Progress”, plus a DVD, “Back To Back”, featuring about an hour of backstage footage and interviews.
The record seals the renewed rapport between the two onstage, where each sings the other's songs, with the exception of “Caruso” and “La donna cannone”, too personal to lend themselves to the “swap”. Then there are the duets, often the most enjoyable moments, above all a poignant “Santa Lucia”, a rousing “Nuvolari” and a playful “Disperato erotico stomp”. Twenty-nine live tracks and two unreleased songs: the travel invitation of “Gran Turismo” and “Non basta saper cantare”, a lovely old-style piano ballad, plus the studio version of “Generale” and a cover of “Just A Gigolò (Solo un gigolò)”. Plenty of classics, drawn from the best of both men's repertoires. Not a nostalgia operation, nor merely a promotional product, either, as shown precisely by the absence of tracks from their most recent albums. Just the sincere, good-humored testimony of two giants of Italian singer-songwriter music, still willing to put themselves on the line after forty years of honorable careers.

Then, the sudden death of Lucio Dalla (March 1, 2012) would bring the curtain down forever on one of the most fortunate partnerships in Italian singer-songwriter music. A decisive encounter. For them, and for all of us.

(Excerpts from “Between the light pages and the dark pages”, Arcana, 2011)

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