Francesco De Gregori

Although he himself has recently said he dislikes the label, to this day Francesco De Gregori – more than Paolo Conte or Fabrizio De André – embodies the prototype of the "Italian singer-songwriter," thanks to his way of writing and performing songs with lyrics rich in metaphors that are never out of place, indeed often striking in their precision, set to music that stays in the background yet remains original and complex, even while relying almost exclusively on traditional instruments.

The years leading up to this album were the most fertile of De Gregori's entire songwriting career, yielding three-and-a-half records ("Theorius Campus", the first, shared with Antonello Venditti) – records (especially the first two and a half) that are deeply adolescent, yet already fully formed, intense, personal. Running through them is De Gregori's palpable, unmistakable stance: without much fanfare, he systematically refuses to compromise with the record industry or with popular taste.

In those years it became fashionable to brand him "hermetic", precisely because of his mysterious lyrics, with Marianna walking with the sun in her hair, clinging to a tinfoil paradise ("Marianna al bivio", 1973), and with Alice unable to make sense of all the chaos around her.

Though he despised the critics' superficiality, De Gregori didn't let it rattle him, and in 1974 he released his most personal, intimate album, titled "Francesco De Gregori" – the one with the sheep, or goat, on the cover. On this record, he first laconically stated that in his songs "there is nothing to understand", then let the wings of his introspective imagination roam free in compositions even more enigmatic than before, damnably beautiful, yet evidence of a commercially suicidal move.

The following year came "Rimmel", which turned him into a star of Italian pop music, probably without him ever wishing for anything of the sort.

One has to go back to 1975 to grasp just how hard it was for the Prince to record a follow-up to "Rimmel" without upending his art or slipping into repetition. De Gregori would later confess: "'Bufalo Bill' is my cross to bear and my delight: if I could, I'd probably redo it, taking greater care with the sounds and the arrangements. I made it that way, bare and essential, to punish myself for having made 'Rimmel', which had sold too much... it was madness!"

The fact remains that the record is superb, inspired, revolutionary (yes, revolutionary) in its search for harmonies and for lyrics that approach their subjects elliptically, using metaphors that are as evocative as they are mathematically precise. And moreover – an aspect few have noticed, contrary to what the author is often criticized for – it is tight and clean in its sound, and this was 1976.

Compared to earlier songs, these ones, more intense and personal, take on an extraordinary clarity and expressive breadth, along with an ability to carry the listener toward impalpable, indescribable suggestions (as happens in "Atlantide" and "Ninetto e la colonia"), just as the voice, perfectly pitched with its slightly nasal quality, is at times almost unrecognizable compared to previous records. The use of piano alongside guitar, already tried out on "Rimmel", here achieves even greater coordination and harmony.

The opener itself, "Bufalo Bill", inspired by Sam Peckinpah's film "The Ballad of Cable Hogue", stands as the flag-bearer of De Gregori's transformation, of the shifting of his imaginative spaces: the melancholy metaphor of America's opening horizons (later revealed to be counterproductive) toward the distant West is rendered through splendid music – underpinned at first by a muted cascade of piano, later joined and gently overtaken by the guitar, and finally left solitary in an elegant conclusion – and through lyrics that move in broad images. The song also rejects the pop convention of the chorus.

“Giovane esploratore Tobia” – written in collaboration with Lucio Dalla – is pleasant enough but musically negligible; what's more intriguing is the lyric, a portrait of an apathetic boy-scout. De Gregori would later say: “What's frightening about young scouts is their inconclusiveness; they learn to light fires (…). I turned the scout into an emblem (…) the one who has to do his good deed every day (…) Tobia is basically someone who dreams, who has serious issues behind him from a clean, precise, lonely, probably neurotic childhood, and does these predictable things”.

“L’uccisione di Babbo Natale”, by De Gregori's own admission, is his only “amoral” song; it tells of the end of childhood and the illusions tied to it (or perhaps of the fake bourgeois who rebels and, together with the proletarian woman, kills the bourgeoisie, only to return to her afterwards?) with a splendid lyric, in which the Roman singer-songwriter confirms his full skill at firing off messages that are barely stated yet cutting and far-reaching, all wrapped in a fable-like atmosphere.

“Disastro aereo sul canale di Sicilia” is a masterpiece of political foresight (“It's also clear/ even amid the climate of détente/ that any attack on the Arab countries/ would put Italy right on the front line”), melodic skill (the music is gorgeous, in constant emotional crescendo), and lyrical craft (“And the widow factory/ flew on/ alone, like a bird of prey/ The sea/ was a blue table/ by now Africa was already closer”).

In the enigmatic “Ninetto e la colonia” the sound turns more rhythmic and the lyric is inspired, hermetic (fittingly enough...), with likely echoes of Garcia Marquez's novels (“And beneath a backdrop of stars/ the company's employees/ stole all the fruit from the trees/ and carried it away”).

But it's with “Atlantide” that the album reaches its peak. Melancholy words, yet gently detached, and disarming phrases that are hard to forget: (“He now lives in Atlantis/ with a hat full of memories/ he has the face of someone who has understood/ and also a hint of sadness deep in his soul/ he hides a desperate can of beer under the bed/ and sometimes thinks he's a hero”). Piano and guitar weave a sweet sonic tapestry, dispensing intense dreamlike, underwater suggestions.

One risks becoming repetitive and cloyingly generous describing this album, but the following tracks – “Ipercarmela”, “Ultimo discorso registrato”, “Festival” (dedicated to the death of Luigi Tenco and above all to the bleak circumstances surrounding it) – are also, unmistakably, beautiful songs.

The closing “Santa Lucia” is a gorgeous piano-and-voice piece, a secular prayer sustained by sincere, immense lines (“Santa Lucia/ the violin of the poor/ is a broken-down boat/ and a boy on the second floor/ who sings, laughs and sings off-key/ because he comes from far away/ may the rain in his shoes/ and the loneliness too/ be sweet to him”). The melody is among the catchiest and most moving on the album, while staying well clear of the banal and the saccharine. Lucio Dalla would simply call it “Francesco's most beautiful song”.

De Gregori's maturity and his consistency (or rather his unchanged approach to filtering reality and emotion) are magnificently expressed on this album, the most complete in his entire body of work.

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12/01/2008