sentence

What cuckoo tastes.

I don't know, from my point of view, a great musician is someone who composes great songs, not someone who plays on autopilot. Anyway, it's all a matter of perspective.

Ahahahahaahahahahahahaahahahaha

Referring to my last comment, I say that De André was a poet, not someone who wrote poems.

It almost seems here that De André owes everything to De Gregori, when he has been nothing but his muse since the very beginning. But please.

"Fabrizio was impressed by my way of writing. He did nothing to assimilate me to himself: he let me run free, just as he did with himself. I was obviously fascinated by what he represented, but he was attracted to what I represented: hence there was no dominance from either of us. Certainly, each of us took something from the other. He was the son of a French and troubadour culture, I came from Dylan and the American model. Volume VIII was nonetheless an extraordinary experience; he was combative but generous, complicated to get along with but incredibly easy to love. Thirty years have passed, and time dulls memories, but one thing I remember well: when Fabrizio suggested that I write with him, it felt like a dream, I was on cloud nine. Then you get used to everything, and so, from the initial adoration, I began to see our collaboration as a normal thing, a shared commitment between two colleagues. But today, thinking back to having worked with him, I get chills."

@ degregorius -
The meeting with Fabrizio De André belongs to the repertoire of elective affinities. They are driven by each other not by the whims of chance, but by an automatic mechanism of destiny: "It was while listening to his records," says Francesco, "that I decided to write songs. There were many things that fascinated me in his records and in his attitudes: he was the first to give Italian song content that was not only, and not necessarily, romantic. Proving that the song could also be rugged, corrosive, realistic, poetic. Very musical but also narrative and, why not, political. Plus, he didn't go on TV, he didn't give interviews, he reluctantly endured the flashes of photographers and, even, he didn't do concerts: he refused the flattery of the music business and the rituals of professional singing that even the great masters, Paoli, Tenco, Bindi had to endure. He was our first truly underground artist, long before the term became fashionable." One day Francesco writes De André a letter vibrant with admiration, then he sends him his recordings and Alice has Fabrizio say, somewhat hyperbolically, "this is indeed a true talent; if I am high school, he is university."
De Gregori: "Fabrizio slept during the day and I slept at night. So we worked in shifts: during his sleepless nights, he would leave on the kitchen table before going to sleep the verses that had come to him during his wakefulness. And I, in the morning, would get up, find them, and continue them. Then in the evening when Fabrizio got up, we would discuss them together and the melodies would be born, spontaneously. Fabrizio was, moreover, an exceptional musician." In the end, there are four songs that will appear on the record, to which are added the three that each of them wrote alone: Le Storie di Ieri by De Gregori, and Fabrizio, Giugno '73 and Amico fragile, the self-portrait that, along with the "domenica delle salme," will remain his greatest poetic achievement.

"The funny thing is that everyone wants to hear me in concert. They have no idea of the pathetic experience that awaits them. They offer me outrageous sums: Sergio Bernardini even proposed a fee like Aznavour's, who is currently at the top of the payment scale. And every time I say no: just think of me on stage, before I even start, I would have already crapped myself. Then I call myself an idiot for turning down all that money." After years, he was convinced by Dario Fo and Nanni Ricordi to take the stage. "I already know I won't have fun," he says, "but I need the money. And maybe it's time to stop being the poor man's Leopardi, locked in my home library dreaming of the moon."
"I arrived on stage with my legs shaking," he recounted, "pumped full of whisky to combat the tachycardia, as Ferreri had advised me, who has a degree in veterinary medicine. I demanded a music stand for the lyrics: 'Benedetti Michelangeli,' they told me, 'plays from memory, without sheet music.' Well of course, I replied, I'm not Benedetti Michelangeli." Then he sat down, began, and it was a triumph.

5

Phenomenal.