Enzo Jannacci
O vivere o ridere

Album not yet reviewed—I'm diving in headfirst. Besides, it’s Jannacci; I simply can't abstain.

Between two masterpieces, "Quelli che" (1975, perhaps the peak of Jannacci’s artistry) and "Foto Ricordo" (1979), a couple of albums were released that are unfairly considered minor works: one is this one, from 1976, the other is "Secondo te... che gusto c'è?" (1977), which is, admittedly, a bit less inspired. But this one, on the other hand, is something else: it was released, like its predecessor, under the Ultima Spiaggia label, a record company founded in 1974 by Ricky Gianco (a giant whose greatness one day will have to be acknowledged) and Nanni Ricordi. The two made an arrangement with RCA and released albums by, indeed, Jannacci, as well as Lolli, Riondino, Manfredi, and even Ivan Cattaneo. Like all good things, it didn’t last long, and in 1979 it shut down.

"O vivere o ridere," recorded in June 1976, apart from a couple of minor episodes, is a fantastic record: Jannacci is in dazzling form, tossing out, almost haphazardly, pearls of exquisite craftsmanship—including the title-track. In those years, Jannacci is everywhere: radio, TV, cinema. He’s one of the most active, especially in that last field, cinema. He penned the soundtracks for some of the decade’s most famous films, the masterpiece "Romanzo popolare" by Monicelli (you’d need a dissertation to truly explain it, especially to someone who isn’t from Milan, or Lombardy at the very least) and the remarkable "Pasqualino Settebellezze" by Lina Wertmuller, a box-office triumph and an unexpected international hit (it was even nominated for the Oscars: the film, not Jannacci). If the first movie revolved entirely around Vincenzina and the factory, the second features the famous "Tira a campà," among the highlights of Jannacci’s ‘70s—so ironic, so entertaining, and, underneath it all, so melancholy (and a song that will mark Via Chiatamone in Naples for history).

An album that features, as co-writers, Dario Fo and Beppe Viola, and with Tullio De Piscopo on drums, could only be a great record. The title-track references the famous "Vivere", the historic hit from the Fascist era (1937) by Cesare Andrea Bixio (a bit of a genius; among other songs, he wrote "Tango delle capinere", "Parlami d’amore Mariù", "Mamma", "Violino tzigano")—twisting its meaning and poking fun at all that hearts-and-love genre music that, even in the ‘70s, was still rampant. “Perché la vita è bella e la voglio vivere sempre più," as the original went, becomes in Jannacci’s version "perché la vita è bella e la voglia vivere senza tu." A man, finally happy, without a woman (Zucchero will forgive), alone, free, and that wonderful shout: "C’è il banjo! C’è il banjo!"

Just as with "Foto Ricordo" where the familiar poor devil “Mario” is portrayed, here it’s "La storia del mago," six magnificent minutes of a bitter life made of "5 palle, una lira", neon lights, bone-chilling cold, and the wheel that turns—or rather, should turn, but doesn’t. "La storia del mago" even lent its name to a lavish (and fairly pricey) 8-CD boxset, released about a decade ago, which retraced the “multiple lives” of Jannacci through his songs in a (nearly) monothematic way (and yes, I own it). The history of Milanese music features two magicians: this one, and Cerutti.

I go literally crazy for the non-sense of "Rido" ("rido cado nel sugo e rido, perdo un cognato e rido; rido son sempre in rosso e rido, faccio la fuga e rido"), with a formidable rhythm that holds it all up (basically the same literary trick later used in the legendary "Silvano")—contrasted by the next song, which closes the album, "Quando il sipario", a heap of melancholy and a sweet piano tenderly caressed by Jannacci himself with unquestioned affinity. There’s even room for two tracks, each more fun than the other: "Per la moto non si dà" (written by Dario Fo), and let me warn you, watch out if your moped doesn’t have a brand (those who know the song will get it), and "Senza i dané", a (semi-)nursery rhyme where, essentially, it’s stated that without money you go nowhere (and you can’t even buy Bettega). The latter features Massimo Boldi, back when he was still part of Jannacci’s circle—Cochi and Renato, and that marvelous world: more or less a dry run for "Zan zan le belle rane" (and how beautiful was "Zan Zan le belle rane"?).

A couple of tracks, as mentioned, don’t quite measure up, including the rambling "Dagalterun fandango", but these are minor details; this album is among the most joyful, fun, inspired and well-played in Jannacci’s vast discography and, perhaps, after all these years, even the most hard-line critics might reconsider their previously unthinkable verdict. And here’s good news: almost the entirety of Jannacci’s albums have never been released on CD, apart from a few rather disrespectful compilations, but the four albums released under the Ultima Spiaggia label are all, and I mean all, available on CD as well. Better to have a little (very little, alas) than nothing at all.