Fabrizio De André
Canzoni

Any factory-farmed chicken fed by the record industry is required to churn out more or less one album a year, even if they are out of ideas. That must be their natural state, given that they have an army of managers, stylists, trend experts, PRs, and various parasites behind them, paid (handsomely) to think on their behalf. Think what, then? Certainly not to find some interesting musical cue, nor words that convey emotions, but only to organize the brainwashing necessary to capture the largest possible number of buyers. It's pointless to mention names, also because you risk offending the sensitivity of some innocent soul who insists on attributing artistic value to one of these "products." And then this week, anyone who wants will be able to verify their identity and the measure of their talent at that shiny national review called the Sanremo Festival. Much more interesting is to deal with what happens when an artist finds themselves out of ideas; that is, someone who goes beyond dozens of fads, looks, and Sanremos to endure over time, leaving a mark. It can happen to the best, so it has also happened to Fabrizio De André. More recently, the solution has been the most obvious, a long silence, but in 1974, after the controversies following the controversial masterpiece "Storia di un impiegato," the solution was this strange transitional album, deliberately understated even in its graphics, released with a title that couldn't be more neutral: "Canzoni."

It is a collection in which De André partly dusts off very old classics, already appeared on singles in the '60s, such as "Fila la lana," fantastic and medieval but also subtly anti-militarist, and "La città vecchia," a true fresco in the form of a waltz, in which you seem to have them there, before your eyes, the old Genoese alleys leading down to the port, and the humanity that populates them, miserable and corrupt, but authentic. Almost a small sample of the marginalized around the world, those "Anime salve" that thirty years later will be seen with the same spirit of brotherhood. But the core of the album is a series of masterful translations in which De André takes advantage of the momentary lack of inspiration to pay homage as best as he could to some of his masters. It starts with the Bob Dylan of "Desolation Row," which here is "Via della Povertà," an imaginary street, a nightmare backdrop for various characters, historical, symbolic or realistic, but all seen with a fierce detachment, typically Dylanian. Like little puppets who uselessly move in front of a fake backdrop, in the ten minutes of this ballad, Via della Povertà is walked by Hitler, Eliot, Pound, Einstein, Casanova, but also an endless number of deliberately insignificant figures. The translation is the result of collaboration with a then-emerging young man, Francesco De Gregori, who has always considered both De André and Dylan as his masters.

"Le passanti" is translated from Georges Brassens, an old chansonnier master almost entirely unknown in our country. Inside, there's the whole ruthless game of destiny, of lost opportunities, whose weight is felt more strongly "in moments of solitude, when the regret becomes a habit." It's then that we mourn every possible encounter, that instead did not happen and never will, with women barely known with whom maybe it was worth living a whole life. Thanks also to an adequate music, being moved is the least one can do. It doesn't seem like it, but from the same author is also the ironic "Morire per delle idee," where those who invite others to sacrifice themselves for ideals are depicted as ones who generally outlive "good old Methuselah," and thus "Let's die for ideas, yes, but a slow death..." Still from Brassens is "Delitto di paese," a story of a "modest murder," for which the two executors however feel such sincere remorse that they are eventually forgiven by God, much to the annoyance of some prickly bigot.

From the gloomy Leonard Cohen, great Canadian singer-songwriter, comes the beautiful "Suzanne," one of those indelible and at the same time mysterious female portraits, a kind of madwoman, a "different" one, a "harbor woman," yet capable of giving love with both hands to those in need. Even musically, it's a song of extraordinary beauty, infinitely melancholic, capable of disturbing the most sensitive souls, but probably also unsettling a little bit the hardest and most obtuse ones. Also from Cohen is "Giovanna d'Arco," a strong figure of a woman aware of being destined for sacrifice, in some ways similar to Maria from the "Buona novella," little Madonna and very much woman. It's true that this album is not entirely De André's own work, but even in translating, there's a way and a way, and these are beautiful songs even in a language with a metric not exactly easy like Italian.