Fabrizio De André
Creuza de mä

THE REVIEW

The lyrics of this latest masterpiece by Fabrizio De André are entirely in Genoese, a peculiar language with drawn-out Portuguese sounds, also rich in vocabulary of Arabic origin. Without a proper translation at hand, you truly wouldn't understand a "belin." But the music almost entirely overcomes this obstacle: this time the excellent collaborator is Mauro Pagani, former P.F.M. The result is an "ethnic" album in the best sense of the word, inspired not so much by Genoa itself, but by the Mediterranean in general, anticipating the trends of the '90s. A Turkish flute introduces "Creuza de ma" (literally "sea path," or narrow road between two walls), a depiction of life in a place that could be the old Genoa or any Ligurian fishing village, crossed by people always destined yet condemned to travel by sea, skeptically observing the vacationers, "people from Lugano with faces of pickpockets."

It's a Liguria of another time, not yet a giant holiday village: you can still hear the voices of the fish market, tying the ending to the next song, "Jamin-a," a bold portrait of a warm and generous "dark-skinned she-wolf, sultana of the wenches," a not-so-forbidden dream of sailors. Here, the Genoese disguises very "hard" expressions, as they say, and the music becomes rhythmic and oriental. It brings us dramatically to the news with "Sidun," the desolate lament of a father of a Palestinian child brutally killed by Israeli soldiers, aiming to prevent anything Palestinian from growing, "neither tree, nor wheat, nor child." It's the most touching moment of the album, and the pathos is extremely high, also thanks to the metallic and desperate sound of a bouzouki (a type of Greek mandolin) and the final chorus, symbolizing an endless tragedy.

"Sinan Capudàn Pascià" is a true story of a Genoese sailor captured by the Turks in the 15th century, who, after saving the Sultan's life, was appointed Grand Vizier, not wanting to be considered a renegade for this. In the ancient Genoa are set "A pittima," a truly existent figure of a debt collector, who seems to apologize for his trade ("what can I do if I don't have the arms of a sailor, if I don't have the hands of a mason...?"), and "A dumenega," a festive carousel of prostitutes who on Sundays were allowed to leave the brothels, bringing chaos and vibrancy to the streets, with the Municipality's consent (their earnings financed the harbor's pier). As in "Jamin-a," the language is not Oxfordian, but after all, it's in Genoese. It closes with "Da a me riva," a moment of nostalgia from a sailor from who knows where (but certainly at sea) thinking of distant Genoa. Listening to this album makes you want to see the sea, but possibly not "between the ice creams and the flags" like in Rimini.