Fabrizio De André
Non Al Denaro, Non All'Amore Nè Al Cielo

It would be enough to paraphrase, reminding retailers in the category, the last lyric in the first song: "Tu che lo vendi, cosa ti compri, di migliore..." Without a doubt the most majestic work of that Fabrizio De Andrè who insisted on leaving us before his time. How many nights have we suffered his irrevocably painful absence, how many of us have felt the pang of his irreplaceable loss. Without any hint of cynicism, and especially without any malice (far be it from me), I hope many because such an absence cannot go unnoticed. De Andrè was, first, one of the greatest writers of the 20th century and then one of the greatest singer-songwriters, without a shadow of a doubt.

"Non al denaro, non all'amore né al cielo" is a sacred testimony to this. I ask myself, as a common mortal, as always, how one can reconcile the most refined poetry with a type of music perfectly constructed on the harmony of the spoken words. I believe that it's impossible to even imitate a genius like Fabrizio De Andrè, not only for his poetic vein second only to a few established writers but also for the low yet practical nasal voice, for the guttural arches in some songs, for the wisdom used in stringing together metaphors, for the fifteen million cigarettes crusted in his lungs, for the wonderfully rhymed stanzas, for the sanguine depth molded on intense themes, for the subtle simplicity of less demanding themes, and still more...

The work in question is freely adapted from the anthology by Edgar Lee Masters, based on characters common to the touch but intensely introspective through more careful analysis. Of the unknown that sings the funeral deeds of characters visible daily, passing through history always plagued by ignoble and useless wars. Of the village madman known and humorously mocked by the rest of the town, surely happier living in his colorful world than in the bleak material world that will irreversibly snatch him away from life. Of the violent teaching, for those unaware, that one must always somehow fear the person standing in front of us, especially if it's a dwarf who can apparently pique interest on the demotic common place of potentially satisfying dimensions of the reproductive organ. Serious trouble if he were to flaunt a significant toga earned with the relentless rhythm of hatred towards the executioner. In his death, divine justice will be superior. Of the heretic who denies the existence of God and tells it aloud, ending up being slaughtered by potential falsifiers of the divine image, demons unaware of the violence sparked by any kind of extremism, even of religious nature. Of the poor cripple who suffers his compromising situation even in the simplest act of quenching his thirst. He will redeem with death the culmination of his ambitions, love.

Of the medical graduate who, if given the power, would heal anyone, forced instead to endure the violent cynicism derived from the vicious circle of professional and bureaucratic reality. Of the chemist, accustomed to studying the reaction of the elements available to him but disturbed by that annoyance called love that will lead him to unconscious self-destruction. Of the old player who, imbued with distilled ethyl alcohol, remembers what life generously gave him and violently took away, contenting himself with an ounce of drunkenness that he considers more important than any earthly good.

I would have skipped "Un ottico", and I did so because it deserves a separate discussion. It is Fabrizio De Andrè's absolute masterpiece. Starting from the accordion colored by sketches of salon orchestra air that confidently walks to an ephemeral pause that gives way to one of the greatest musical interludes ever written. The delirium of this accommodating shopkeeper's clients, characterized by the irregular overlapping of voices, made imposing by an iron electric guitar solo of excellent craftsmanship. Psychedelic, electronic, chaotic, brilliantly explosive mirages follow one after another in sharp blows from requests for ever more improbable but convincingly rooted artifacts. Until it flows into the delightful little orchestra, with a more confident timbre, that closes the piece satisfying all the patrons.

I would venture to say, without having to endure too many darts of Paridiana memory, that it is the greatest Italian light music album. The work of that Fabrizio De Andrè, a genius understandable to many but not to all, to be thanked for his works and, I feel compelled to say, not to be forgiven for leaving us too soon.