Fabrizio De André
Tutti morimmo a stento

Warning - duplicate incoming. If you're spinning your wheels now, it's my fault, I know.
Sorry. Give low ratings, I don't really care. I'm humble enough,
calm, and unfortunately destroyed. You can do whatever you want. Thanks.

Well, saying I'm tired of living is an understatement; always the same old story.
The alarm clock rings in the morning when not even the damn rooster's crow echoes in the foggy tumult of the sky,
work hours that are almost impossible, commitments you'd avoid with much more happiness than a brain operation; Oh yes,
because nowadays in the press of society we're all in it, everyone indeed. Some differentiate themselves, they have their own ideas.
But always within the press.

And then what sense does it make to open one eye, then open the other while we're at it, to see what?
The open window now offers me nothing but the ephemeral beauty of the Venice lagoon,
and I drink my glass of red wine with a bitter glance; living, why?

If I had to choose an album that represents me, first I'd stay quiet for a few minutes,
then I'd pull out the dusty "Blonde On Blonde" by Dylan from the luggage; if I had to choose the
song that represents me best, I'd say without hesitation, always and still, "Lieber Honig" by Neu!

The voice that is nothing but the pinnacle of desperation a man can reach.
Sighs and voices drawn, ripped from the throat like laments.

But then I remember this album, "Tutti Morimmo A Stento", encapsulated in my memories of another life, trapped
in my ancient adolescent dreams, split in two by my desire to smile. I never made it.
I've always remained at the point where you find yourself with three, I say three,  teeth sticking out and twisted lips.
More than a smile, a Mario Bava film.

There, because "Cantico Dei Drogati" is engraved in my veins.
The text carved in capital letters on every blank sheet I see. The memories it sends
back as pulses to the brain, the pain I've experienced in my past experiences.
Everything resurfaces, remaining incomprehensible. Arcane is everything, except our pain.

Quoting would be futile. Quoting would be harmful. Quoting would be an offense.
Just listen and nothing else; close those two eyes you have, accustomed to the daily filth.
Close those two eyes and listen to His Voice.

The desolation of the songs is unmatched. Enriched by his majestic irony, his sarcasm, his poetic genius,
his Voice that is on par with that of death that called him before his time, De André sets aside sweetness and leaves you like this,
alone, with those two bitter guitar chords, only to mind your own business, trying to make you understand that in the end, great joys are
as ephemeral as the water that flows perpetually in the river.  

The lyrics inspired by Villon are not simple lyrics, but poems. Like a book, that when you open it begins
softly to send you the music of the "Leggenda Di Natale", the blissful unawareness of a child,
the two black eyes of the bad one; the tragedy transformed into anxiety, desolation (apologies for the repetition), and finally,
resignation.

Then, death. The denunciation of souls too sensitive to act alone.
Those poor souls, all with hollow faces and hands covered with wrinkles.
Like broom plants on the sides of roads, alone, desolate. "La Ballata Degli Impiccati",
the curse thrown by those who were never alive.

Indeed, making sense of this life is tough.
Only love will save us.
Worthy banal conclusion (but true as fire, water, and earth) for my thoughts on...on what?

"Philosophizing is just another way of being afraid"



Unusually clear this time?