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Rating:
With Battisti, the greatest ever in Italy. An opinion undoubtedly debatable but at the same time unwavering. At least in my mind.
I am connected to De André for reasons beyond the mere musical field, and the review you are about to read is not the result of a purely objective judgment.
There is nothing left to do but begin.
This album came into my hands about three years ago while rummaging in the attic. After a quick dusting off of the cover, I was unaware that I was about to listen to a masterpiece that would irreversibly define my musical tastes.
Play...
The words of the lyrics form in my mind, creating a thought with boundaries not explicitly defined but perfect. A poet capable of making words and sounds an art.
Behind his music lies the desire to tell stories of dreamers, lovers, free men. Everyday tales, born from an intimate relationship with life itself. It’s the daily experience and human relationships that dictate the nuances and accents with which to animate all this.
The voice always rises to a plane of superiority over the melody. And the instrumental accompaniment would want nothing else. Few chords, arpeggios, or notes of a neurotic piano blend brilliantly with sought-after rustles, noises, and silences.
If Iko thinks Ziggy is a state of mind, De André and his music constitute, for me, an even broader and indefinite criterion. They are those canons in which that subject who nonconformistically tries to distance themselves from reality can reflect and abandon themselves, with the certainty of not being disappointed. The set of those laws that allow understanding freedom and the superiority of being human and accepting peacefully its undeniable finiteness.
Even if in my head ideas develop that could fill pages upon pages, an inexplicable impulse from the deepest subconscious halts these fingers.
As Faber would like, each to their own faculty of choice: emotions, thoughts, life...
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