Francesco De Gregori
La valigia dell'attore

Gregori’s '90s were good, but not amazing (which was inevitable after the masterpieces of the previous two decades, also due to changing social and political contexts). In fact, the classic Italian singer-songwriters (Guccini, De Gregori, Bennato, Dalla) somewhat suffered in the '90s: some sold a lot with less brilliant songs, others stuck to their unchanging style (with some obvious exceptions, including Fossati and De André, who remained at the top even during that decade).

De Gregori’s '90s are packed—overflowing, even—with live albums, maybe too many. The most substantial one, and perhaps the best (though not free from faults), is this 1997 release (amazingly, not yet reviewed here): it’s a hefty double CD totaling 136 minutes (2 hours and 16 minutes), spanning the whole career of the Roman songwriter through 29 tracks, including an unreleased (well, semi-unreleased) song and three covers (one of Dylan—of course!). Honestly, I hadn’t listened to it in ages (I’m a hardcore De Gregori fan; my first “serious” CD, that wasn’t just pop songs from the '90s, was “Rimmel”, already 25 years old when I got it; and during my high school days, I bought everything De Gregori released, so I have all the excuses in the world).

I listened to it again recently (on Spotify—may the vinyl and CD purists forgive me) and honestly, I’m fine with that; if I had it at home I’d probably listen to it again in another twenty years: it’s a nice live album, but there’s also quite a bit that I don’t like (who knows, maybe at twenty I liked everything). The “unreleased” track is the title-track, though in reality it’s not all that new. It was recorded six years earlier, in 1991, by actor Alessandro Haber in his album “Haberrante” (kudos for the irony), on Hobo, a small label owned by Mimmo Locasciulli. Among the songs was “La valigia dell’attore,” written by De Gregori. The Haber version is, honestly, remarkable: double bassist Greg Cohen, a friend of Locasciulli, gives the whole piece massive support, while Haber brings a wonderfully exuberant vibe; the De Gregori version instead feels vocally more reserved, very airy in its arrangement, tending towards a rich orchestral style. It quickly became one of his major successes (helped by very good, in fact excellent, album sales). Worth mentioning: a questionable cover by Fausto Leali in 2006, from the album “Profumo e kerosene.”

The other 3 covers are less famous: “Dammi da mangiare”, recorded the previous year by Angela Baraldi (I honestly had completely forgotten she even existed); “Non dirmi che non è così,” which is a remake of a 1975 Bob Dylan song, “If you see her, say hello”, and “Il suono delle campane,” which deserves two words. This song was originally recorded two years earlier, in 1995, by the ever-present Locasciulli, inspired by some editorials that De Gregori wrote—about wars between ethnic groups in Africa and Europe—for the storied Unità (then edited by Piero Sansonetti, back when his ideas were still sharp). Locasciulli had a beautiful piece of music but couldn’t find the right words: it was De Gregori’s editorials that pushed him to ask Francesco to write the lyrics. The result deeply moved Locasciulli, who said: “De Gregori ha letto nel pensiero.” The two sang it together on Locasciulli’s album “Uomini”; here, on this live, De Gregori sings it solo, and it’s miraculous.

The album, as mentioned, is a live, and truly spans our man’s whole career. The setlist is jam-packed with surprises: alongside the usual classics everyone knows, there are also fairly forgotten or really old songs (“Nero”; “Pilota di guerra”, “Giorno di pioggia”, “Natale”). Now, as with any live, the idea of giving old songs a new arrangement can work well, very well, or not so much. In this case, the rule holds. De Gregori keeps basically intact the tracks from his latest album of the time (“Prendere o lasciare”, 1996), which, however, pale in comparison to the classics (in my opinion, the only one that stands the comparison is “Compagni di viaggio,” with a nice harmonica outro), while he reinterprets some old classics really well (“Titanic” gets a percussion solo that lifts your spirits just thinking about it; “Atlantide”, already a masterpiece, becomes huge here; the electric “twist” given to “Pablo” is surprising); other things, however, don’t quite work (“Giorno di pioggia” is better in its essential original version; “La leva calcistica della classe ‘68”, where the ending quoting Battisti’s “Vento nel vento” is changed, works much, much less; “Alice” is a bit too overcooked, stretched almost beyond recognition—again, the original’s better).

When he dares, and dares a lot, things are more focused: “Niente da capire” in a kind-of-country version is a rare gem; “Bufalo Bill” has a much more energetic crescendo compared to the original (and, in my opinion, works even better, but that’s a matter of taste). Other tracks—see the timeless “La donna cannone”—aren’t changed one bit: just as well. What’s surprising, instead, is the near-total absence of the whole “Canzoni d’amore” (1992) album, except for the opener “Sangue su sangue,” an album very beloved by De Gregori devotees and one of his best-selling ever, as well as the exclusion of some historic, ultra-famous songs (for example, the absence of “Il bandito e il campione”, “Buonanotte fiorellino”, “Viva l’Italia”, “Il canto delle sirene”). Instead, “Generale” is always there, and from here on, in every live, he’ll always do it like this, with a blazing electric guitar solo at full volume.

The album closes with a fun, and funny, “Sotto le stelle del Messico a trapanàr” (another truly unusual throwback) and the mother of all Italian protest songs of the last forty years, “La storia.”

There you go, De Gregori’s live albums have always left me like this, in a continual swing between brilliant reinterpretations and less inspired ones (some live albums are honestly quite bad—think of “Fuoco amico” a few years later), but what can I say: Francesco is an old friend, and I forgive him everything, also because, cunning as he is, each time he pulls out a pearl or two and so, amen, I’m happy anyway.