Francesco De Gregori
Rimmel

THE REVIEW

The year '75 marks the creation of this gem.

To understand De Gregori, you must not just listen to him; you have to feel him. You shouldn't strive to grasp the meaning of a phrase he writes; rather, you should wait for the phrase to come to you. Let his music paint that phrase, a phrase that isn't carved on a tombstone but is a drawing. And drawings are not testaments.

The first track, "Rimmel," seduces you with its piano, speaking of a love that has ended. No anger, no regrets, it's over. Just like that. And so you receive the gift of fatalism which soothes you; there's nothing more elegant and natural than something that follows its course.
"Pezzi di vetro" is Love. The sweetly picked guitar serves as a splendid frame for a crystalline poem, whispered magically as if one might not want anyone to reveal what love is, because perhaps they don't deserve to know, and so we don’t raise our voices... over time you will encounter "Buonanotte fiorellino," and thus you will dance a nocturnal waltz with your thoughts. A lullaby as sweet as it is dramatic (it is said that De Gregori dedicated it to his first wife who died in a plane crash).
"Le storie di ieri" is a bitter reflection on lost reason, accompanied by a melody of sad resignation (becoming aware of the human condition...).

On your journey, you will come across masterpiece jokes like "Piccola mela" and "Quattro cani," the famous "Pablo," a splendid and desolate rural tale, and finally "Piano bar," which some cynics claim is dedicated to Venditti. When De Gregori exclaims, "just a piano bar pianist, who will play as long as you want to hear...," you may find in it, beyond the likely irony towards the Roman singer-songwriter, also the emptiness of many actions.

Like flowers in a meadow, they pick us, there's no use getting agitated. Having understood this, we will no longer cut ourselves on the pieces of glass, and we could all be that man.
Or perhaps we are.