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The question is the usual one: why go to a Guccio concert in the middle of 2009? Because it’s right, it’s beautiful, and it moves you. I have seen about ten of them over the last twenty years, and it’s nice to look back and search for the feelings and ages that have passed. He was there for me twenty-plus years ago and he still is, an acquired certainty, a father.
And so it feels good to look with a furrowed brow at the vendors of unlikely Guccini shirts (of particularly horrid taste), then take a step to the bar and realize that once again it’s all full: damn, this big man of nearly 69 years comes down from the mountain and always finds them there. Francesco’s concerts didn’t just become a ritual now; they have been for at least twenty-five years. And so, as usual, there are the young fathers eager to bring their children, even little ones, the “pugnalzato” boys, the thirty- and forty-year-olds with tears, and those further in age, watching him absorbed, pensive. Because time, the main theme of his poetics, a concept reaffirmed by Francesco at the beginning of the concert, has passed and the words you’ve sung from memory for a lifetime seem to become clearer; more tangible.
They are all there, and I am there too, able to get emotional on Farewell, thinking about the kids, so many of them, who hear this man talk about love, and it seems like something important to me.
The setlist is not important in the end. There’s an unexpected revival of 'Il Tema', and applause roars strongly, a couple of unreleased songs, the great gift of 'Canzone quasi d'amore' and so on until 'Locomotiva'. Francesco at the end says he is moved, and we know it is true. Now he can return for a while to Pavana among his books, those to read and those to write; he will remain, I am sure, with the joy of having made people happy once again. Good people.
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