Francesco Guccini
Metropolis

The city, seen in its everyday and current aspect, but above all in its symbolic value, linked to a more or less illustrious past. This is the main theme of "Metropolis" (1981), almost a concept album, released about ten years late on the trend of "theme" records. But we know that Guccini has cheerfully ignored trends for forty years ("we've seen geniuses and wizards coming out in droves only to disappear..."), and it is precisely this that has allowed him to be credible and relevant for an entire lifetime, albeit with some recent and inevitable signs of fatigue. "Metropolis" is an excellent album, only slightly marred by two weaker tracks. It is also a decent step forward in the long and arduous musical evolution of the storyteller from Pàvana, although from this point of view "Signora Bovary" is more decisive. Partly it's the musicians accompanying Guccini who improve their synergy album after album, partly it's the presence of the crazy yet brilliant guitarist Jimmy Villotti, known for his imaginative contribution to Paolo Conte's historic band, the fact is that the sound of this album is more polished and pleasant compared to earlier ones, including "Amerigo."

The beginning is striking: "Bisanzio" is absolutely one of Guccini's finest compositions ever. First and foremost, it has a magnificent text, full of illuminating metaphors, capable of captivating the listener and involving him in the deep disorientation of the wise man and magician Filemazio, who tries to draw an omen, a horoscope, from observing the stars as much as from observing the city of Byzantium, "an insondable, secret, and ambiguous symbol like this life," a city that is not coincidentally located where the land "fades into the sea until almost disappearing, and then returns to land and is no longer the West," just to cite some of the most significant verses. As if that weren't enough, all this is paired with a music that is nothing short of inspired, offering at the same time ancient and mysteriously oriental suggestions. A true masterpiece, and no less is "Venezia," which (surprise) is only partially Guccini's, even though it really seems so at 100%. It may be the attentive and emotional look at the two sad parallel stories, that of the city dying little by little and that of the young Stefania, who simultaneously dies in childbirth in a large hospital, giving birth to a child whose fate will be "to buy or sell Venice."... it may be that touch of irony that only Guccini knows how to insert even in such a sad story ("San Marco is undoubtedly also the name of a pizzeria")... but the song is signed by Bigi-Guccini-Alloisio. The last of the three is also a co-author of the not-so-memorable "Milano (Poveri bimbi di)," with concepts certainly agreeable but supported by a not very inspired text, and also by an unusually rock music, but rather predictable. I would define as a minor track also "Black-out," which at least has the merit of associating a banal nursery rhyme with a funny and at the same time significant text, whose undeniable moral is that certain "comforts" like TV and other appliances, if one thinks about it, are not really that indispensable.

But other masterpieces remain, and one of these is undoubtedly "Bologna," a declaration of love-hate for the city where Guccini was culturally formed, comfortably sheltered by its "portici-cosce," a strong symbol of openness ("Paris in minor," "navel of everything"), but also of pettiness ("rich lady who was once a peasant," "vulgar matron"). A city that hides an unexpected and cynical hardness behind its known soft and hedonistic facade: "Bologna capable of love... capable of death" is a clear reference to the station massacre that took place the year before. Here too, the text is worthily supported by appropriate music, prominently featuring, in addition to the usual guitars, a suggestive Andean flute. Definitely not recommended for depressives is "Lager," with its unsettling and recurring question: "What is a Lager?" The answer is chilling, because a Lager is not only one of those handed over to history by the "infamous Nazi," but in general "the usual practice of terror" and can be "in a ghetto, factory, or city," and especially (beware!) it still exists today. As haunting as it may be, the question "What is a Lager?" ends up finding more than one answer (perhaps too many...), while another question, more angry, is destined to remain there at the bottom of the text like an echo propagating to infinity: "Who among you will be the kapo, who the victim, in a Lager?" Let's also add a tragically suitable music to the text, and it's easy to understand how this song is capable of making stones weep.

Less touching, but still remarkable is "Antenòr," a beautiful story set in a legendary Argentine pampas, featuring a man guilty only of being skilled with a knife, and forced to demonstrate his prowess, until he kills to avoid being killed, and therefore has to flee. A bitter reflection on the inevitability of destiny, contained in an acoustic ballad with rich guitar arpeggios, which can only be criticized for its excessive length. Something that cannot be said of the entire album, quite stingy in its 31 minutes, even though for the most part it is a true concentrate of Guccini classics.