Gerry Rafferty
Baker Street

If I had to think of an island to take refuge in, I would have no doubt, it wouldn’t be in the warm southern seas but in the Hebrides north of Scotland.

There are many things that bind me to Scotland, first of all my surname, which is very popular in those lands, the icy air and the cold colors that have always helped me think, the abundance of islands with spiritual and mythical stories, so far from western civilization that they take us back to the Stone Age, and then, the music.

I like the idea that in these lands men wear kilts, the typical Scottish skirt in tartan fabric, because it means that for them a skirt is not considered a typical 'female garment', and the bagpipes are not a toy but an instrument that produces a terrible sound to forget fear and death in battle.

I like Scotland because it’s not England, and it’s perhaps the thing I appreciate most from this family genesis. Maybe I would have preferred a more 'hospitable' origin because in these lands even cows are forced to cover themselves with a long and thick coat to survive the harsh and windy winters of the Scottish moors. In short, besides being born in January, I don’t even have the satisfaction of thinking of a warm and hospitable origin because in Scotland, like an Olympic fury, the icy wind arrives directly from the North Pole, unobstructed. Not even the Romans entered these lands, in fact, to avoid any temptation they built a wall to separate Scotland from England. Mòran taing!

However, if I think about my innate desire for solitude and the fascination that the cold wind that comes from the sea has always had on me, soaking my skin in icy drops and thick frozen needles on the flesh, then I really believe that something from Scotland has stayed inside of me.

The North Sea is blue, as ice imbued with the blue color of Yves Klein can be, dense water to the touch of a deep and difficult sea to navigate, with ice blocks that slide toward the high prow of the boats, while along the coast and the edges of the coves host seals and walruses resting on seaweed heaps. With the sky full of ever-moving clouds, between perpetual rain and rare flashes of sun, with the sound of water throttling along the streams or the roar of white and gray foam waterfalls. Stones, moss, peat, wind, and water, this is how I remember Scotland...

You all know by now that I'm not good at writing music reviews, so I won’t talk about notes and music, instruments, or special sounds present in the tracks, I won’t talk about music groups because I wouldn’t know where to start, and even if I tried, I wouldn’t get anywhere. But... I want to explain why I cry in my head when I hear Gerry sing Baker Street or Nutini in These Streets.

There’s a small town in Scotland called Paisley (or Pàislig in Gaelic) where two singers I know were born: Paolo Nutini, a Scot of Italian origin and Gerry Rafferty, who could easily have been a Scottish John Lennon.

I cry inside because I know what the gray of the rain can do that always closes off the brightness and sweetness of the sun and light, and then you sleep, or you shut yourself within the coils of pain, even if you don’t understand the reason for this despair that tears your heart to shreds, or 'screw it, you get drunk to forget.

You can be good and capable of doing anything, but if melancholy arrives there's nothing to be done. Writing music is like making your pain public, at least you know someone can understand.

Gerry Rafferty in 1978 wrote a song, the immortal Baker Street, which talks about how throughout life a man tries to defeat a beast that gnaws and digs inside his head, dragging him toward a degradation made of falls and false hopes.

The music, blessed music, can replace the scream of the voice that would only be pathetic pathos from a Greek tragedy. The scream of the saxophone and the guitar can suffice, the words sung by Gerry in Baker Street are instead like a sweet lullaby because only in this way can despair interpret itself.

Gerry Rafferty passed away on January 4, 2011, probably defeated by the disease he always tried to fight: alcohol abuse.

I leave you the first verses of the song because it’s enough to read them to understand, the rest you can find in the link.

Lyrics and translation of Baker Street, by Gerry Rafferty (Album City to City) from M&B Music Blog - http://www.mbmusic.it/2011/01/gerry-rafferty-baker-street -

Winding your way down Baker Street
(barcollando giù per Baker Street)
light in your head and dead on your feet
(luce nella testa e morte nei piedi)
Well, another crazy day
(Bene, un altro pazzo giorno)
you’ll drink the night away
(trascorrerai la notte bevendo)
and forget about everything
(e dimenticherai tutto)

( ... )

https://youtu.be/Fo6aKnRnBxM