Giorgio Gaber
E pensare che c'era il pensiero

THE REVIEW

There are albums you put on while you’re ironing, making carbonara, or scrolling through your phone, waiting for something to happen in life. And then there are albums that, the moment they start, make you realize that for the next hour or so, it's better to turn everything off and just be quiet.
E pensare che c'era il pensiero is one of those for me.
First of all, because it’s recorded like a dream. Really. Some live albums sound like they were recorded inside a running cement mixer. Here, you can feel the theater, feel the audience, feel the air moving between one phrase and the next, but above all, you feel him. Gaber.
And what a Gaber.
An incredible voice. Confident, relaxed, sharp. Someone who didn’t need to shout to flatten you. He’d hit you with a phrase spoken almost under his breath, and twenty minutes later you’d find yourself staring at the ceiling like an idiot.
The arrangements? Perfect. No pretentious conservatory flights of fancy, no musicians eager to prove they practiced twelve hours a day. Simple stuff, clean, effective. The music accompanies, supports, pushes. It never gets in the way. And it seems easy, but it’s a very rare quality.
The thing that strikes me every time is that Gaber manages to be both intelligent and accessible. He doesn’t treat you like an idiot, but not like a philosophy PhD candidate desperate to prove something to the world, either. He talks to you the way people talk at a bar counter at two in the morning, when masks finally fall off and only the real stuff is left.
I still remember when I listened to him again after a terrible day. My father was in the hospital. It was raining outside. I came home destroyed. I put the album in the player. Dim lights. A glass of wine. The melancholy. Life passing by. Generations brushing against each other. Tears rolling slowly down my face.
Beautiful scene, right?
Too bad it’s utter bullshit.
I just made it up five minutes ago.
My father was absolutely fine. It wasn’t raining. There was no glass of wine. I was probably eating some focaccia in front of my computer like an animal, and that was it.
But I fooled you, at least for a few lines.
And you know why?
Because when it comes to Gaber, there’s always someone who feels the need to recount the heart-wrenching moment, the memory that changes your life, the metaphysical sunset, the grandmother crying, the cat contemplating infinity. So I thought: why not do it, too.
The truth is much simpler.
This album is extraordinary not because it reminds me of something. It’s extraordinary because it stands on its own. No emotional crutches. No uplifting little stories.
Gaber was one of those who got into your head armed with a smile. He made you laugh, and at the same time, he was taking you apart piece by piece. By the time you realized it, it was too late.
And today, after all these years, it’s almost shocking how alive he still feels. He doesn’t seem like a historical artifact. He doesn’t seem like a holy card to be worshipped. He seems like the guy sitting at the next table, who’s decided to say out loud what everyone’s thinking and almost nobody wants to admit.
That’s why I keep listening to E pensare che c'era il pensiero.
Not out of nostalgia.
Not to be sophisticated.
Not to feel superior.
But because sometimes it’s good to meet someone who, instead of stroking your ego, gives you a classy slap and then even buys you a drink.
And Gaber, in that art, was a true champion.