Pierangelo Bertoli
Bertoli studio & Bertoli... live

There's little about Pierangelo Bertoli on DeBaser. It's been almost 18 years since his death on October 7, 2002. A grim day because ten years earlier, the same illness had taken away Augusto Daolio, singer of the Nomadi. Bertoli was a singer-songwriter or, rather, a storyteller because many of the music for his songs were written by faithful collaborators (Marco Dieci and Marco Negro, among others). He was straightforward, telling you things bluntly (or even harshly) without beating around the bush, as they say. In his career, he also advocated for the differently-abled (remember the ad about the accident and the narrow phone booth meant for passing through with a wheelchair?) without ever using his physical condition to break through among record producers or listeners. Discovered and launched by the legendary Caterina Caselli, he wasn't afraid to express his anti-Catholic and Marxist-Leninist beliefs. Always ready to speak up for the marginalized and those without a voice, incapable of hypocrisies. Yet today, if you ask someone about Bertoli, they respond, “the one of the moon on the hill” or “Bertoli who?”. Without dwelling on the story of the artist who has fallen into oblivion, I'll just write a few lines about an album released in 1986, a double LP titled “Bertoli studio & Bertoli live”. The ideal record for those who want to get acquainted with the songs of the storyteller from Sassuolo. A record with 10 studio songs and a record with 10 live songs. A strange occurrence, certainly not due to a lack of live recordings since Pierangelo toured the peninsula far and wide to sing his songs.

Among the studio tracks, standout pieces include “Maddalena”, one of the first songs written for transgender people with a raw text accompanied by a beautiful accordion (“Maddalena sopra ai viali quando è buia la città. Con la barba ben nascosta e una gonna di taffetà”) and the famous “Pescatore” sung in a duet with an unknown Fiorella Mannoia. But it's the live part that is surprising because it contains some gems unknown to most. Starting with “Così”, whose lyrics most represent Pierangelo and give a good understanding of his thinking (“gli amici sai gli amici tante volte mi dicono che sono un piantagrane, che parlo senza un poco di rispetto, che amo più gli oppressi o le puttane”). In concert, Pierangelo Bertoli's voice is powerful and confident (despite smoking...) and resonates in the track “La luna è sotto casa” which is almost a song of victory, a warning for victims of dependencies that are clearly not just drugs. Simple and direct, typical of the storyteller, the text is a heartfelt exhortation to be oneself, not to bend, not to seek answers in luck or religious dogmas (“se cerco qualche cosa la voglio perché c’è; ti lascio ai tuoi pensieri, ai tuoi santoni indù, ai dogmi di una fede tra il suicidio e la virtù”). The live album, in addition to the known “Eppure soffia”, an ecological song about the havoc wrought by humans on nature with an optimistic twist because despite everything, the wind still blows and ruffles women's hair, contains the wonderful “Sera di Gallipoli”, certainly not the tourist town of today, but one with old lime-white walls. Pierangelo gives voice to children playing football barefoot on the street and to anonymous faces, like the one that appears from a window which “è un volto senza sesso e senza età”. A mention, finally, is due to “Varsavia” where the communist Bertoli dissociates from the Soviet red ideology and writes an angry and biting text. The song took shape after the death of a young “Solidarnosc” activist following the introduction of martial law by Jaruzelsky. An angry song, a cry to give a voice, once again, to the oppressed, to a people whose freedom was trampled upon. A piece that at the time crossed national borders so much as to be translated and listened to secretly in the same Warsaw due to censorship. Then many understood that part of the West had not forgotten them because “a stare in trincea sono gli uomini normali, non i vescovi e neanche i cardinali”.

I was lucky enough to attend two of his concerts in my youth. I don't remember the names of the musicians who accompanied him and played with passion, except for the drummer: someone named Pierluigi Calderoni.

An artist who deserves to be “listened to again”, regardless of Catholic faith, political orientation, or age.

R.I.P. Pierangelo.