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Rating: Piero Ciampi: who was he?
How many people have heard of him today? How many have listened to his songs?
Few, far too few. The surname reveals his land, Livorno. His land reveals his nature: anarchist and communist, hardened drinker, wanderer, and swearer.
Piero was a poet, a popular poet who, without literary, biblical, or cultured references, without surrounding himself with that intellectual aura (common to many singer-songwriters), wrote verses that captivate with their unusual beauty and intensity.
Wanderer, it was said: his friends tell of finding him one day drunk in Stockholm, others received his postcards from Spain, Ireland, Tokyo. His longest stay was in the French capital where he made an impression singing in nightclubs and where he befriended Celine: listening to the song that gives the album its title seems like reading some pages of "Journey to the End of the Night."
The album is a succession of masterpieces of poetry, arrangement, and voice. Piero's voice is unique, as deep as few, sad but not pathetic, vibrant in intensity.
"Andare Camminare Lavorare," the first track is a Celine-style invective, full of sarcastic anger, and reveals his anarchic spirit. "L'amore è tutto qui" is a love song so different from stereotypes that it went unappreciated by the audience of the "Disco per l'Estate" competition, where it placed last.
"40 soldati 40 sorelle" is an ode to love and chance, while "ha tutte le carte in regola" is the masterpiece of the album and his entire discography: no comment, I only recommend listening to it.
"Il giocatore" and "il vino" are two "typical" Piero Ciampi songs because they talk about two things dear to those who can't live their life peacefully: "Vita vita vita, Sera dopo sera, Fuggi fra le dita, Spera, Mira, spera." ("Mira is the little daughter"). "Cristo tra i chitarristi" is one of the most poetic texts in Italian song, a (blasphemous?) take on Christ's calvary as a symbol of every man's existence.
"Te lo faccio vedere chi sono io" is a small tragicomic monologue, a speech full of irony and drama, an attempt to put on a brave face with the wife and the world, only to emerge in the last verses beaten, with the tail between his legs. "In un palazzo di giustizia" is the melancholic account of a day in court, where a divorce is debated, inevitable and painful.
And finally "il merlo" is an amusing mockery of the publishing market: the author asks the neighbor's blackbird to sing him "something to take to the publisher because I'm broke," and the blackbird obliges. A little curiosity: the blackbird in question belonged to Alberto Moravia, Piero's neighbor in Rome, who strangled it himself in a fit of rage.
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