•
Rating:
No muse ever visited Piero, caressing him with sublime verses.
Piero is not a poet, but just a man.
Yet, his voice gets inside you. Over time, it becomes impossible to shake off.
Piero Ciampi does not adorn his words with images.
His is a bare and colloquial speech. Perhaps it is precisely for this reason that it gets inside you, carving out its place, without asking for anything. Without asking for permission.
And yet, one image—only one—becomes the symbol of his songs:
“Io e te abbiamo perso la bussola”. A vortex, a black whirlpool.
An impending shipwreck. A Charybdis of emotions.
After all, Piero the Italian was born in Livorno.
And Livorno, even when living a life as a bohémien across the Alps, is inside, blowing and lapping, like the southwesterly wind on Terrazza Mascagni.
Piero Ciampi is a poet after all, I admit.
If by poet one means a craftsman of words.
But Piero does not refine his words, rather he weighs them, leaving them as they are.
He weighs them with his own rough heart, in a precarious balance.
He loads them onto himself, like a fisherman hauling nets onto the boat.
That he is a poet is proven by the marine whirlpool of his voice, which swallows every failure.
It is proven by his giving voice to the daily shipwrecks of love.
It is proven by the bitterness of his regret.
It is proven, above all, by the acrimony of his death.
Tracklist Samples and Videos
Loading comments slowly
