Farewell to Francesco Guccini, the reluctant maestro

A terrible blow, which has served to make this sweltering summer even more bitter, is the death of Francesco Guccini, a distinguished figure in Italian singer-songwriting, but for many people across two or three generations, a friend who understood, recounted and commented on the splendours and miseries of ordinary life, without ever being insensitive. It will be a great loss and he will be honoured with every honour, for whilst opinions on Guccini’s musicality may have differed, they were overwhelmingly unanimous regarding his consistency and, consequently, the respect he deserves. And, as is almost always the case, in the statements made on such occasions it will be pretended that his music is very much alive and ever-present, even though in reality only older enthusiasts and a few curious young people still listen to him nowadays, because that way of writing songs – that is, containing a purpose, adhering to a plan, albeit an empirical one, and channelling it into poetic form whilst remaining close to the real world – for it is precisely that ‘closeness’ that is the key to the affection Guccini has garnered over the years, his accessibility, clarity, nobility and wholesome imperfection – in short, the essence of that style of songwriting has been lost, and those who could still do it no longer do so. In any case, it is said that the provinces, in Italy, have never been merely a place, but rather a psychological framework and an ethical foundation. 

Those who remain in the provinces, despite being able to leave, are making a statement, and Guccini’s friend/foe Riccardo Bertoncelli explains this well in his latest book “Abitavo a Penny Lane”. Riccardo is another who has never left home: it is a mistrust of the centre, of the metropolis that makes promises but demands too much in return. One either becomes a sharp-eyed observer of that world or, like Guccini – who passed away yesterday at the age of 86 in his beloved Pàvana – ends up making the provinces the very fabric of one’s creative world, writing political songs from a village of a few hundred souls in the Apennines, keeping the city at a distance – a distance chosen deliberately.

Francesco was born in Modena in 1940, four days after Italy entered the war; his father ended up in a German concentration camp and the family took refuge with his grandparents in Pàvana. It is a biographical detail that Guccini would transform into literature decades later: his childhood effectively began as that of a displaced person. Having come through his teenage years, he arrived in Bologna and enrolled in the Faculty of Languages, though he never went on to graduate – “my mother wasn’t wrong after all when she said / a graduate counts for more than a singer” – and yet, as early as 1958, he was playing in a dance hall band, in close contact with people out to have a good time, a starting point he shares with many – almost all – of the finest songwriters of his generation. It was as if standing on those small stages served as an apprenticeship for studying the truth suspended within the people dancing before him – figures flirting whilst, in their minds, they harboured countless thoughts, worries, aspirations, dreams and desires. The young Guccini began to jot down this jumble of his surroundings, blending it with the sounds of the American music he listened to and with whatever caught his eye in his reading: He wrote “Auschwitz” almost by chance, after coming across an essay on the extermination camps; he wasn’t even registered with SIAE and handed the piece over to Equipe 84, a group of people more or less from his own part of town, who would meet up during late-night work sessions and who, lucky for them, were already successful by that point. It was Maurizio Vandelli’s voice that turned what would become one of the most important protest songs in Italian music into a hit. Its author remained unrecognised for a long time, because he still had a rather naive view of the entertainment world, which was rapidly taking shape around him. But in 1967, as a 27-year-old, he made his solo debut with "Folk beat n. 1": singer-songwriters were beginning to make a serious impact, the bluesy inflections with which he coloured his songs showed great promise, and the title of that album was spot on, even if it suggested a fusion that was all too sophisticated. In fact, commercially it was a flop, even though its tracks included not only ‘Auschwitz’ but also ‘Dio è morto’ – an all too ambitious and serious descriptive piece, inspired by Ginsberg’s ‘Howl’ and immediately censored by RAI, which at that time did not mince its words. Guccini was branded a blasphemer, even though the track was broadcast – and even favourably received – by Vatican Radio. It was a scandalous debut that demanded an immediate political classification of Guccini: whose side was he on, to whom did he belong, and for whom did this new bard of the dark evil of modernity sing and work? Broadly speaking, he was placed on the far left of the parliamentary left, just within the boundaries needed to make him the hero of hundreds of ‘Festival dell’Unità’ events, but with an added element of transgression, and above all with a mystique of individualism which, in fact, has always been the most striking feature of his way of being.

Certainly, given the historical moment and the specific qualities required of anyone aspiring to the highest title of ‘songwriter’, people are beginning to emphasise Guccini’s socially committed inspiration; yet, on reflection today, this seems above all a misunderstanding, because within the anarchic undercurrent of his thinking, a fundamental snobbery prevails that keeps him aloof from political parties, acronyms, groups and congregations, steering him towards a secular, Enlightenment-inspired and even rather moralistic (with occasional lapses) interpretation of life and his works. Consequently, his commitment takes the form, first and foremost, of poetry – but of an spontaneous, off-the-cuff kind – finding its natural home at the tables of the ‘Osteria delle Dame’, which he founded together with a priest, and cultivating in his subsequent songs more dissent and disillusionment than militancy, because 1968 was a mirage, and a love story like that of “Eskimo” ends in tatters for a reason as old as the hills: class difference. Disillusioned, then, rather than polemical, an aesthete of lost time, even if, by one of fate’s usual twists, a fair share of Guccini’s fame came from “L’Avvelenata”, a manifesto of frustration directed at those who annoyed him, threw unanswered questions in his face, or labelled him, summoned him, pigeonholed him. A primal ‘fuck you’ expressed through his colossal physical presence, which led people to call him – much to his disgust – ‘Maestrone’, an outburst that later became a source of remorse, albeit perhaps only superficial. He, however, wants to tone things down: “I’ve never said that revolutions are made with songs, or that poetry can be created”, he calls for freedom and nothing more than a modicum of artistic consideration, even though at that moment being a singer-songwriter is truly important; the emotions poured into the songs are immense, and with them the expectations of a source of lasting comfort.

Guccini believes in the critical function of song, but shuns its pedagogical value; this now seems natural, but back then things were different. And, after all, Francesco adds his own touch when he writes the epic chronicle of ‘La locomotiva’ – eight minutes (unpublishable on a 45-rpm record) that revolutionised the record industry’s concept of time – named after the story of an anarchist engine driver who, in 1893, hijacked a train to hurl it against everything he detested. This marked the peak of Guccini’s popularity, of the widespread appreciation of his music and of the debates – some of them heated – that he managed to provoke. He was much loved, yet in some quarters he was contested, or even disavowed. But it is a central position in the public discourse from which Francesco begins to distance himself with ever-greater vigour, embarking on a stylistic shift in his writing, tinged with romanticism, even decadence, but fortunately still seasoned with a healthy dose of irony, which gradually removes him from the dock, whilst maintaining his widespread popularity, albeit one that has perhaps faded somewhat. The Guccini of "Cirano" does not seek controversy, but aims to sketch, with established skill, portraits and stories, most often set amidst the realms of inadequacy. Meanwhile, Guccini’s second life begins – that of a writer, a life that is more comfortable, measured and, above all, solitary. In 1989, he published "Cròniche epafàniche", and critics realised that he was not merely a singer dabbling in literature, but a versatile memoirist, skilled at capturing details, bringing memories to life, and reworking languages, dialects and oral traditions. Over time, his output would grow, even expanding to include crime novels co-written with Loriano Macchiavelli, in which Emilian understatement becomes a genre in its own right and his rural world serves as the backdrop for an anthropological as well as literary endeavour, always respecting the familiar dualism: culture, but not academia.

As for his music, in 2012 he brought his recording career to a close with an album titled, without irony, “L’ultima Thule”, keeping his promise to write no more songs or give any more concerts: no comebacks, a gradual withdrawal, many reflections shared on the page and then, with old age, worries and ailments. At the time of his death, precisely because of the unique nature of his being and his character – which fostered a host of close bonds – the grief will be terrible for those who loved him faithfully and always carried him in their hearts. It is the manifestation of this feeling of being overwhelmed by the past: such a figure cannot be replicated or reproduced – his way of chewing over intellectualism and certain forms of partiality without asking permission, that way of always being right there, in his place, keeping even the gentle city of Bologna at a distance, transforming the aesthetics of the tavern – which at the time seemed almost revolutionary – into an almost legendary story. It is, in particular, Guccini’s belonging to a time so long past, so distant – though not truly far away – that it brings to mind the classics. Indeed, those of the nineteenth century, to whom, for some reason, Francesco seems more closely related, leaping over the barbed wire of twentieth-century schematics.