When Guccini had to translate Jimi Hendrix and Simon & Garfunkel

Between 1967 and 1968, whilst Italy was on the verge of being set ablaze by youthful fervour, Guccini was simply ‘Francesco’, the first name under which he released his debut album, ‘Folk Beat vol. 1’. And he was unaware, with little inkling, that the three singles from that album – which did not fare too well in its initial sales – would become the soundtrack to the May protests and the ‘Hot Autumn’: the pacifist ‘Canzone del bambino nel vento’ (Auschwitz), ‘Noi non ci saremo’ against the threat of nuclear war, and ‘In morte di S.F.’, which would later become the intimate ‘Canzone per un’amica’.

The young singer-songwriter from the Pistoia-Emilia Apennines used to frequent the Pontiac offices in Milan, seeking work as a lyricist, and absorbed the spirit of the times. A spirit that wasn’t entirely devoted to explicit political engagement: Luigi Tenco himself, years earlier, had made his debut in a style far more ‘ye-ye’ than the one that made him famous right up to his tragic, contemporary demise. The future ‘Maestrone’ was also no stranger to pop, or ‘light music’ as it was called back then: which certainly meant the wave that carried Jimi Hendrix’s West Coast sound to the New York of Simon and Garfunkel.

So, being well versed in the English language and attentive to the musicality of words even more than he would have allowed himself to be during the course of his own career, he offered his services to Mansueto De Ponti, who needed to translate two jukebox tracks for the wider Italian public – one for the masses who go to the cinema and the other for the rock fan’s notebook. They were “Mrs Robinson”, the soundtrack to the controversial film The Graduate, and “Hey Joe”, the anthem of the Seattle sound before its time. Francesco, not yet Guccini, set to work like an apprentice.

He had to act fast; the market was ravenous and Pontiack – alongside Toni Verona of Ariston – knew he was playing it safe: the reproduction rights were already in the bag, the beat was climbing the charts, and missing the boat could mean saying goodbye to packed venues. So, the man from Pàvana churned out the commissioned lyrics, but deep down he knew he wouldn’t be singing them himself: that scene was too far removed from what he himself had in mind for his future. After all, even though the world viewed him with a certain degree of ambition, he remained rooted to the land and to the old mill of his forefather Chicon.

Well versed in the art of reading and writing, Guccini chose to alter the meaning of the original songs, emphasising their rhythm whilst retaining the stress on the final word of each line – a feature that made them easier for audiences to memorise. In the Italian version, Mrs Robinson is portrayed surrounded by cats and old friends, amidst spectacles and artificial roses, stripped of the residual seductive powers that the film bestowed upon Anne Bancroft: perhaps pre-divorce Italy was not yet ready for a break-up so dramatic that it could be entrusted to the Saturday afternoon charts – more Équipe 84 than Nomadi.

De Ponti and his staff didn’t bat an eyelid; they’d got what they wanted, and dedicated notes and lyrics to the Paduan band the Royals, who were trying to make a name for themselves in the vast sea of Italian beat music. Nothing could be more middle-class than the pairing of the ageing lady from Modena with the young medical students who were taking the dance halls of the upper Adriatic coast by storm: except that ‘Mrs Robinson’, released whilst everything was changing outside, did not take off as expected. And it was nobody’s fault, least of all Francesco Guccini – who was otherwise on a different path – or the five beatniks from Santo.

Bobby Solo gave it another go – yes, him – including the track on his album “Bobby Folk” a full two years later: an eternity back then, when all it took was the performance of “Acqua azzurra, acqua chiara” at Festivalbar to sweep everything else aside. A similar effect was achieved, unwittingly, by “Hey Joe”, performed by Giancarlo Martelli – better known as Martò – frontman of the Bolognese garage scene: but by then, Guccini was already off elsewhere, searching for love, however fleeting. And, through the irony of fate, he contributed to the sense of generalised “encompassed nostalgia” that finds its voice today.