Thanks to my older brother—who shared a bedroom with me and cared very little about my youthful desire to sleep at night—I grew up listening to the songs of Francesco Guccini.
From his early, then little-known songs such as Il sociale e l’antisociale, to others that perhaps deserve to be rediscovered, like La ballata degli annegati or Canzone per un’amica. In morte di S.F., whose opening lines remain engraved in my memory:
“Lunga e diritta correva la strada, l’auto veloce correva, la dolce estate era cominciata, vicino a lui sorrideva…”
And then there were the songs that have become part of the emotional landscape of so many who were born in the 1960s: La locomotiva, L’avvelenata, and Eskimo.
Many of these songs are almost unknown to younger generations today. Yet, they shaped those of us who grew up with them. I often, listened because I had no choice, but I always listened carefully, captivated by Guccini’s words. Few songwriters mastered language as he did—perhaps only Fabrizio De André comes to mind.
His ballads reached the heart before they reached the mind. They painted vivid images of a world that many hoped could exist, but that, in the end, never quite did.
From La locomotiva, with its powerful story of betrayed hopes, social injustice, and the longing for redemption, to Il vecchio e il bambino, whose moving portrayal of old age, memory, and the scars left by progress on nature culminates in the child’s unforgettable final words:
“Mi piacciono le fiabe, raccontane altre.”
A line that still lands with extraordinary emotional force.
Guccini’s voice was often a counterpoint to the spirit of his time, sometimes even openly against the current. Yet, it never felt provocative for its own sake. It came from conviction rather than ambition, from authenticity rather than the desire to stand out. Guccini never needed to compete for attention. He simply was himself.
One final memory belongs to his books. Stories that could be read almost like modern fables, describing a world that has largely disappeared. They evoke melancholy, certainly, but also hope, reminding us that people are capable of being far better than the stereotypes endlessly served to us by advertising, television, and now social media.
One final thought from someone who, as a young boy, was almost forced to listen to your songs, but who soon learned to love them deeply:
Thank you for everything you sang.
Thank you for everything you wrote.
Above all, thank you for having been there.
