Guccini’s World
Pubblicato da https://www.americacallsitaly.org/ 16 agosto 2026 2026
There was great media coverage for the death of Francesco Guccini: even Prime Minister Meloni expressed her fondness for a singer whose ideology she certainly did not share. But it is clear that poetry goes beyond ideology: one can appreciate Dante even if one is an atheist.
However, I do not want to discuss Guccini’s poetry or music here, even though, in my entirely personal opinion, it seems to me that Guccini declaims ideological positions rather than poetic imagery (but perhaps I am wrong). It also seems to me that he did not reach the popularity of someone like Peppino di Capri, who died shortly before him: I am talking about popularity, which is an objective fact, not poetry and art, which is a matter of personal judgment.
Therefore, we are not addressing the question of poetic merit, but rather the ideology he presents.
Let us examine his most popular song, Dio è morto ("God is Dead"), which dates back to 1965 (text in the appendix).
At first, it was banned by state television because it seemed blasphemous, but later the Church itself re-evaluated it. The point is that it spoke of the death of God, which could have looked like a hymn to the end of Christianity, but in a second moment it speaks of the resurrection of God (of Christ), and thus a rediscovery of religion, a return to it.
The expression "God is dead" is famous because it was proposed by Nietzsche. In Nietzsche, however, the meaning is different: man no longer believes in God (according to positivist predictions, faith would disappear in a short time), and so the values of our civilization, which are Christian, no longer have any foundation, and are therefore replaced by those of the Übermensch (superman).
Nietzsche found the end of religion tragic, whereas Guccini does not seem to care at all; on the contrary, he believes in the validity of the values of our civilization (which are Christian values) and thinks they will rise again even without faith in God. But in the song, God (or faith) has nothing to do with it: it seems to me more like a way to generate publicity through debate and controversy.
Here, "God" means goodness, ethics. So, according to this text, before our era (the one he vaguely points to) there was God, and therefore there was good; in our era, good is no longer present, but it will soon rise again thanks to our work.
I wonder how anyone can think such a thing. Let us just say these are clichés, repeated in every era and every place.
Even Cicero used to say: "O tempora, o mores!", and throughout history these refrains are continuously repeated: the world has fallen into decay, young people are worse than before, values have vanished, everything is going wrong, we need to rediscover values and somehow return to the past.
If it were truly like that, we would not have progressed from caves to the age of the web and AI; the exact opposite would have happened. In my humble opinion, the ideology he sings about seems purely adolescent, if not downright childish.
I re-read Guccini’s lyrics: even though I am a few years younger than him, I am old, so in some way, Guccini’s world is mine too.
Let us examine the verses of the song more closely. It begins by describing a world of uncertainty, of a lack of ideals, dominated by alcoholism and drugs. But in those years, it certainly was not like that. Political ideals were very much alive then: there was an ideological conflict between the supporters of the Western model (democracy) and the communist model. There were crowds of associations, groups of every kind, fierce debates and discussions ("Four friends at the bar"). The spread of drugs and alcoholism was still limited to a few. And then, a few years later, 1968 broke out: let us call it an excess of political and social engagement.
Then he talks about cars, about holidays: sure, the years of the Fiat 600, the symbol of a different world that was overcoming everlasting poverty, with grandparents and fathers marveling at such a change, so much so that people spoke of an economic miracle.
Yet in the text, it says that this is the death of God: but why on earth? Sure, if one considers poverty the highest aspiration, like Saint Francis; but Guccini hardly seems to have been a Franciscan.
In the second part, he complains about the vices of hypocrisy, falsehood, and the thirst for power in politics: but these are characteristics inherent to politics in every time and place (the Saint Francises of the world do not do politics, let alone deal with economics).
It concludes with racism, concentration camps, and party hatreds, as if these facts were somehow comparable: party hatreds mean an excess of faith in them, certainly not the extermination of one's opponents. Of course, one could speak of the death of God regarding the Holocaust, but not regarding party hatreds, nor much less regarding the cars and holidays mentioned earlier.
In the third part, this generation, depicted so negatively, is suddenly seen as the one that will make all the world’s evil disappear in a peaceful manner; then God, that is, goodness, will rise again. But why on earth, and above all in what way, would such a marvelous result be achieved?
Anyone who knows a bit of history, or has even a little life experience, knows that good and evil always exist: yesterday, today, and tomorrow. It is an illusion to think that we will make evil vanish from the Earth. We can only compare eras and socio-cultural contexts and judge one to be better than another, according to the parameters we choose to adopt.
Another song that is often remembered is La locomotiva ("The Locomotive", text in the appendix), which recalls an event that took place in 1893: an anarchist railway worker, Pietro Rigosi, hijacked a locomotive and drove it at high speed; the railway staff diverted it onto a dead-end track, and it crashed into parked, empty carriages. The railway worker did not die, but was injured and left disabled. The motive behind the act was never fully clarified, but it is believed he wanted to carry out an anarchist attack, as was common at the time.
Guccini draws inspiration from a news event—not that he intends to recount it faithfully—and turns the perpetrator into a hero, driven by a desire for social justice, a revenge against the rich who oppress the poor.
I really do not know if this heroic image is poetic; perhaps it is. However, I note that if someone throws themselves into a locomotive to commit a massacre, they are not a balanced person: thinking that such an act could lead to the end of social injustice is madness.
At the time the event actually took place, however, some people believed in it. There were many attacks and assassinations carried out by anarchists (even Empress Sissi was a victim), but they led to nothing. But by the time this song was written, in 1972, that illusion had been dead for a long time. It would be as if we today were to celebrate the attack on the Twin Towers in New York.
The problem is that it was not an act that benefited the revolution; on the contrary. And so this character, far from being a hero as Guccini describes him, seems to me like someone out of his mind.
In the following years, even the Red Brigades (BR), whom we define as terrorists, never actually killed people at random, but always targets that, in their view, could be useful to the revolution. Whether that revolution was a fantasy or a dream is another matter.
We should also note that songs are a genre that mostly deals with love, and Guccini composed a few of those too. However, he does not strike me as a singer of love in the way, for example, Benigni has been (even in his private life). Here, it is mostly about having sex: that seems like a different thing to me.
The most interesting and well-known song of this genre seems to me to be Quattro stracci ("Four Rags"). In it, he bitterly and disparagingly laments what he views as the pseudo-intellectual superficiality of his second partner, Angela Signorini, mother of his only daughter Teresa—superficiality he claims was incompatible with his own plain-spoken honesty. In truth, what shines through as the root cause is a certain reluctance on the woman's part to have sex. For instance, he defines the woman as a "chaste woman who dreams of being a whore."
I truly do not understand how anyone can bring themselves to make public such intimate and personal details, and above all fail to consider that there is a daughter involved. I am also amazed that his daughter Teresa displays such attachment and esteem for a father who replaced her mother with a younger woman after mocking and insulting her in this manner.
In conclusion, I would note that Guccini has nothing to do with real communism. The true communist was the one masterfully described by Guareschi in the character of Mayor Peppone in Don Camillo: he still believed in family values, in social solidarity, and would never have launched a locomotive into a crowd. He had a realistic program (perhaps too realistic). He supported one of the two models competing in the world at the time. With hindsight, we know that communism lost that peaceful competition (as Khrushchev called it): we can say they were wrong, but we certainly could not have known it back then; they were in good faith.
Guccini, with his fantasies of an overgrown adolescent, may perhaps be one of the founding fathers of what are contemptuously called "radical chic," far removed from the reality of the world he lives in.
It seems to me that a singer who could truly be defined as a communist (in the sense of the historical movement) can be found in Francesco De Gregori: we include in the appendix his true and deep song of love dedicated to his wife, Sempre e per sempre ("Always and Forever").
Appendix: Lyrics
Dio è morto ("God is Dead")
I have seen
the people of my age go away
along roads that never lead to anything,
seeking the dream that leads to madness
in search of something they cannot find
in the world they already have, inside nights soaked in wine,
inside rooms transformed by pills,
along the smoke clouds of a world made of cities,
being against it all, swallowing our tired civilization
and a god who is dead,
at the edges of the roads God is dead,
in cars bought on installments God is dead,
in summer myths God is dead...
They told me
that this generation of mine no longer believes
in what has often been disguised with faith,
in the eternal myths of the fatherland or the hero,
because the moment has now come to deny
everything that is falsehood, faiths made of habit and fear,
a politics that is only about making a career,
self-interested respectability, dignity made of emptiness,
the hypocrisy of those who are always right and never wrong,
and a god who is dead,
in concentration camps God is dead,
with the myths of race God is dead,
with party hatreds God is dead...
But I think
that this generation of mine is prepared
for a new world and a newly born hope,
for a future it already holds in its hands,
for a bloodless revolt,
because we all now know
that if God dies, it is for three days and then He rises again,
in what we believe in, God has risen,
in what we want, God has risen,
in the world we will make, God has risen...
La Locomotiva ("The Locomotive")
I don't know what his face looked like, nor what his name was,
what kind of voice he spoke with, or what voice he sang with,
how many years he had seen back then, what color his hair was,
but in my imagination I have his image:
heroes are all young and handsome,
heroes are all young and handsome,
heroes are all young and handsome...
Instead, I know the era of the events, and what his trade was:
the early years of the century, an engine driver, a railwayman,
the times when the holy war of the paupers was beginning,
the train itself seemed like a myth of progress
launched across continents,
launched across continents,
launched across continents...
And the locomotive seemed like a strange monster
that man controlled with his mind and with his hand:
roaring, it left behind distances that seemed infinite,
it seemed to possess a tremendous power inside,
the very same power as dynamite,
the very same power as dynamite,
the very same power as dynamite...
But another great force was unfolding its wings back then,
words that said "all men are equal,"
and against kings and tyrants, out in the street burst
the proletarian bomb, and lit up the air:
the torch of anarchy,
the torch of anarchy,
the torch of anarchy...
Every day a train passed through his station,
a luxury train, far-off destination:
he saw revered people, he thought of those velvets, of the gold,
he thought of the meager days of his people all around,
he thought of a train full of gentlemen,
he thought of a train full of gentlemen,
he thought of a train full of gentlemen...
I don't know what happened, why he made the decision,
perhaps an ancient rage, nameless generations
screaming for vengeance blinded his heart:
he forgot mercy, forgot his kindness,
his bomb was the steam engine,
his bomb was the steam engine,
his bomb was the steam engine...
And on the track stood the locomotive,
the pulsating machine seemed like a living thing,
it seemed like a young colt that, as soon as the brake was released,
bit the rail with steel muscles,
with the blind strength of lightning,
with the blind strength of lightning,
with the blind strength of lightning...
And on a day like any other, but perhaps with more rage inside,
he thought he had a way to right some wrongs.
He climbed onto the sleeping monster, tried to drive away his fear,
and before he could even think about what he was doing,
the monster was devouring the plain,
the monster was devouring the plain,
the monster was devouring the plain...
The other train was running unaware and almost without hurry,
no one imagined they were heading toward vengeance,
but at the Bologna station, the news arrived in a flash:
"emergency news, act with urgency,
a madman has launched himself against the train,
a madman has launched himself against the train,
a madman has launched himself against the train..."
Maintenant, run, run, runs the locomotive,
and the steam hisses, looking almost like a living thing,
and its whistle echoeing in the air seems to tell the bent farmers:
"Brother, fear not, for I run to my duty!
May proletarian justice triumph!
May proletarian justice triumph!
May proletarian justice triumph!"
And meanwhile it runs, runs, runs faster and faster,
and runs, runs, runs, runs toward death,
and nothing now can hold back the immense destructive force;
it waits only for the crash and then for the mantle to arrive
of the great consoler,
of the great consoler,
of the great consoler...
History tells us how the run ended,
the engine diverted along a dead-end line...
with its last animal cry, the machine erupted embers and lava,
exploded against the sky, then the smoke spread its veil:
they picked him up while he was still breathing,
they picked him up while he was still breathing,
they picked him up while he was still breathing...
But we like to think of him still behind the engine,
as he speeds the steam machine away,
and that one day the news might reach us again
of a locomotive, like a living thing,
launched like a bomb against injustice,
launched like a bomb against injustice,
launched like a bomb against injustice!
Quattro stracci ("Four Rags")
And I look out the window and see that same old wall you know.
Cigarette or pen in my right hand, frivolous symbols you never loved;
what I wear has never pleased you, I tell my stories and to you I seem silent,
smoking and writing sound strange to you, better the hands of a craftsman,
and erasing me is all you do;
but I am proud of my dreaming, of this eternal stumbling of mine,
and I laugh in the face of what you search for and will never have!
You don't know that it takes skill, it takes perseverance to grow old without maturity,
but mature or not, I've had enough of your complex simplicity.
And besides, who said you are right, with your "also sprach" about growing up,
or is it a ready-to-use illusion of an eternal victim of abuse,
misuse of a closed world and fatality;
let everyone go where they want to go, let everyone age as they please,
but don't tell me what freedom is!
The freedom of your potions, of yoga, herbs, psyche, and homeopathy,
of manuals against the frustrations and inhibitions you felt here in my home,
the boredom caused by an impractical guy, who lacks a mathematician's pulse,
who can't handle engines and doesn't even know how to drive,
a guy lost behind the clouds and poetry;
but now I bet you'll want to try what you never wanted to do with me:
making love, staying up late, or playing with imagination!
Imagination can end badly if you don't know well how to tame it,
but it costs little, it's worth what it's worth, and no one can stop you from using it anymore;
I, God willing, am not your father, nor am I some tough guy,
you have the imagination of twisted ideas, you walk with your mind and short legs,
then you'll always find the right moment to fix it:
the world's pathways are open to you, after all, you're always protected,
and you'll always have good excuses to refuse it!
At refusing, you've been a genius, wasting time refusing me,
but there is no alibi, there is no remedy, if I look closely, no, there is no reason why;
born in March, born erratic, a chaste woman dreaming of being a whore,
when you're inside, you want to be outside, always seeking past loves,
and you have erased everyone except yourself;
but here I nail you to those thoughts of yours, those four rags into which you threw yesterday,
lost forever searching for what isn't there,
here I nail you to those thoughts of yours, those four rags into which you threw yesterday,
lost forever searching for what isn't there,
here I nail you to those thoughts of yours, those four rags into which you threw yesterday,
lost forever searching for what isn't there...
Francesco De Gregori
Sempre e per sempre ("Always and Forever")
Rain and sun
change
people's faces.
They raise hell in the heart, and then they pass
and come back,
and they never stop.
Always and forever, you—
remember,
wherever you are,
if you look for me,
always and forever
on the same side you will find me.
I have seen people leave, get lost, and return,
and get lost again,
and reach out their hand to empty hands.
And with the same shoes walk
down different roads,
or with different shoes
on one single road.
Don't believe it
if someone tells you
that I'm not the same anymore.
Rain and sun bark and bite,
but they leave...
they don't really matter in the end.
And true love can
hide,
get confused,
but it can never be lost.
Always and forever
on the same side you will find me.
Always and forever
on the same side you will find me.