Volume 8: Canzone per l'estate - Song for the Summer

Con tua moglie che lavava i piatti in cucina e non capiva Con tua figlia che provava il suo vestito nuovo e sorrideva Con la radio che ronzava per il mondo cose strane E il respiro del tuo cane che dormiva Coi tuoi santi sempre pronti a benedire i tuoi sforzi per il pane Con il tuo bambino biondo a cui hai donato una pistola per Natale, che sembra vera Con il letto in cui tua moglie non ti ha mai saputo dare e gli occhiali che fra un po' dovrai cambiare Com'è che non riesci più a volare Com'è che non riesci più a volare Com'è che non riesci più a volare Com'è che non riesci più a volare Con le tue finestre aperte sulla strada e gli occhi chiusi sulla gente Con la tua tranquillità, lucidità, soddisfazione permanente La tua coda di ricambio, le tue nuvole in affitto e le tue rondini di guardia sopra il tetto Con il tuo francescanesimo a puntate e la tua dolce consistenza Col tuo ossigeno purgato e le tue onde regolate in una stanza Col permesso di trasmettere e il divieto di parlare e ogni giorno un altro giorno da contare Com'è che non riesci più a volare Com'è che non riesci più a volare Com'è che non riesci più a volare Com'è che non riesci più a volare Con i tuoi entusiasmi lenti precisati da ricordi stagionali E una bella addormentata che si sveglia a tutto quel che le regali Con il tuo collezionismo di parole complicate La tua ultima canzone per l'estate Con le tue mani di carta per avvolgere altre mani normali Con l'idiota in giardino ad isolare le tue rose migliori Col tuo freddo di montagna e il divieto di sudare E più niente per poterti vergognare Com'è che non riesci più a volare Com'è che non riesci più a volare Com'è che non riesci più a volare Com'è che non riesci più a volare Canzone per l'estate © 1975 Fabrizio De André/Francesco De Gregori The music of "Canzone per l'estate" is entirely De Gregori's, while the lyrics were co-written. De André described the song as somewhat autobiographical, describing the tension between the bourgeois life he grew up in and lived much of his life in, and his attraction to anarchism and to society's outcasts who seemed more genuine and alive than the upper classes. Indeed the song describes well the soul-sapping nature of a comfortable, prosperous life that takes one away from vitality and even political engagement ("your eyes closed to the people").

With your wife who washed dishes in the kitchen and didn’t understand, with your daughter who tried on her new outfit and smiled, with the radio that droned strange things for the world, and the breathing of your dog that slept. With your saints ever ready to bless your efforts to bring home the bread, with your little blonde boy to whom for Christmas you gave a pistol that seemed real, with the bed in which your wife never knew how to give to you, and the glasses you’ll have to change in a bit. How is it that you can’t manage to fly anymore? How is it that you can’t manage to fly anymore? How is it that you can’t manage to fly anymore? How is it that you can’t manage to fly anymore? With your windows open onto the street and your eyes closed to the people with your calmness, lucidity, permanent satisfaction your tail of change, your rented clouds and your swallows on guard on the roof With your Franciscanism in installments and your sweet substance, with your purified oxygen and the dialed-in waves in your room, with permission to broadcast and speaking prohibited and every day another day to count. How is it that you can’t manage to fly anymore? How is it that you can’t manage to fly anymore? How is it that you can’t manage to fly anymore? How is it that you can’t manage to fly anymore? With your slow enthusiasms defined by seasonal memories and a sleeping beauty who wakes up to every gift that you give to her, with your collecting of complicated words, your final song for the summer. With your hands of paper for wrapping other normal hands, with the idiot in the garden to isolate your best roses, with your mountain coldness and the ban on sweating and nothing more that can embarrass you. How is it that you can’t manage to fly anymore? How is it that you can’t manage to fly anymore? How is it that you can’t manage to fly anymore? How is it that you can’t manage to fly anymore? English translation © 2014 Dennis Criteser Volume 8, released in 1975, was largely the fruit of three months of hanging out and writing with Francesco De Gregori at De André's Sardinia home, after De André had traveled to Rome to hear the young songwriter perform live. De André was inspired by the possibilities and extended an invitation to De Gregori to visit. Five of the songs have De Gregori's mark on them, and there are two new De André songs and another Leonard Cohen cover. Critics weren't too kind to this album, thinking it was too influenced by De Gregori and rather obscure in some of the lyrics. If you like De André, though, you will find plenty to like here, critics be damned!

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