Rimini: Coda di lupo - Tail-of-the-Wolf

Quando ero piccolo m'innamoravo di tutto correvo dietro ai cani e da marzo a febbraio mio nonno vegliava sulla corrente di cavalli e di buoi sui fatti miei e sui fatti tuoi e al dio degli inglesi non credere mai. E quando avevo duecento lune e forse qualcuna è di troppo rubai il primo cavallo e mi fecero uomo cambiai il mio nome in "Coda di lupo" cambiai il mio pony con un cavallo muto e al loro dio perdente non credere mai E fu nella notte della lunga stella con la coda che trovammo mio nonno crocifisso sulla chiesa crocifisso con forchette che si usano a cena era sporco e pulito di sangue e di crema e al loro dio goloso non credere mai. E forse avevo diciott'anni e non puzzavo più di serpente possedevo una spranga un cappello e una fionda e una notte di gala con un sasso a punta uccisi uno smoking e glielo rubai e al dio della scala non credere mai. Poi tornammo in Brianza per l'apertura della caccia al bisonte ci fecero l'esame dell'alito e delle urine ci spiegò il meccanismo un poeta andaluso - Per la caccia al bisonte - disse - Il numero è chiuso. E a un Dio a lieto fine non credere mai. Ed ero già vecchio quando vicino a Roma a Little Big Horn capelli corti generale ci parlò all'università dei fratelli tute blu che seppellirono le asce ma non fumammo con lui non era venuto in pace e a un dio fatti il culo non credere mai. E adesso che ho bruciato venti figli sul mio letto di sposo che ho scaricato la mia rabbia in un teatro di posa che ho imparato a pescare con le bombe a mano che mi hanno scolpito in lacrime sull'arco di Traiano con un cucchiaio di vetro scavo nella mia storia ma colpisco un po' a casaccio perché non ho più memoria e a un dio, e a un dio, e a un dio, e a un dio e a un dio senza fiato non credere mai. Coda di lupo © 1978 Fabrizio De André/Massimo Bubola "Coda di lupo" must be understood in the context of the failure and dissolution of various protest movements in 1976 and 1977, including the Metropolitan Indians, anarchists who wore face paint, dressed like hippies, listened to rock music and enjoyed acid and weed, and who protested bourgeois values through urban guerilla activism, occupying universities, factories, etc.

When I was little I used to fall in love with everything. I used to run after the dogs, and from March to February my grandpa kept a watch over the movement of horses and of oxen, over my business and over your business. And in the god of the English don't ever believe. And when I was 200 moons old - and maybe that's a few too many - I robbed my first horse and they made me a man. I changed my name to “Tail-of-the-Wolf.” I exchanged my pony for a silent horse. And in their losing god don't ever believe. And it was in the night of the long star with the tail that we found my grandpa crucified on the cross, crucified with forks that are used at meals. He was dirty and cleaned of blood and cream. And in their greedy god don't ever believe. And maybe I was 18 and no longer stank like a snake, I owned a rod, a hat and a sling, and one gala night with a pointed rock I killed a tuxedo and robbed it from him. And in the god of La Scala don't ever believe. Then we returned to Brianza for the opening of the buffalo hunt. They made us take a breath and urine test. He explained to us the workings, an Andalusian poet. “For the buffalo hunt,” he said, “the number is closed.” And in a god of happy endings don't ever believe. And I was already old when near Rome, at Little Big Horn, General Short-Hair spoke to us at the university about the blue-suited brothers who buried the hatchets. But we didn’t smoke with him, he didn’t come in peace. And in a work-your-ass-off god don't ever believe. And now that I burned twenty sons on my grooms bed, that I unloaded my rage on a sound stage, that I learned to fish with hand grenades, that they sculpted me in tears on Trajan’s Arch, with a glass spoon I dig around in my history. But I’m striking a bit at random because I have no memory anymore. And in a god, and in a god, and in a god, and in a god, and in an out-of-breath god, don’t ever believe. English translation © 2014 Dennis Criteser Rimini grew out of De André's disappointments with the political events of the previous couple of years. In close collaboration with Massimo Bubola, a young 24-year-old who had just released his first album, De André explored several social and political themes, including abortion, homosexuality, and how the petite bourgeoisie attempted to move into the ranks of the powerful and rise above the political and social turmoil of the times. The music has more influence from American rock and pop music than previous albums, and includes his first forays into ethnic music, which will eventually come to full fruition in his masterpiece album Crêuza de mä.

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