Storia di un impiegato: La bomba in testa - The Bomb in the Head

....e io contavo i denti ai francobolli dicevo "grazie a Dio" "buon Natale" mi sentivo normale eppure i miei trent'anni erano pochi più dei loro ma non importa adesso torno al lavoro. Cantavano il disordine dei sogni gli ingrati del benessere francese e non davan l'idea di denunciare uomini al balcone di un solo maggio, di un unico paese, e io ho la faccia usata dal buonsenso ripeto "Non vogliamoci del male" e non mi sento normale e mi sorprendo ancora a misurarmi su di loro e adesso è tardi, adesso torno al lavoro. Rischiavano la strada e per un uomo ci vuole pure un senso a sopportare di poter sanguinare e il senso non dev'essere rischiare ma forse non voler più sopportare. Chissà cosa si prova a liberare la fiducia nelle proprie tentazioni, allontanare gli intrusi dalle nostre emozioni, allontanarli in tempo e prima di trovarti solo con la paura di non tornare al lavoro. Rischiare libertà strada per strada, scordarsi le rotaie verso casa, io ne valgo la pena, per arrivare ad incontrar la gente senza dovermi fingere innocente. Mi sforzo di ripetermi con loro e più l'idea va di là del vetro più mi lasciano indietro, per il coraggio insieme non so le regole del gioco senza la mia paura mi fido poco. Ormai sono in ritardo per gli amici per l'odio potrei farcela da solo illuminando al tritolo chi ha la faccia e mostra solo il viso sempre gradevole, sempre più impreciso. E l'esplosivo spacca, taglia, fruga tra gli ospiti di un ballo mascherato, io mi sono invitato a rilevar l'impronta dietro ogni maschera che salta e a non aver pietà per la mia prima volta. La bomba in testa © 1973 Fabrizio De André/Giuseppe Bentivoglio/Nicola Piovani According to the liner notes, after having listened to "Canzone del Maggio" with new ears, the worker compares his life of good sense, individualism and fears with the lives of the students who had the courage to rebel against the system that oppressed them. His doubts increase and he feels like the students were right. But he realizes he can't really unite with them given his conditioning and situation. He decides to act independently and alone, to throw a bomb into a masked ball where the myths and cultural values of the bourgeois powers are on display, and he imagines the results (hence, "the bomb in the head").

. . . and I was counting the teeth on the postage stamps, I was saying, “Thanks be to God,” “Merry Christmas,” I was feeling normal. And yet my thirty years were few more than theirs. But it doesn’t matter, now I return to work. They were singing the messiness of their dreams, the ingrates of French affluence, and they weren’t giving me the idea of denouncing men at the balcony of one single May, of one single country. And I have a face worn by good sense, I repeat “Let’s not have ill feelings for each other,” and I don’t feel normal. And I surprise myself still to measure myself against them, and now it’s late, and now I return to work. They risked it on the streets, and for a man it just takes one sense to endure, to be able to bleed. And the sense doesn’t have to be risking, but maybe no longer wanting to endure. Who knows what one tries to liberate? The confidence in one’s own attempts, pushing away the intruders from our emotions, warding them off in time and before you find yourself alone with the fear of not returning to work. Risking liberty street by street, forgetting the tracks back to home, I’m worth it, to arrive to encounter people without having to pretend I’m innocent. I force myself to repeat myself with them, and the more the idea goes over there through the glass, the more they leave me behind for their courage together. I don’t know the rules of the game, without my fear I trust myself little. Now I'm late for my friends. For the hatred I could give it a try on my own, illuminating with TNT anyone who has the look and shows only his face, always agreeable, always more vague. And the explosion splits, cuts, ransacks among the guests of a masked ball. I invited myself to note the imprint behind every mask that jumps, and to have no mercy for my first time. English translation © 2014 Dennis Criteser Storia di un impiegato, released in 1973, tells the story of a worker who, inspired by a song about the French student riots of May/June 1968, decides to become a revolutionary. De André hoped to make a poetic interpretation of the events of 1968, but wanted to burn the album upon its release because he felt it ended up as a political album, with him telling people how to act. The lyrics were co-written with Giuseppe Bentivoglio, and the resultant anarchist/Marxist texts are sometimes confusing and obscure. The music was co-written with Nicola Piovani, who also co-wrote Non al denaro non all'amore né al cielo.

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