A-Infos (en) Italy, FAI, Umanita Nova #20-26 - One doesn't sing for the sake of singing. Side notes on a controversy over "engaged" art. (ca, de, it, pt, tr)[machine translation]

I always feel a certain embarrassment when I read that a showman, with a 
public profile, wants to take a clear and unequivocal stance on 
international issues (wars, etc.) because the entire world around us 
needs to be carefully analyzed. A proclamation thrown down from a stage 
or even written in an appeal leaves me rather indifferent. Artists who 
want to raise awareness among their audiences... but why? Aren't they 
sensitive enough themselves? Is there any need for Bruce Springsteen to 
tell them he's against the Trump administration? I don't think so: it's 
a role I don't feel comfortable sharing.

These are the words spoken by Francesco De Gregori on May 26, during a 
press conference introducing a series of concerts. The tone, up until 
that point, was fairly relaxed but also bitter: "It's been ten years 
since I felt inspiration bubbling inside me. I'm sorry, but I don't make 
a big deal out of it."
Another journalist dwelt on the theme of commitment, and De Gregori, 
piqued, doubled down: "I raise awareness, despite myself, through the 
songs I write, not with what I say. I don't feel superior to anyone, to 
be able to dictate what position to take on Gaza, Israel, or Iran. I'm 
confused, too (...) my thinking isn't totalitarian, I don't want to give 
or take lessons from anyone, especially not from a singer or a 
filmmaker: what qualifications do they have?"

On January 13, 1898, a long editorial appeared in the French newspaper 
Aurore , titled J'Accuse...! It was signed by a writer considered the 
most important novelist alive today, Émile Zola . That article ushered 
in one of the most famous cases in modern culture, aimed at violently 
challenging the unjust conviction of a French soldier and, more 
generally, a widespread anti-Semitic prejudice, a prejudice from which 
even the left was not immune (in fact, not even libertarians). What made 
that article truly memorable and explosive, however-beyond, of course, 
the impeccable arguments and the ingenious title that reversed the 
concept of accusation from the condemned man to his judges-was precisely 
that it was signed by an artist and not a journalist, a lawyer, a 
politician... in short, not a specialist. There had certainly been 
notable precedents, as old as society itself, of poets, musicians, and 
painters who had taken a stand on issues that did not strictly concern 
their own fields. But in this case, the widespread and rapid 
dissemination of the article, Zola's notoriety, and his charisma made it 
a turning point: with that article, the figure of the committed 
intellectual was born. Zola faced serious troubles: trial, conviction, 
exile... and some argue that even his tragic death (carbon monoxide 
poisoning in a closed room) was neither accidental nor unrelated to that 
event.

The figure of the committed, self-aware artist, the "fellow traveler" or 
the "useful idiot" (two definitions popular in Marxist-Leninist circles) 
has undoubtedly been a cornerstone of that dichotomy that brings 
together the politics of culture and the culture of politics. In the 
twentieth century, forms of mass culture-popular literature, comics, 
cinema, and song-often interacted with the dissemination of social 
ideas. Indeed, some militants were interested in these forms of 
communication precisely because they were particularly suited to rapidly 
spreading counter-current ideas and stories from the bottom up. 
Anarchism, in particular, is well represented by its songs, to the point 
that one of the most famous and beloved organizers, militants, and 
revolutionaries in its history-Pietro Gori-is also one of its greatest 
singers: a unique case, I would say. Songs are a flexible and readily 
usable means of propaganda; they can be improvised at an event and sung 
in a few hours, they are quickly learned, and every listener can become 
a channel for them in turn. It is particularly elusive to censorship: 
how do you muzzle a whole crowd singing a song in chorus?

A hybrid of poetic writing, musical composition, and song, song-among 
the widely distributed forms of popular communication-despite having 
been a key player in the record industry and mass entertainment, has 
retained a fundamentally oral vocation, transmitted beyond all control 
and in defiance of any commercialization. I believe it is for these 
reasons that the socially charged song, the socially charged song, the 
political song is the art form most closely linked to the history of the 
labor and revolutionary movement... indeed, we could say that in many 
cases, some militants have become singers to spread ideas. It doesn't 
take much preparation or talent to learn a few guitar chords and 
describe a revolt in more or less crooked verse... and it's not at all 
certain that these four chords and this urgency won't generate a song as 
beautiful, or even more so, than those written by professionals in the 
genre. Social song has also had its heroes and martyrs, like Joe Hill 
and Victor Jara.

When the widespread phenomenon of songwriting arose in Italy in the 
1960s, with musician-poets performing their own songs, and when this 
phenomenon became prevalent in the 1970s, it was entirely natural that 
many of them-belonging to a generation for whom political participation 
was central-would advance, each with their own unique flair, this fusion 
of poetry and commitment. Sometimes, perhaps even shirking the burden of 
the world and its hardships in every verse: it's not a crime of class 
conscience to write a love song. Edoardo Bennato-we might say-wrote the 
manifesto of this refusal to accept commitment with songs like " Sono 
solo canzonette" or "Cantautore ." A funny contradiction: the more one 
wants to avoid exploitation, the more one risks ending up hostage to 
indifferentism, one of the most rigid and reactionary of political 
thought. "You can't make revolutions with songs," Guccini might shout, 
but we can also note how, since the storming of the Bastille, no great 
revolution, and often even a small revolt, hasn't spawned his songs. In 
my opinion, the most beautiful songs, the most necessary.

Francesco De Gregori is a singer-songwriter of extraordinary talent and 
longevity, whose artistic origins lie in the Folk Studio, a Roman venue 
strongly characterized by the symbols of the revolutionary left (it 
seems that every evening there began with the sound of the 
Internazionale) . He was the young guitarist of that monument of social 
(and anarchist in particular) singing, Caterina Bueno, to whom years 
later he dedicated the beautiful Caterina . He is a connoisseur and 
lover of popular and militant repertoire, to the point of returning to 
that repertoire in his later years with a highly successful album and 
tour, Il fischio del vapore, a duo with Giovanna Marini. He has also 
peppered his songs of all time with fairly transparent references to 
social struggles, emigration, and war: L'abbigliamento di un fuochista, 
Generale, Pablo, L'impiccato ... and that almost Brechtian-sounding 
phrase: Tu da che parte stai? / Are you on the side of those who steal 
from supermarkets / or of those who built them, by stealing? written in 
an era in which disengagement had become the norm.

De Gregori was also a staunch advocate of the right to ambiguity in 
language, its lack of transparency, and the artist's unwavering 
independence from any constraint. This belief led him to be the victim 
of one of the most infamous episodes in the history of Italian song: on 
April 2, 1976, during a concert in Milan, he was abducted from his 
dressing room by a group of workers' autonomy activists and (apparently 
at gunpoint) forced to undergo a popular trial on stage, during which he 
was accused of having become rich (his album Rimmel the previous year 
had been a huge success), of not writing militant enough songs, and was 
even urged to commit suicide (even!). It was undoubtedly a very stupid 
and crude act, fortunately ended without drama. But it was also a 
strange mix of brutality and faith in the possibilities of art. People 
naively convinced that songs could influence history, hamper power, stop 
wars, suspend death sentences. Today, however, we know it's all 
pointless and we can sing whatever we want, as long as no one will be 
disturbed: even the most beautiful songs of revolt are lost in an 
inconsistent and fleeting background noise. I think, deep down, even De 
Gregori, despite the trial, was having more fun before.

Alessio Lega

https://umanitanova.org/non-si-canta-per-cantare-note-a-margine-di-una-polemica-sullarte-impegnata/
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