Piero Ciampi (Livorno, 28 September 1934 – Rome, 19 January 1980) was an Italian singer-songwriter
Young people may not even know its name, but its strength, its sincerity of expression, bring its song back to the most dramatic line of 1950s poetry, and its memory has remained in the hearts of the most mature generation of Italian songwriters. A bitter, ironic and sweet poet, he lived his story of words and drinks and when Piero Ciampi left, he was 45 years old, hectolitres of wine and tons of tobacco had slowly but surely consumed him, making him reach the end of his life, thus completing his obstinate work of self-destruction, the result of an inescapable, lacerating existential discomfort. In seventeen years as a singer-songwriter, he had barely recorded four records and had managed to make himself hated by most of his colleagues, collaborators, impresarios, public and critics. In short: the ingredients were all there to make him an absolute cult figure. After all, he was the first and only cursed poet that the Italian song has ever had, painful and bizarre figure of bohemian on the road never reappeared on our music scene.
Very few people followed him when he was alive, almost forgotten when he died, he is almost never talked about, his songs today considered unsalable must be rediscovered and paid homage because of their rare poetic intensity supported by music that is certainly not banal but certainly melodic. The author had adopted a hybrid form of narration that mixes documentary and fiction and the first to appreciate it and recognise its greatness as author and performer were some friends and fellow songwriters. They spoke of him as a person who was often indisposed, unbearably aggressive and vulgar, this is Ciampi, fed by the legend that wants him always contemptuous and free and that merges the singer-songwriter and the man were as if they were exactly the same thing: poignant and quarrelsome, ironic and dramatic, licentious, wild, violent. Then there is the other Piero Ciampi, the helpless, fragile and kind, who every now and then, despite everything, manages to get out, like that time when, as usual without a lira in his pocket, in order to get his daily dose of alcohol, he proposed a barter to his landlord friend: he gave him his passport in exchange... And so that the whole thing was not just a colossal drink, with the bottle of wine he also asked for a red rose.
Ha tutte le carte in regola (Album "Andare Camminare Lavorare" 1975)
Ha tutte le carte in regola
Per essere un artista
Ha un carattere melanconico
Beve come un irlandese
Se incontra un disperato
Non chiede spiegazioni
Divide la sua cena
Con pittori ciechi, musicisti sordi
Giocatori sfortunati, scrittori monchi
Ha tutte le carte in regola
Per essere un artista
Non gli fa paura niente
Tantomeno un prepotente
Preferisce stare solo
Anche se gli costa caro
Non fa alcuna differenza
Tra un anno ed una notte
Tra un bacio ed un addio
Questo è un miserere
Senza lacrime
Questo è il miserere
Di chi non ha più illusioni
Ha tutte le carte in regola
Per essere un artista
Detesta lavorare
Intorno a un parassita
Vive male la sua vita
Ma lo fa con grande amore
Ha amato tanto due donne
Erano belle, bionde, alte, snelle
Ma per lui non esistono più
È perché è solo un artista
Che l'hanno preso per un egoista
La vita è una cosa
Che prende, porta e spedisce
It has all the cards in order
It has all the cards in order
To be an artist
Has a melancholic character
Drinks like an Irishman
If he meets a desperate
Does not ask for explanations
Divides his dinner
With blind painters, deaf musicians
Unlucky players, stunted writers
It has all the cards in order
To be an artist
He is not afraid of anything
Let alone a bully
He prefers to be alone
Even if it costs him dearly
It makes no difference
Between one year and one night
Between a kiss and a farewell
This is a miserable
Without tears
This is the miserere
Of those who have no more illusions
It has all the cards in order
To be an artist
Hates to work
Around a parasite
He lives his life badly
But he does it with great love
He loved two women so much
They were beautiful, blonde, tall, slender
But for him, they no longer exist
It is because he is only an artist
That they took him for a selfish
Life is one thing
Taking, bringing and shipping
