Storia di un impiegato: Il bombarolo - The Bomber

Chi va dicendo in giro che odio il mio lavoro non sa con quanto amore mi dedico al tritolo, è quasi indipendente ancora poche ore poi gli darò la voce il detonatore. Il mio Pinocchio fragile parente artigianale di ordigni costruiti su scala industriale di me non farà mai un cavaliere del lavoro, io son d'un'altra razza, son bombarolo. Nello scendere le scale ci metto più attenzione, sarebbe imperdonabile giustiziarmi sul portone proprio nel giorno in cui la decisione è mia sulla condanna a morte o l'amnistia. Per strada tante facce non hanno un bel colore, qui chi non terrorizza si ammala di terrore, c'è chi aspetta la pioggia per non piangere da solo, io son d'un altro avviso, son bombarolo. Intellettuali d'oggi idioti di domani ridatemi il cervello che basta alle mie mani, profeti molto acrobati della rivoluzione oggi farò da me senza lezione. Vi scoverò i nemici per voi così distanti e dopo averli uccisi sarò fra i latitanti ma finché li cerco io i latitanti sono loro, ho scelto un'altra scuola, son bombarolo. Potere troppe volte delegato ad altre mani, sganciato e restituitoci dai tuoi aeroplani, io vengo a restituirti un po' del tuo terrore del tuo disordine del tuo rumore. Così pensava forte un trentenne disperato se non del tutto giusto quasi niente sbagliato, cercando il luogo idoneo adatto al suo tritolo, insomma il posto degno d'un bombarolo. C'è chi lo vide ridere davanti al Parlamento aspettando l'esplosione che provasse il suo talento, c'è chi lo vide piangere un torrente di vocali vedendo esplodere un chiosco di giornali. Ma ciò che lo ferì profondamente nell'orgoglio fu l'immagine di lei che si sporgeva da ogni foglio lontana dal ridicolo in cui lo lasciò solo, ma in prima pagina col bombarolo. Il bombarolo © 1973 Fabrizio De André/Giuseppe Bentivoglio/Nicola Piovani Upon his return to the dream, the worker has the clear idea of how to vent his rage: make a bomb and launch it against the powers that have disappointed him. According to the liner notes: "The worker knows what to do, where to go, who to hit and why. He goes straight to the Parliament to throw a real bomb and to kill real people, but his ability was only a dream: the bomb rolls down towards a magazine kiosk. His true defeat might be in seeing on all the newspaper covers the face of his fiance, who decided to leave him after his actions. The bomber remains truly alone."

Anyone who goes around saying that I hate my job doesn’t know with how much love I dedicate myself to TNT. It's almost ready to stand on its own, another few hours, then I’ll give it a voice: the detonator. My delicate Pinocchio, artisanal relative of devices made on an industrial scale - it will never make of me a Knight in the Order of Merit for Labor, I am of another race, I'm a bomber. In descending the stairs I pay closer attention - it would be unpardonable to carry out a death penalty on me at the main entrance on the very day in which the decision is mine about condemnation to death or amnesty. Out on the street, so many faces don’t have good color. Here, whoever doesn’t terrorize becomes sick with terror. There are ones who wait for the rain so as not to cry alone. I am of a different opinion, I'm a bomber. Today's intellectuals, tomorrow's idiots, give me back brain enough for my hands. Ever so acrobatic prophets of the revolution, today I’ll make do by myself without instruction. I’ll track down your enemies for all of you so distant, and after having killed them I’ll be among the fugitives. But until I look for them, they are the fugitives, I’ve chosen another school, I’m a bomber. Power too many times delegated to other hands, dropped and returned to us from your airplanes. I come to return to you a bit of your terror, of your disorder, of your noise. Thus thought long and hard a desperate thirty-something, if not right about everything, almost nothing mistaken, searching for the appropriate place suitable for his TNT, in short, the place worthy of a bomber. There is one who saw him laughing in front of the Parliament, waiting for the explosion that demonstrated his talent. There is one who saw him crying a torrent of vowels, seeing explode a kiosk of magazines. But what wounded him deeply in his pride was her image, that jumped out from every paper far from the ridicule in which she left him alone, but on the first page, with the bomber. 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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