Keaton [English translation]

Keaton, that's how we used to call that piano player,

obviously because he never smiled,

while we laughed our heads off

watching him, standing up like a lightning rod against a sky full of troubles;

money troubles1, love troubles,

the troubles of an absent-minded, desperate life

that embroidered into his astonished life

a fascinating canvas, yet a way too delicate one.

Keaton had introduced himself as a jazz player

passionate and pure, in the style of Rete Tre2

with all the prejudices of someone who sees himself as an artist

because he didn't make money off songs like I did,

but when he accompanied me, he didn't do it with bad grace,

we both were specialists in acrobatic melancholy

and after all we do need to work odd jobs

we, the ones who live on their creativity.

We used to talk a lot those nights,

in a bar, after the concert, dead tired but sleepless,

about politics, bicycle races and true stories,

and about Weather Report and how cool they were,

and about how important it was

to be more than just music and lyrics for other people

and about how important it was

for people to be more than just a bunch of lonely persons.

Ah Keaton, Keaton, what has become of you, Keaton?

Have you gone to the dogs, Keaton?

Do you know I'm looking for you?

Keaton, ah, Keaton, because tonight, Keaton

just tonight, Keaton, I'd need to hear you play.

He would light up quite suddenly

on a night as short-lived as any other,

he would light up with great joy

as he approached a keyboard

and he preferred the slightly used ones,

the ones everyone puts their hands on,

stained by time, slightly out of tune

because of the ignorance and passion of humans.

Then, one day we quarrelled

because of a woman, first his, then mine,

he, with his troubles, and I with my quasi-sin,

both of us defeated by all that melancholy;

we parted with hardly a word,

both of us more enraged than regretful,

like kids that tease each other in school,

like an old couple used to love each other so much.

Later, I looked for him everywhere,

consulting many patronizing executives,

calling the Hunters' association, the Anything association,

but it looked like Keaton had left ho traces.

If someone mentioned him, it was just a fleeting memory

somebody said they had seen him from afar,

and everybody, everybody was sporting a wide, dull smile

as if to say "He was a weird guy, too weird."

Ah Keaton, Keaton, what has become of you, Keaton?

If you could see me in my Bogart-style trenchcoat, Keaton

looking for you in the pouring rain...

Keaton, ah, Keaton, because I miss, Keaton

I miss your desire to sit with me and play.

Then finally some random guy doesn't disappoint me

maybe, he's not sure, probably,

he is in a province as far away a swamp

from our talks about playing for people,

a province that feels like defeat,

like been outnumbered without dignity

and a swamp for sure is too packed

with mosquitoes to be able to play anyting.

I find him and he doesn't look like Keaton anymore

even if he's happy to see me.

"It seemed easy to touch it with your finger", he says

"but the sky wants us all immobile".

And finally he laughs, but he laughs too much and he's gotten fat

and swears too often he's not feeling too bad,

he has forgotten jazz altogether,

there are words, times and rhythms in an hospital too.

And as we part, in the early evening:

"It's like", he says, "the end of silent films

there's sound now, a keyboard is no longer needed..."

We take leave in complete silence.

And I get out with my newspapers

and I don't feel like laughing at all

there's a train waiting for me at the station

even the chatter of people bothers me.

Ah Keaton, Keaton!

Keaton, the real one,

was last seen having a stroll

on the roads and in the wind of Rome,

during the breaks of a movie by Franchi and Ingrassia3.

He had a thousand liters of alcohol in his body,

his usual face, without a trace of happiness.

He used to get drunk everyday with the working-class crew4,

in spite of cirrhosis of the liver

because he cared for his audience

more than he cared for his liver,

and electricians are fun people;

They used to tell him "Hey, this Keaton sure's cool"

while they all drank the mysterious white wines of the hills around Rome,

or the strong ones from Southern Italy that give a taste of infinity

to all folks who are not too hard to please.

1. Lit: the troubles that come from having pockets like cellos 2. Italian radio station specialized in classical and niche music3. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franco_and_Ciccio. Keaton was likely working on the soundtrack. 4. Lit: from a borgata, a working-class suburb of Rome

• Artist:Francesco Guccini
• Album:Signora Bovary