Alice

There is something genuinely dreamlike in the architecture of this song — not the pleasant haziness of sleep, but the disorienting logic of a world where things almost make sense. The arrangement is intimate and slightly fragile: acoustic guitar, minimal percussion, a gentleness in the production that feels like it could dissolve if you pressed too hard. The tempo drifts, unhurried, as though the song is in no rush to arrive anywhere in particular. De Gregori's voice is younger here, thinner, carrying a quality of someone describing a vision they half-believe themselves — hesitant, wondering, quietly amazed. The character of Alice moves through the song more as a presence than a person, a figure around whom strangeness accumulates without explanation. The lyric world trades in the half-real: ordinary details observed at a slight angle, the way certain memories have a texture that doesn't quite belong to waking life. This song belongs to a specific moment in Italian songwriting when young musicians were reaching toward surrealism and symbolism, trying to build a literary pop tradition that could hold complexity without losing melody. It has aged into something tender and unreachable. You reach for it in that particular hour between late night and early morning when the mind loosens its grip on the literal, when you want a song that doesn't explain itself.