An Honorary Doctorate in Political Science and Communication... for me?!?

I really didn’t see this one coming. “Doctorate” means I could even teach...

But let me reassure my devoted detractors: I’m going to my concert performances.

I’m truly happy to be here in Salerno, a city that holds so many memories and important moments in my life. The first time I came to Salerno, I was 25. I got here courtesy of a postcard, but it wasn’t a vacation. It was military service.

Up north, it was already winter. Here, there was warm air and a beautiful gulf. I walked into the barracks, and they put me in a room next to a window that didn’t even have all its panes. But it was still nice.

A few years later, I came back for a concert and, on a night considerably more interesting than my military service, my first child was conceived here.

It wasn’t planned. Let’s just say Providence, with the help of a girl from Salerno, had a nice surprise in store for me. And it changed my life.

But I’m not here to talk about my wonderful children. I want to talk about this honor.

I am truly honored — and thrilled — to receive this academic title.

People sometimes ask me: “What does it really mean to be Vasco Rossi?”

Good question.

The short answer is: a great responsibility.

And all this time I thought all you needed was a microphone, a guitar and someone who knew where I’d left my glasses.

For me, it means remaining myself, without betraying who I AM just to please someone else.

It means taking doubts, vulnerabilities, anger, dreams — and a healthy dose of frustration — and turning them into songs.

Then the songs leave home. They travel farther than I do, and they become yours, too.

At that point, the responsibility gets bigger. And I can no longer say: “It was just a chorus!”

Today I’m supposed to talk to you about “politics and communication.” But I didn’t study either of them in books. At university, I studied business and economics...

I lived them. I suffered them. And sometimes, I admit, I provoked them.

I wrote songs. And after almost 50 years, I discovered that they can even become the subject of an academic thesis.

A song is not just a song. It is a message that travels without a press office. It enters homes, cars, headphones and public squares. It reaches people who might never read an editorial or follow a political debate but recognize a line because that line speaks directly to them.

Music does what official communication often forgets: It doesn’t simply provide information. It moves emotions, memories and questions.

That doesn’t mean turning a song into a political rally. I’ve never thought I had the truth in my pocket — especially since the pockets of my jeans are already full of useless things.

A song doesn’t give you instructions for living, and it doesn’t replace politics. But it can open a space where people recognize themselves, discuss things and feel less alone. It can give a voice to a sense of unease before that unease even finds the words to become a collective demand.

Politics isn’t just about government buildings, elections and platforms. It is also about how a society decides whom to listen to, whom to protect and whom to leave on the margins. It is the always-difficult relationship between individual freedom and responsibility toward others.

When a song speaks of loneliness, exclusion, rebellion or freedom, it has already entered that territory. It doesn’t necessarily offer a solution, but it challenges what seems normal, inevitable or already decided.

Words matter to me. They are a powerful weapon. They can manipulate, simplify reality, create enemies and sell fear. But they can also give a voice to people who cannot make themselves heard, challenge arrogance, defend tolerance and inclusion. And sometimes they can offer great consolation.

That is why anyone who communicates publicly has a responsibility. They have to understand that every word helps create a climate. It can feed cynicism or trust, hatred or dialogue, resignation or the desire to fight back.

Silence communicates, too. And even a joke can have consequences, especially when it reaches a lot of people.

Being heard doesn’t mean you are always right. It means knowing that what you say can be repeated, interpreted and transformed.

A sentence born in a room can become someone’s way of thinking, a newspaper headline, a slogan or an answer given to a friend.

When a song enters other people’s lives, it no longer belongs only to the person who wrote it.

That is its strength. And its risk.

That is why I look for the right word: the one that says something true without striking a pose.

Communicating doesn’t simply mean making yourself understood. It means taking responsibility for what you put into the world.

If there is such a thing as a “Vasco Rossi philosophy,” perhaps it is all here: saying things as I feel them, without turning vulnerability into something shameful and without confusing freedom with the right not to give a damn about anyone else.

Rebellion isn’t just saying no.

It is refusing ready-made words, imposed identities and easy answers. It is searching for your own way of being in the world and, when necessary, trying to change it.

A song doesn’t solve the world’s problems. It can change the mood of a day. It can open a crack in the wall of indifference. Make a question emerge. Restore dignity to a feeling. Con nect people who don’t know one another.

It doesn’t replace political engagement, civic work or concrete decisions. But it can prepare the ground.

It can make people understand that a problem exists — and that we are not obliged to accept it in silence.

Sometimes all it takes is one line to feel less alone.

And if 60,000 people sing it, loneliness becomes belonging.

The real responsibility is to make sure that after we have sung together, something remains: an awareness, a question, perhaps the courage to look at other people with a little more attention.

In my songs, I don’t add words unnecessarily. I distill them. I strip away what is superfluous. I look for the essence.

The fewer words I use, the more weight each one carries — and the more room I leave for the listener’s imagination.

That is how a song can reach the heart.

And become a form of active resistance against conformity, banality and lies.

Today we communicate everywhere, all the time: on social media, on television, through algorithms.

We all have our microphones turned on.

But before speaking, we should learn to listen.

We all have a voice, and that is great freedom.

But having more microphones doesn’t mean having more clarity.

A lot has been said about me, including the legend that I insulted southern Italy.

You chose to look beyond labels and prejudices.

For me, that unanimity is concrete proof that study and knowledge open minds and truly free us from ignorance and prejudice.

There is one thing I have learned, though: You can’t argue with ignorance...

But when it comes to lies invented to defame you, you sue.

Those who listen to my songs know which side I’m on. And what I’m made of.

Seeing all of you here in your academic gowns and receiving this honor in this Great Hall truly moves me.

At this university, I have felt an atmosphere of pluralism, inclusion and freedom.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart, each and every one of you.

And thank you, my fellow professors...

From today on, I’m a professor, too!

Don’t worry: I won’t be giving grades.

At most, I’ll ask for an encore.