Mannarino, Italian singer-songwriter
FR

Translated into English.

Original post
UN
Hey everyone!

Nothing in this section since 2020? Well, I’ll jump in. With Italy—completely random, of course .

Have you heard of Alessandro Mannarino? He’s something else compared to Toto Cotugno or Eros Ramazzotti...

A young-ish guy (45 years old), handsome like a bad boy , who started his musical journey on the streets of Rome, sleeping in squats with people from all walks of life, before being discovered by a journalist and recording 5 albums.

His music is super *orrechiabile* (how do you say that in French?... easy to listen to...?) with diverse influences. And his lyrics—simple but powerful.

A few examples from his different albums:

Svegliatevi italiani

Translation, not bad.

Maddalena

Translation, very rough, but it gives you an idea. PS for Masterpo if you’re reading this: an answer to *Noli me tangere*! Mado had other things to do. Something human, wonderfully human.

Arca di Noè

No translation available for this song, which sings of a lost Noah’s Ark world adrift. So, uh, the chorus? Let’s go, let’s go. But where are we going? Who knows? Who knows? I’m not afraid. This life is all I have, and the shorter it is, the louder I’ll sing: Eu quero viver como um beija-flor

Agua

No translation for this one either. Just two lines: At night, you can search in an embrace for something that doesn’t taste like rage.

Hope this inspires some of you to listen more, in the winter light.
By this, and this only, we have existed. Which is not to be found in our obituaries. (T.S. Eliot)
NO Normandaluz Veteran ·
Oh yeah, I know that one. When we traveled in Tuscany a few years ago, we listened to it on repeat!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=moLwYtu31ZQ
UN UnaMilanese Veteran ·
Evening. Yeah, me too. With one or two exceptions, I love all his songs. Plus, he’s able to mix it up (unlike Ligabue, where you feel like you’re always listening to the same song), so he keeps things surprising. Catherine
By this, and this only, we have existed. Which is not to be found in our obituaries. (T.S. Eliot)

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