24 Grana - The thousand colors of independent Naples

Cura ‘e paure cu mille culure

(From “Kevlar”)

The story of Francesco “Ciccio” Di Bella, Renato Minale (drums), Armando Cotugno (bass) and Giuseppe Fontanella (guitar) began around 1995, in the Naples of the posse collectives and the social centers, drawing on the dub influences and the recurring use of electronics typical of that scene. Coming from such a difficult reality, political commitment, activism and a strongly socially-engaged songwriting were, for the band, an inevitable direction — practically a “non-choice”. As if 24 Grana's songs almost had to speak of the Camorra, of drug addiction in northern Naples, of the decay of the outskirts, of the poverty that seeped even into the city's central arteries and, with even greater force, of the state's indifference in the face of it all. And so they did.

However, the Neapolitan situation soon stopped being the target of the band's invectives, becoming instead the backdrop for Di Bella's poetic stories. The mountain of filth from which candid flowers could bloom, from which to watch marvelous sunrises and adore the infinity of the sea, the dance of the waves. Protest songs, then, but deeply intimate and individualistic ones, charged with hope and an unsuspected tenderness. Even when the characters in 24 Grana's songs are not ordinary people but rather an integral part of the social landscape that hosts their stories (political prisoners, drug addicts, etc.), it is always their point of view, their story and their feelings that prevail over the critical subject matter. A choice that makes Francesco Di Bella's sociological songwriting mission even deeper and more ambitious, while at the same time closing the gap between his messages and those who listen to them.

Besides being enriched with new characters and stories, the Neapolitans' songbook touched on new genres with every record, eventually taking on completely different shapes. Though far apart in time, Metaversus and The same boat are both contaminated alternative rock albums, K-album is essentially indie rock Neapolitan-style with a great taste for languid melodies, Ghostwriters is a fully-fledged singer-songwriter work, and so on. What has never changed is Di Bella's almost total use of the Neapolitan dialect, a conditio sine qua non for coloring his characters' stories, for expressing himself in all his poetry. A bold choice, but one that didn't overly hamper 24 Grana's ability to reach audiences across Italy. Or in Chicago. “Hello Steve, I’m Ciccio…”. But let's take it step by step, without rushing.

Di Bella, Cotugno and Minale (Fontanella would join the lineup only later) started playing together between 1994 and 1995 under the moniker Surrey Iron Railway, which they would very soon change to 24 Grana – a coin of little value used during the reign of Ferdinand I of Aragon. Often asked about the choice of such a peculiar name, the band would explain it through their strong bond with the South and their almost nonexistent one with money. Released on the compilation “AA.VV. Napoli Sound System”, the band's first published track was titled “Regina”. It's a rather lively reggae tune, driven by a skipping flute as well as the genre's traditional keyboards, introducing Di Bella's unmistakable singsong delivery, here sounding as if he were muttering to a friend among the stalls of the Pignasecca fish market. It's a fun song, deeply tied both to Neapolitan tradition and to the vivid scene of the city's posse collectives and social centers, particularly to Almamegretta, with whom 24 Grana at the time shared a passion for dub, reggae and electronic flourishes.

Shortly after the release of “Regina”, the then-trio would meet two people who would mark their history. The first was obviously guitarist Giuseppe Fontanella, the second producer Claudio De Cristofaro, who would work with them as manager, friend and advisor until 2009. De Cristofaro had the band sign with the music publisher La Canzonetta, for whom they released their self-titled EP in 1996, containing a remix of “Regina”, “Tarantolata”, “Lu cardillo” and “Perso ‘into ‘o cavero”. The last two tracks would be revisited to close out Loop, the group's debut LP, released the following year again by La Canzonetta.

Dub is a label that would haunt 24 Grana for a very long time, practically their entire career. Strange to say, because when all is said and done Loop is their only record that is fully — though tempered by a few contaminations — ascribable to the genre. The cover of Loop depicts an orange against a white background; the fruit is partly peeled, but its pulp appears intact, round and juicy. It's a simple photograph that holds an equally direct message: 24 Grana want to get straight to the point, they don't care about the surface, they want to show us the beating heart of the city and its problems, but also its hidden, ambiguous charm. The record has not one but two intros. The first, sung by Di Bella in Italian, is titled simply “Loop” and lays out, over a hypnotic bed of reverberated guitars and a velvety drum pattern, an explanation of the word through the metaphor of waves, but also a reflection on the asynchrony between soul and thought. The second, “Introdub”, is a reggae party destined to liven up the band's live shows forever, complete with blaring ska horns and invocations to Ishmael. It is, however, an isolated episode: from the following “1799” onward the tempo drops drastically, Cotugno's bass becomes irreversibly thick and heavy, ready to set the pace for leaden suburban nightmares and claustrophobic dub.

Also decisive on Loop is the use of electronics and sampling, which the four musicians use to give shape and sound to the scenes they describe or, as happens precisely in “1979” with a piercing sample of Ciccio's voice, to stretch out their painful pleas. Electronics are also the soul of the biting “Frate e sore”, charged with tremors reminiscent of Massive Attack and Fontanella's creeping guitar. Equally interesting is the work done reworking “Vesuvio” by E Zezi – Gruppo Operaio (the historic folk outfit from Pomigliano), which gives new vigor to a true traditional song about the contradictions that industrialization brought to the slopes of the volcano. The closeness to Neapolitan folk tradition is underlined even more strongly by the closing “Lu cardillo”, a deeply felt, full-throated rendition of a folk hymn by an anonymous 18th-century author. “Pixel”, on the other hand, is the irresistible preview of the 24 Grana yet to come. During the chorus a roaring alt-rock guitar steals the scene from the keyboards' reggae chimes and fuels Di Bella's first true anthem: “M’arracumanno! m’arraccumanno!/ patemò m’o dice tutt’e vote ca me chiamma/ m’arracumanno! m’arraccumanno!/ m’arraccumanno!”.

There's no shortage of less gripping, perhaps slightly superfluous moments, “Treno” for instance, but we're still talking about a band in its infancy. Nothing, though, that could tarnish the memory of a highly successful record, one that stands as a one-off in the band's discography and, thanks to its unprecedented mix of references to Southern traditions and dub sounds, in the history of Italian independent music. Listening to Loop is also a must to enjoy the magnetism of the almost shamanic intonations, halfway between a priest and a fishmonger, that Di Bella — gradually softening his voice — would never again touch with such frequency.

Thanks to heavy word of mouth, Loop was – at least within the underground – a huge success, and it earned 24 Grana numerous live dates across the country, particularly in the South. Their intense live activity was soon documented on a live album recorded during a show at Naples' Teatro Nuovo and titled simply Loop Live. Despite their virtually nonstop touring, by 1999 the band had managed to write numerous new songs, so much so that during one of the rare breaks from the tour they managed to put together their eagerly awaited second LP.

Recorded in a studio on the peaceful, secluded island of Procida, Metaversus is probably the best album by the Neapolitan band – the only doubt comes from its equally focused and poignant sequel, K-album.

Driven by a spirited electric guitar riff, “Nel Metaverso” throws open the doors to an album completely different from its predecessor, with the ratio of reggae to rock influences flipped on its head. The former are practically confined to the verse of “Rappresento”, to “Nun me movo mai” and to the little electric guitar flourishes scattered through the verse of “La costanza” – an incredible, empathetic mood lifter for hard days. But it's “Rappresento” itself that reveals Di Bella and co.'s new face, sinking its teeth into the listener's neck with a relentless, dry riffing. Even the electronics, which on Loop were relegated to a background role, take on greater prominence here, often accompanying the guitars or even replacing them at the crucial moments of the songs. A clear example of this new course is the role of the cybernetic gurgles in “Vesto sempre uguale”, which could have been dreamed up by Subsonica at their best.

As befits a good alternative-rock turning point, Metaversus is made up mostly of brisk, urgent tracks, and perhaps that's exactly why its more reflective, downtempo, autumnal middle section casts an even greater spell. I've already written about “La costanza”, the heart of this section, but “La pena”, kept in rhythm by the pulse of an electronic heart and torn apart by Fontanella's anguished guitar, and the shadowy strings of “Le abitudini” are no less evocative.

After such a gloomy triptych, and thanks to the clear counterpoint of a piano, the sooty, distorted riff of “Resto acciso” feels even more violent. Contrasts, moments of stasis, sudden bursts of noise and a lyric about drugs that shows no mercy make it one of the most layered and successful songs the band would ever write. It's joined in that category by the track that closes the album, “Stai mai ccà”, another song about drugs – hashish this time – though set to a completely different mood, as if the band wanted to send the listener off with a bright, hopeful message, or at least one of escape. The beats pop like popcorn, the electronic loops feel like rays of sunshine and the guitar arpeggio is calm and soothing: the perfect backdrop for a choir of Neapolitan fairies singing “chiude ll'uocchie e suonne stai mai ccà”. It's a trick that recurs often in this Neapolitan band's music, setting almost brutal moments against relaxed, pacifying ones – something I like to call explosions of sweetness amid the rubbish.

With no filler or weaker moments to speak of, Metaversus brought the band under the spotlight of a wider audience and earned the praise of the national specialist press – Rumore even gave them a well-deserved cover story. Boosted also by the delicate illustrations Davide Toffolo created for its video, “Stai mai ccà” would a few years later become the soundtrack to the cult movie “Fame chimica”.

“Je nun songo accussì, doce”, sings Di Bella on “Kanzone doce”, the smooth third track on K-album. “Nun è over Cì, tu si doce comme 'o zucchero”, one would be tempted to reply by the time the third chapter of 24 Grana's discography comes to an end. A record that, on one hand, continues the street-smart indie-rock discourse begun with Metaversus, while on the other reveals, with total candor, an undeniable melodic soul. Except for the snarling “Kanzoneanarkika”, which in any case has little in common with the dark tones of “Resto acciso”, K-album flows smoothly like a river full of crystal-clear melodies, guided by Giuseppe Fontanella's languid guitar. It's a river that ripples now and then, but never so much as to betray its peaceful, sugary, and always slightly melancholy nature. Compared to previous albums, Fontanella also makes much wider use of acoustic guitar – an instrument that would later become dominant on Ghostwriters – yet without ever slipping into the cliché of the Italian-style ballad, instead folding its old, metallic sound into the record's still strongly electronic sound. The guitar line on “Kanzone Doce”, for instance, has the flavour of a slowed-down tarantella, yet it winds sinuously through electro crackles, weaving them softly together like embroidery. Simple things, the small, kind gestures of everyday life, are set against wealth and materialism in “'E kose ka spakkano”. Painted by a guitar that nearly melts away, it's a key episode for understanding the pursuit of purity at the heart of the album.

In a context like this, there was bound to be a tender love song, so genuine and heartfelt it almost sounds childlike: “Kevlar”. Outside it's pouring with rain, the perfect weather for humming an unsteady piano melody, singing about your fears and how to defeat them with “mille culure”. About waking up full of hope, a mission only possible when you do it next to the one you love. Love is absent, though, from “Kanzone su un detenuto politico”, a prison-set alternative rock track whose rhythm mimics chains and gates, a bitter reflection on the loneliness of political prisoners, abandoned even by their former comrades in the cause. The album closes with a THC-soaked instrumental titled “Kanzone del fumo”, where bass, drums, strings and even a toy orchestra follow different trajectories, like wisps of light vapor. It's proof of the whole band's considerable technical growth and the psychedelic peak of their career. Underground legend has it that the K in the album's title, which replaces the C in every song title, is a reference to ketamine. A claim promptly denied by the band, for whom K simply stands for "key". And if some fans really want to see ketamine as a key to a different perception of reality, Cotugno said, they're free to do so.

An album as incredibly pop as the one from 2001 could only lead 24 Grana to reflect on what, by that point, their true nature was, on what they had become. Not that they had ever been entirely a centro sociale band, the kind that has no reason to exist without a political mission, but after K-album the combative essence of their early days had nearly vanished. Released two years later, Underpop represents, starting with its very title, the acknowledgment of that fact. The first things that stand out on listening to it, confirming its pop-oriented identity, are the greater use of Italian in the lyrics, which for the first time outweighs the dialect, and the increased liveliness and directness of the melodies compared to K-album.

After a very brief intro titled “Nella stanza”, the album explodes to the rhythm of its manifesto, “Canto pè ne suffrì”, a song that, thanks to its joyful message and an instantly catchy melody, would soon become a fan favourite as well as one of the quartet's best-known songs. Although Neapolitan dialect remains their secret weapon, tracks like “La neve” and “Vivo in un furgone” show Di Bella perfectly at ease in Italian too. The choice to partially set aside the dialect is in fact not among the reasons why “Underpop” is only a minor success. Those reasons lie instead in the flattening, and at times trivializing, of its sound, the result of trying to boost its radio appeal. The guitars indeed indulge in rather by-the-numbers solos, not unlike those of certain mainstream Italian pop. Even “Napule tana”, on paper a return to dub sounds, falls far short of the hypnotic depths of the basslines on Loop and ends up sounding almost like reggae for dummies.

What saves the album is a poetic, intense ending. First with the cryptic, nocturnal ballad “Luce e luna”, then with the enveloping “L'attenzione”, where Ciccio pulls off the feat of blending politics and love in a lyric that reveals, more clearly than ever, his dream of brotherhood. His own meaning of the word communism. Fontanella's guitar is grainy and warm here once again, and passionately underscores the sun-blinded embraces in Di Bella's words.

The five years between Underpop and Ghostwriters are the longest stretch ever between two of the band's albums, a sign both of the Neapolitans' need to gather their thoughts and of a newfound reflectiveness. With Ghostwriters, one can indeed speak of a full-fledged record of maturity. The contribution of each instrument to the songs is measured here, in service of the lyrics, which have never been so unabashedly singer-songwriter in nature. The hand of new producer Daniele Sinigallia, brother of Riccardo, is also evident here, with Riccardo himself called in to lend his fresh, sugary voice to the hopeful “Avere una vita davanti”.

Riccardo Sinigallia isn't the album's only guest; he's joined by Marina Rei on “Smania 'e cagnà” and Filippo Gatti on “La verità”. These guest appearances show just how relevant and well-regarded 24 Grana had become by 2008 within the independent scene across the whole country, despite their unbreakable bond with Naples and its dialect.

Ghostwriters is a kaleidoscope of themes and tones. It ranges from love songs and everyday tenderness, like “L'alba” – where Di Bella sings such delicate lines as “Si cercasse inte a nata città/ na canzone cà nun trove cchiù/ me perdesse a cchiù bella pecchè ca ce staje tu” – or the lovely neighbourhood vignette “Accireme”, to raw, painful tracks. The latter is the case with “Carcere”, one of Di Bella's compositional peaks. Delivered entirely in rhyming couplets in Neapolitan dialect, it's the harrowing first-person account of a murder in the city's toughest neighbourhoods, a place ruled by poverty and desperation, where violence is the only form of justice available. The heavy bass and icy scrapes on the guitar's high strings streak a song that not only depicts an irredeemable reality but condemns the deafening absence of the institutions.

Ghostwriters lacks the drive of a Metaversus or the penetrating mood of K-album, making it less immediately striking than those two records, but its measured, orderly nature reveals an unseen side of the band, absolutely worth savouring.

Naples, Procida, Avellino and Rome are the places where 24 Grana recorded their albums up until 2008. In 2011, with The same boat, the band decided to step away from their usual stomping ground, from their comfort zone. The band's sixth album was in fact recorded in Chicago, at the Electrical Audio Studios of alt-rock royalty Steve Albini, who produced the record personally. For the occasion, bassist Armando Cotugno, who had long since moved to London in search of new stimuli, was replaced by Alessandro Innaro of Epo. Albini is inevitably a starting point for talking about this record. Starting with its title, The same boat, and the fact that it arrives exactly three years after its predecessor, Ghostwriters, produced by ex-Tiromancino member Daniele Sinigallia. A decisive change of course, then, from the banks of the Tiber to Illinois, from sophisticated pop to the purest essence of metal. And indeed, that's exactly what The same boat is: essential, at times stripped-down, but never rough. Albini, after all, is someone who captures sounds, who records in analogue and tends not to meddle with the actual production or arrangements. The result is clean, straightforward. Truth be told, it's not that far removed from what one might have expected today from 24 Grana, who, having closed the chapter – a fruitful one, at that – of the more markedly melodic K-album and Underpop, confirm themselves to be a band that can no longer help but decide what to do with its own destiny.

There's no trace left of the band's original headlong spirit: the songs are more considered, maybe they can still be pissed off, but time takes its toll, and Francesco Di Bella's restless or cunning musings come across as less immediate than the musical approach would suggest. Among all the tracks, standouts include the surgical post-punk of "Cenere", sung in Italian, the Dinosaur Jr-style indie-noise of "Ombre", and "Malevera", a murky prison tale that in both theme and sound inevitably recalls the days of K-album. And then there's the closing nursery rhyme of "Oggi rimani laggiù", also in Italian, disarmingly simple, almost a small, trusting secular prayer.

The same boat effectively closes the book on 24 Grana's story, a band that has now been on stand-by, even live, for a good five years. Not without flaws or dips in form, the Neapolitan band's records make up a substantial, shape-shifting legacy — as substantial as the void they leave behind, especially live, orphaning a generation that for a solid ten years waited all summer to crowd around the stage of Ciccio and his bandmates — often for free — to hug each other and jump around… cantanno per nun suffrì.

Francesco Di Bella, on the other hand, is still active, having reached this year the third stage of his career as a singer-songwriter.

After a first release titled Francesco Di Bella & Ballads Café — essentially nothing more than the recorded document of a live show in which, around 2013, Di Bella performed rearranged versions of some of the most significant songs from his career with 24 Grana — 2016 brought Nuova Gianturco, an album of new material set in one of the Naples neighborhoods most important to the singer-songwriter's artistic growth.

This urban area, like many others in the Neapolitan metropolis, has its own distinctive history that ended up shaping a unique subculture among the territory and its inhabitants. Gianturco, once home to huge petrochemical and metallurgical industrial plants, has since the second half of the 20th century become one of the Neapolitan districts most affected by organized petty crime, the ghettoization of ethnic minorities and social decay; at the same time, however, from 1991 it also became home to one of Italy's most important social centers: Officina 99, an abandoned warehouse at number 101 Via Gianturco that was occupied by the "Pantera" student movement, exiled in those years from its base at the University of Naples. The occupied building quickly became a cultural cradle teeming with ideas and activism, serving as amniotic fluid for two fundamental Campanian acts, 99 Posse and 24 Grana. It was in fact right here that 24 Grana first came together in 1995.

Nuova Gianturco is the former frontman's first album of new material, written and produced with the constant support of Daniele Sinigallia, an arranger and producer who since the 2000s has worked alongside Italian artists of the caliber of Tiromancino, Niccolò Fabi and Luca Carboni. Sinigallia and Di Bella met during the making of 24 Grana's Ghostwriters, and worked together during Di Bella's first solo outing, titled Francesco Di Bella and Ballads Café (a live collection).

Nuova Gianturco isn't a truly solo, solipsistic record, as is often the case with many songwriters; rather, it's more like a sprawling, particularly refined jam session among musicians — Di Bella, in fact, draws on big names from the Italian scene and beyond.

After the relentless opening of the title track, along comes the roots rhythm of "Aziz", an imaginary migrant's monologue sung together with 99 Posse, which nods precisely to the transcultural condition of life in Gianturco.

The use of dialect is already present from the earliest lyrics, but it never overwhelms, remaining a poetic aside reserved for typically Neapolitan terms and certain lines — as happens on the single "Tre Nummarielle", a melancholy ballad that alludes to the dreams and aspirations of a young working-class Neapolitan couple, forced to hope for a lottery win for a better life. With "Progetto", Di Bella returns to the theme of working-class romantic ambitions, but with the support of a rather unremarkable Neffa — a flaw, given the experience of a pop singer-songwriter who came up through Negazione and Sangue Misto.

The album's narrative, intimate pulse breaks through instead with the compelling, vaguely noise-tinged "Blues napoletano", a powerful sound driven by a particularly well-judged interplay of percussion, guitar and bass — perhaps thanks to the surprising presence, among the record's collaborators, of Joe Lally straight from Fugazi.

Closing out the album are "Brigante se more", a folk cover by Di Bella as a tribute to Eugenio Bennato and Carlo D'Angiò's Musicanova, and "Guardate fore", which, with acoustic guitar and electronic echoes, carries the listener through "Uscire da casa" and "Guardare fore", an explicit call to action and activism that has always defined Officina 99.

To sum up, Nuova Gianturco is an album built on complex sounds that never tip over into excessive experimentation (you can hear Daniele Sinigallia's melodic touches on tracks like "Non ho più tempo" and "'Na bella vita"). The lyrics hit home and conjure vivid images for listeners familiar with the settings described in the songs, but they tend to repeat themselves in places and stay on the surface, sticking to a kind of political correctness that 24 Grana always happily smashed to pieces.

Caught between the urge to forge his own identity and the occasional misstep, Francesco Di Bella delivers a solo debut of undeniable sonic quality that deserves more than one listen, but one that still lacks an identity of its own in terms of content, one capable of moving beyond what's already been told.

I don't know what happens in other parts of Italy, but in Naples it's often been 'o diavolo, 'o diavolo che tien' 'n cuorpo. It's an expression you hear a lot in the provinces, from the mouths of old men and women commenting on whatever misdeed is in question, for instance. It's a phrase that captures that very Neapolitan blend of superstition and irony, a phrase Ciccio Di Bella must have heard often and probably said just as many times. And so there he is, 'O Diavolo (2018, La canzonetta), looming large against the turquoise backdrop of the cover of his third solo album, complete with scepter, flames and serpent. As beguiling as befits him, swaggering, festive — how else could he possibly tempt all these people, inviting them to dance together to the "musica granda suonata da un tamburo gigante" that Francesco conjures up in the title track, a record that's part folk, part Neapolitan Power.

Folk and prog, naturally filtered through a Neapolitan lens, are among the dominant shades of "'O Diavolo". The former surfaces, for instance, in the nocturnal ballad "Notte senza luna", while the latter glimmers among the crystalline keyboards of the surprising "Rivelazione". These, however, are just two colors from an unexpectedly varied palette of influences: consider how the boundless sweetness of "Scinne ambresso" is first wrapped in an orchestral arrangement and then set skipping along to the rhythm of a lively banjo. Or "Rub-a-dub style", another little gem (here Ciccio insistently sings "m'è pigliat', m'è pigliat' po' o' core"), which stretches out hypnotically into a long, melancholy, suburban electronic coda, a riot of '90s sounds and misty eyes.

Now at his second solo outing (second if we don't count the work with Ballad Cafè), Di Bella puts himself forward as one of the most interesting voices on the (at least) southern Italian songwriting scene. Sure, there's no shortage of naivety here and there – one thinks of the rather childish ballad “Stella Nera” and yet another prison song, this one admittedly a bit vague, “Canzone 'e carcerate” (a track inspired by the verses of poet Ferdinando Russo, though it really doesn't hold up against the likes of “Carcere” and “Kanzone su un detenuto politico”). But the sudden bursts of sweetness amid a sea of grime, of which Francesco Di Bella remains the undisputed master, are still one of the most delightful little miracles of Italian independent music, and seeing them replayed in new and ever-changing guises is a real pleasure.

After a full nine years away from the scene (the last two due to the pandemic), in 2022 24 Grana finally reunited, restoring their original line-up with the return of Armando Cotugno on bass, for two new tracks (“Orso” and “A Raccolta”, the latter featuring Campanian rapper Clementino) and several live dates around the country.

Almost simultaneously with the tour, the band's leader, Francesco Di Bella, released Play With Me. Not just an album, but a further show of affection towards himself and his own songbook, this time courtesy of a sizeable crowd of Italian and international guests – indeed, also taking part was Joe Lally of Fugazi, whom he met back when “The same boat” was recorded in the United States.

Across twelve tracks, “Play With Me” draws equally from the songs of Di Bella's recent solo career and from tracks spanning every phase of his band's history. As the album title suggests, one or more artists were brought in to reinterpret each song – invited to share some of the songwriter's tunes with him – and all of them prove well suited to the tones and nuances of the track they tackle. One of the strengths of the project is precisely how fitting and comfortable these duets sound for the chosen performers.

While the choices of a fellow traveller in songwriting like Dario Sansone of Foja, with whom “Ciccio” shares the wonderful “L'attenzione” in a version spiced up by harmonica, or Cesare Basile, brought in for an angular folk reworking of “Carcere”, feel fairly natural, others are far bolder.

Among others, Varese-born Pierpaolo Capovilla and Rome-through-and-through Marina Rei even found themselves tackling the Neapolitan language, respectively on “'O Diavolo” (alongside Carmelo Pipitone as well) and “Rivelazione”. Both reinterpretations rank among the album's most successful episodes, the former thanks to the highly theatrical approach the three performers bring to the track, the latter thanks to the melodic chemistry between Di Bella's voice and Rei's.

Less surprising in terms of impact, but still pleasant and well-executed, are the appearances of two heavyweights of Italian independent songwriting such as Riccardo Sinigallia (“Avere una vita davanti”) and Paolo Benvegnù (“Avevo un progetto”). Ginevra Di Marco's husky voice adds shadows to an evocative fingerpicking-and-synth version of “La Costanza”; Enrico Gabrielli and his strings lend a cinematic finale to the evergreen “Introdub”.

Recommended above all to those already familiar with the unmatched chromatic palette of Francesco Di Bella's songs, Play With Me doesn't overturn any of the tracks on offer – perhaps a bit more daring wouldn't have hurt – but reshapes them just enough to surprise the listener while keeping things comfortable for those singing along to their sweet, iconic lyrics.

“'O scuro nun me passa cchiù

Sta voce nun me scarfa cchiù”

So sings Francesco Di Bella in “Che 'a fa?”, the lively opener of Acqua santa (La canzonetta, 2025), his third solo album of new material. If he were speaking for himself, that would be Ciccio all over.

For us, that voice of his still warms us up, with its bittersweet tone, forever adolescent, and the small poetic games tucked into this new stream of poetic play in Neapolitan. And yes, “the darkness” does pass too, listening to these delicate songs, with the heart quickening as the cityscape scrolls by along with worries that have gradually grown more adult.

Maybe it all works so well because the formula is the same as ever, and we feel right at home, us and Ciccio. Sure, “Stella che brucia” burns with horns that, while not unheard-of, have never been so prominent, as does a meditation on time titled “Canzoni”, which even adds a touch of theremin to the woodwinds. But the emotions, the reflections that bring a tear to your eye and dry it with a cloth of poetry, are the same as always.

“N'ata luna” and “Menamm 'e mmane”, both built around the piano, with a few string and trumpet flourishes on the latter, ooze all of Di Bella's love for the ballad form. We'd never heard him sound so much like a crooner before, at least in terms of phrasing – though, then again, you don't come across many crooners singing about flying dogs behind the mountains.

The aforementioned “Che 'a fa?” and “Stella che brucia” feature guests – or, as Di Bella would put it, friends – Alice and Colapesce respectively, both treading lightly and perfectly at ease amid the host's gentle expressive needs.

The taut yet sugary acoustic guitar arpeggios of "Mmiez'’a via", the shyly bluesy turns of "Senza parlà" and the final crescendo of the title track close out a half-hour journey loaded with hope.

Without any great inventions, but with the same caressing urgency as ever, Di Bella has written eight new songs perfect for these cold days, for bundling up with hands in pockets and music in your ears while walking through our lives.

Contributions by Giovanni Dozzini (“The same boat”), Gabriele Senatore (“Nuova Gianturco”)

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