FULMINACCI - Calcinacci

Filippo Uttinacci lacks creative ambition. But he has one remarkable strength: he never gets a word wrong. And rarely a hook. It's a quality that shows up again right on cue in "Calcinacci", the singer-songwriter's fourth album. It's a record that moves confidently within by-now well-defined coordinates: polished, refined Italian pop, caught between Seventies singer-songwriter tradition, prominent funky-disco groove, and a lightness that, if it isn't quite wave, comes close.
All without ever weighing the whole thing down: words and sounds stay breezy, everyday, never pedantic. And able to play with vivid images with natural ease, keeping their distance from hackneyed emphasis and worn-out comparisons, but also - and this is a rare gift - from sloppy winks and lapses in tone.

As in the past, though, the album works best when it picks up the pace. The livelier tracks are the ones where the songwriting flows better: "Casomai" lines up well-aimed images ("Ti aspetto ancora, come un fritto senza pastella/ Un sorriso senza mascella/ Un vestito senza modella/ Battisti senza Panella") with a sharp, brilliant touch; "Nulla di stupefacente" strikes a bittersweet balance over an effective folk-pop framework; "Meno di zero" rides an irresistible chorus and a self-mocking development that takes aim at the value (and the ritual) of the song itself.

When the tempos slow down, though, the balance tips into a fifty-fifty split between sentimentality lit up by the occasional spark and tracks that are decidedly more saccharine. "Da qualche parte in Italy", with its melodic ups and downs and imagery suspended between the romantic and the technological, falls into the first camp; elsewhere, though, things slide toward lazier solutions, especially when the arrangement (strings above all) takes an overly accommodating turn. The clearest case is "Stupida sfortuna", chosen for the festival: a flat trajectory, orchestral treacle, a song that seems written on Sanremo autopilot. A shame, because caution wins out here, when there would have been far more capable songs to shine.

In terms of reference points, the record does make a few departures from the more predictable path. The echoes of Daniele Silvestri recede compared to his debut; other, more overt ghosts pop up instead: the chromatic, descending bassline of "Niente di particolare" essentially amounts to channeling McCartney (or is it Cremonini?); the verse of "Tutto bene" lands in De Gregori territory (excess chords aside); "Mitomani" flirts with Battiato and, in its first verse, almost feels like a caricature (though it's actually one of the sharpest tracks here, along with the other two just mentioned).

The collaborations, significant on paper, never quite deliver on their promise. The features with Tutti Fenomeni, Franco126 (who also co-writes "Stupida sfortuna") and the uncredited presence of Tommaso Paradiso on "Maledetto me" don't give the tracks any particular lift. More decisive, though less visible, is the work of Pietro Paoletti (Golden Years), who supports the songwriting and holds the tracks together by playing pretty much everything – guitars, bass, keyboards, drums.

In the end, "Calcinacci"'s winning card coincides with its main flaw: pop songwriting that never stumbles, and precisely for that reason never risks anything either. Every track knows exactly what it needs to do – and doesn't do much beyond that. The margin for error stays minimal; so does the margin for surprise.

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17/04/2026