Diego Mancino
L' Evidenza

Our loyal space newspaper readers, who occasionally stumble upon my whimsical opinions, know how little I appreciate Italian music. To be clear, it's not out of arrogance. I own all the classics on vinyl and have seen historic bands live from the '80s onward (too young to have surfed the progressive wave) countless times, some even a dozen occasions, sometimes more than one date on the same tour. In recent years, considering the '90s scene generally over (surprised by the latest Afta, which spins delightfully) and finding the post-rock scene in Italy absolutely unbearable, I follow just two or three musicians (I remain silent, for reasons of age discretion, about my infatuations for Roberta Sammarelli). I've already had the chance to praise Bachi da Pietra in a couple of writings. I can say of Theo Teardo that I consider him a composer of international-level film scores. The other major artist, in my honest and modest opinion, is Diego Mancino.

Who might he be, the unaware might wonder. A praiseworthy pop singer, I could briefly answer. But the term pop already implies a series of assumptions to which I cannot respond. Having decided to be lengthy and redundant, let me return to the beginning. What is it, in general, that makes me not appreciate Italian music, understood in its song form? That, in most cases, it is too emulative of Anglo-Saxon music. To give you an example, even if in the course of a review, it's an utterly foolish practice, a few mornings ago I heard Meg's new single. It seemed like a Bjork piece from ten years ago. Why should I listen to something, done worse, stale by two decades? Also, because I believe it is absolutely possible to enrich the sounds coming from abroad with our, considered as Italian, sensibility, a melting pot of Mediterranean flavors and Central European decadence. And this in order to create music that is not a slavish derivation of foreign realms, but rather a new world, without a defined identity, like Wenger's young Arsenal.

In this, Diego Mancino seems to succeed, I believe. He writes songs that sometimes carry a Beatles-like scent ("Satellite"), others, reminiscences of the almost Floydian seventies ("Soli Non Si E' Mai"), but ultimately appear as pure pop writing, placeless, except for a certain Milanese origin. Creating excellent melodic songs while avoiding repetitiveness and triteness is an endeavor that always fascinates me. And, yes, every now and then, not having died before getting old, I enjoy listening to someone with a nice voice who can actually sing.

And so, in this particularly gloomy spring, which is only now appearing to open, my slow awakenings, while I wonder why things are never in their right place, are accompanied by this album. Which, for at least a few moments, makes me believe that everything will be alright.