La Niña
Furèsta

No one is perfect, that goes without saying. But how much do the flaws that belong to us shape our lives? Mine, recently, almost made me miss out on what has become one of my favorite albums of the year.

But just like Elizabeth Bennet, who seems to let love (or, even worse, an extremely advantageous marriage) slip by because of her prejudices, but ultimately manages to marry Mr. Darcy, my story too has a happy ending. Slightly less so, however: I will still have to keep working to make a living.

The first time I heard about Furesta was in March, during a launch showcase organized at my favorite record store. As a proper representative of the asocial philosophy—embraced more out of shyness than disdain for mankind—the idea of attending didn’t even cross my mind. Also, being profoundly oriented toward foreign music and the album being Italian (or mostly so), I didn’t bother to listen to it either.

Later, I caught a brief glimpse of a tiny excerpt from that acoustic show, and it left me with a pleasant feeling. It made me think of Nuova Compagnia di Canto Popolare, music from my childhood, since the NCCP’s albums were some of the few good records in my parents’ collection. But what piqued my curiosity was that shortly after, right on these pages, I read a comment, perhaps by Zion, quoting a song by La Niña as an intelligent example of the use of autotune.

Hold on! What does the reinterpretation of traditional Neapolitan music have to do with autotune?

So then I made the biggest mistake: instead of listening to it, I looked up reviews online. That was almost the point of no return. Among the top results appeared Vogue and Cosmopolitan.

Now, more than my asocial tendencies or my love for foreign music, my biggest flaw as a listener is that I am, as someone likes (or used to like) to remind me, terribly snobbish. The fact that the album had been noticed by the mainstream press, and even by women’s magazines, scared me immensely: in my mind it was quickly labeled as “hair salon music,” where it is well known that terrible music is played. In fact, I never go there.

All of this kept me away from listening for at least a good month. Then, due to an intense work period that forced me to stay less up-to-date on new releases and at the same time travel often alone by car, not knowing what else to put on, I remembered that I had never actually listened to the famous Furesta. A sort of “più che l'onor poté il digiuno” (misquoting a Dante De Andrè-ified), though perhaps “boredom proved stronger than prejudice” would fit better, but I haven’t found any precedent for that one.

It was love at first sight.

How could anyone not be won over by an album that opens with that hymn to vitality that is Zì Viola (sampled in Guapparìa) and ends with a lullaby where magpies invite you not to worry while a harpsichord tune, ever faster, fades into beating wings (Pica Pica)? An enchanting world suspended between past and present, full of inventiveness, where music is played with clogs (’O ballo d’’e ‘mpennate) or hair (Tremm'), a small bestiary full of cats, birds, snakes, mice. Tracks inspired by ancient music are accompanied by electronic effects and sounds, and synthesizers alternate with mandolins and tammorre. The chitarra battente and the sisco (a traditional wind instrument similar to a pipe) reaffirm the Campanian roots, but the kemenche (a Middle Eastern bowed instrument) widens the perspective to Greece and Turkey, and castanets underline the link between southern Italy and Spain.

La Niña, a.k.a. Carola Moccia, and Alfredo Maddaluno, who wrote, played, and produced the album with her, come from an electronic music background, but with the project La Niña (now on its second album) have decided to blend these modern experiences with a strong traditional component—primarily Campanian, but embracing the whole Mediterranean. This continuity is reflected linguistically as well: alongside Neapolitan, there’s French, in the collaboration with Franco-Iranian artist KUKII (Tremm’), and Arabic, in the track with Egyptian artist Abdullah Miniawy (Sanghe).

Furesta is a percussive and choral record that touches deep, ancestral chords. A rich album, which some have called baroque, layered, the result of study, research, almost excavation. A work full of references, but also immediate, passionate, deeply popular. This layering is well represented by the acknowledgments, where we find all together Roberto Murolo, Maestro Roberto De Simone, Scarlatti, Cimarosa, Tonino ‘O Stocco & Rafilina (the latter two, owners of a drum shop).

Two elements, however, have mainly shaped the way I "feel" Furesta, making it connect with who I am, regardless of who I’d like to be.

The first is language. Although there is now a wide range of modern music in my dialect, I rarely (voluntarily) listen to contemporary Neapolitan music, but in this case the use of Neapolitan played a fundamental role. Because if I still doubt whether it was my absolute album of the year, I’m certain it’s the one I sang with the most passion (usually in the privacy of my Lancia Y’s front seat). Maybe it’s because no “I miss you” or “I can't live without you” manages to inspire in me the same aching nostalgia as a “Senza e te nun me fido 'e sta” (Ahi!), or because each of us can find a different voice depending on the language they use. Curiously, Carola revealed in an interview that she didn’t like her own voice and only discovered its potential after she started singing in dialect. As if the language had made her discover a musicality previously unknown. I remain hopelessly tone-deaf, but to realize that Carola has a beautiful voice you just need to listen to Chiena ‘e scippe.

The second element is that yes, Furesta is a profoundly feminine album. Not a glossy femininity, but a strong, wild one: furesta, indeed. Much of its success with the gender-press is probably due to Figlia d’’a Tempesta, a prêt-à-porter anthem for every feminist rally. Despite a touch of rhetoric (but what anthem would it be otherwise?), I adore that “Arraggia ca’ nunn’ arreposa”, and how beautiful it would be if we could truly believe in “Paura 'e nie', Paura 'e nie' /paura 'e nient'” while singing it. Above all, I have to confess, not without some embarrassment at my not-so-original source of emotion, that something inside me breaks every time the chorus shouts “Pe’ ‘e sore ca’ ce' ate luat’ ca nun so’ turnat’/nun l'amm scurdat’, nun l'amm scurdat’”.

Lastly, and this is no small thing, this album has managed to fool me into thinking I have “young” tastes. One of my favorite songs, which won me over with the poetry of a threat like “Primma ca t'accire/T'aggia mparà a campà” (Oinè), is almost entirely in autotune. As if I were fifteen! Never mind that the song has ancient roots and deals with a theme so remote as to be archetypal, like the ferocious defense of one's own garden. A skill, in fact, that would be worth mastering already at the age of fifteen.

Whether or not you are musically snobbish middle-aged Neapolitan women, in search of roots or illusions of youth, I believe this record is worth listening to—it might surprise you, and above all, you might like it more than you expect.

As for the personal lesson I have drawn from this story, it can be summed up like this: even when fully aware of all the things wrong with us, every day we can make new, bewildering discoveries about ourselves.

For example, I would have said anything about myself, except that I was the type of woman who takes advice from Vogue.