Marco Castello
Contenta tu

A wonderful discovery, thanks to Venerus.

Yes, because it seems that during an interview a few weeks ago, which I read about online, the author of “Magica Musica” suddenly told the interviewer and everyone present at the session to go to hell to grab the guitar and play and sing over his song that had just started on the radio.

In short, a spontaneous declaration of admiration from at least one colleague (actually, there are at least two, as will be seen later) for this very young man from Syracuse.

Amidst the endless sea of imitators of Our Lucio, all the fans and orphans of Lucio Battisti, particularly those from the late 70s (“Una donna per amico” and its surroundings), might, among other things, have the ultimate heart-stopping moment while listening to some songs from this first album by Marco Castello.

A voice I find enchanting, slightly “whispered,” from someone who has decided to confide in you, Battisti-like just enough, without overdoing it.

A very light sound, often with jazz tones (he is a graduate in jazz trumpet) and the wha-wha of my Farfisa organ that I haven't heard in ages, damn fuse that the years pass and I never decide to replace.

And then stories of villages, fat people, and balls (sic), adolescent anecdotes, and clichés about moms of intelligent kids who do not apply themselves at school (the diplomacy of certain teachers is legendary).

When grown up, there are times when you feel a bit down, and you only have the solidarity of dead dogs, and then “I can't wait to be forty to go out with twenty-year-olds” as Sergio Caputo would sing today if he had written “Dopamina”, as one might expect listening to it.

Those slightly provocative lyrics and subtle sexual innuendos that perhaps, more than to Mogol, refer to another friend of the man from Poggio Bustone, Enzo Carella (“Marchesa”, the one with the wha-wha).

He is from Sicily and it seems he was discovered by a Norwegian, Erlend Øye, who decided to come to spend the lockdown here last year and who perhaps in Castello's lightness found a bit of that of his Kings of Convenience, but warmed and revitalized by the warmth of the Mediterranean sun.

From Sicily, like Battiato (whose fan he seems to be, but here of this passion, there appears to be no trace).

From Sicily, like Colapesce and Di Martino, but this one only sings…

Ps.

The song on the radio was “Palla.”

One last thing. Here, if it might interest, a short live of guitar and voice showcasing the decent talent (I am being modest) of this guy.