Nathalie Giannitrapani
In punta di piedi

Can plastic give birth to flesh and blood?
Can a virus generate a vaccine?
Do flowers truly grow from manure?
Who knows.

To begin with, let's talk about manure: X-Factor for me is a dark evil. A grinder that kills inspiration by sacrificing it to the Moloch of mass tastes.
A kind of horror I watch with fascinated helplessness, like a rabbit observing the cobra a moment before being devoured.
You must be popular. You must please everyone. 
You must disguise yourself as a fool, face embarrassing choreographies, declare yourself humble and ignorant in front of "supreme authorities" of music like Anna Tatangelo and Simona Ventura.
The message is just one: you can afford originality only if the audience, this gelatinous mass with a thousand eyes and a thousand mouths, makes you a star.
Otherwise, fly low and keep your head down, fool.

Despite this, due to my asynchronous love for Enrico Ruggeri, who raised me with his music during the green years of my youth, this time I watched X-Factor too. I know that admitting it on Debaser is a bit like declaring yourself gay at a Lega congress, but so be it. Stone me if you must.

But it's not just about manure that I want to talk. The point is something else: this year from the heap of steaming dung a rose was born. Nathalie Giannitrapani is one of those desperate souls who have done all the hard work in the world. Raised on Tori Amos, Jeff Buckley, and Fiona Apple, with a respectable résumé that saw her opening concerts for Max Gazzè, Vision Divine, and Beholder, Giannitrapani is part of that unfortunate lineage of authors at their last resort, who, before giving up all hope of living from music, try absolutely everything.

Polite, unassuming, endowed with a beautiful raspy voice, Nathalie won X-Factor by presenting her own song and conquering, strangely enough, the famous "ggente" with a strange, shadowy piece, in minor key, with a sophisticated text and a melody with almost no recognizable choruses. "In punta di piedi" is a peculiar song, not very radio-friendly, hardly ingratiating.
A song that made me think of Amanda Palmer, Lalli, Tori, but also a bit of early Nannini, the one with just piano and voice of "Una radura," which no one remembers anymore but seemed to tear her heart out, throw it on stage, and tell the audience "do whatever the hell you want with it."

Maybe because I still allow myself a little illusion, maybe because seeing a bit of genuine beauty on TV is like finding a giant panda in the garden, Be that as it may, this little singer-songwriter gave me chills.
She has something in her eyes and her voice. A taste of truth.
So, since I'm someone who pays her emotional debts, I bow and wholeheartedly wish Nathalie Giannitrapani the best of luck.
I especially wish her not to be consumed and spat out by the great machine, not to become one of those many bubbles of nothing that burst every day in our homes.

Can plastic give birth to flesh and blood?
Can a virus generate a vaccine?
Who knows...
I stand at the window and wait, as always, to be amazed.