Roberto Murolo
Ho sognato di cantare

I can imagine that in the foreign-obsessed purism afflicting the new generations, a review on such an album might be as inappropriate as having Gigi D'Alessio at a Foo Fighters concert. But from a certain point of view, if we want to be strict, Murolo was among the last passionate and sincere standard-bearers of the Neapolitan nation, of its music and its beautiful language. We are therefore still in the realm of foreign obsession for anyone reading these few lines from above the Tiber.

Born in 1912, in Naples, with a youth spent in sports, Murolo effectively produced music throughout the second half of the twentieth century and recorded hundreds of albums, many of which are cult objects for collectors of the genre. I immediately distance myself from thinly-veiled attempts at objectivity; in the opinion of the writer, the artist was one of the best interpreters of music in general. With his caressing voice, always balanced style, and excellent class, he knew how to interpret the classics of Neapolitan song, providing unsurpassed versions that will remain essential models for anyone wishing to engage with the repertoire in the future.

On the day Bowie died, with a shockingly prophetic album and video release, it seemed natural to me to write about Murolo who, at over ninety, with already evident signs of age, courageously recorded an album of unpublished works, dignified and consistent with his vast career. It can't be said that he succeeded in reuniting the incredible ensemble of the eightieth-anniversary album, where the contributions of Arbore, De André, Mia Martini, and Pino Daniele stood out, but the input of thoroughbreds like Joe Amoruso and Gragnaniello, as well as other talented authors like Tortora and Di Francia, leaves a significant mark.

Ho sognato di cantare is a well-arranged album with themes fully in tradition, perhaps even too much, but suited to the impeccable style of the interpreter. There's no point in seeking innovations, except in the sound, which is certainly more refined than the guitar-and-voice-only recordings that made him famous. Fortunately, the album leaves us with some remarkable compositions, starting with the single 'mbriacame, written by Mimmo di Francia, enriched by an irresistible classical guitar refrain. 'o sapore de' cerase stands out as the track most in line with tradition and therefore most tinged with classicism, with a melancholic text understandably centered on the search for past sensations.

Another noteworthy track is e o' mare va', another display of Amoruso's skill, which further reassures us that Neapolitan songs can still be written without falling into clichés and, above all, without succumbing to vulgarity, in the sense of commonness, which characterizes much of contemporary production.

The album closes with the last song probably interpreted by Murolo, who, unsurprisingly, relies on the sure hands of Gragnaniello, in graziella the writing of the very talented Neapolitan author emerges powerfully in the rhythm and rare sharpness of the text.

If I had to indicate five singers to listen to obligatorily to understand how much a voice can make a difference, Murolo would certainly be among them. I already know that these lines will be read by few and commented on by even fewer, yet I find it necessary to remember his music to those who have never listened to him, and also to those who do not have the right sensitivity to listen to him. Never as in this occasion do I believe I have done my duty on Debaser, where Neapolitan music is not even contemplated as a genre: my personal tribute to Murolo and his art.