Interview - Maria Antonietta and Colombre
by Marco Cresci
by Marco Cresci
[Marco Cresci] Fifteen years together as a couple, both musicians and singer-songwriters with individual careers, and then suddenly Luna di Miele arrived. What pushed you, after so many years, to make an album together?
[Maria Antonietta] The starting point was working together on the song “Io e te certamente,” which is on Colombre’s latest album. That was definitely the first step. From there came the idea that maybe we could write an entire record together, and that it might even make sense to do so. Then we stumbled upon some “prehistoric” songs we had written many years ago, and a few things started lining up. In the end, we gave in—though with a lot of resistance, I have to say. Because it is a bit bizarre, and also delicate. Sometimes you’re afraid of commodifying your love, which in the end is the most precious and fragile thing in the world. We made an anti-pop choice: writing a record that talks about love, a word that can mean so many things.
[MC] Out of curiosity, had you really never thought about it before?
[MA] Honestly, no. Absolutely not. Ahahah!
[Colombre] Marco, aside from what Letizia said—everything I completely agree with—you asked whether this was the first time we had thought about making a record. Yes. Over so many years we’ve “touched,” if you will. I’ve produced some of her songs, she’s slipped into mine, and we’ve played live together. We’re two musicians, and when you write songs it’s normal to share and compare ideas, regardless of whose song it is. It felt like the right moment to say: okay, we’ve been together a long time, and we’ve done a lot together without ever really stating it openly. Starting from that “Io e te certamente”—which is on my latest album Realismo magico in Adriatico—we said: all right, maybe it’s finally time to put a full stop on this beautiful thing that has always remained hidden in the basement. And so here we are.
[MC] Luna di Miele is a very delicate record whose lyrics hide phrases that seem simple but are actually very deep. They almost feel like moments from your daily life. How much of your real life is in these songs?
[MA] Definitely a lot.
[C] Perhaps too much. We should have fictionalised more, written more “fiction.” Probably, if we had told a story about running away to Las Vegas, it would have worked better. We live in a world with so much appearance. You almost need to invent something unbelievable to capture people’s attention. And we—paradoxically, as Letizia said earlier—have really embodied that idea of “anti-pop.” It’s a kind of challenge. Sometimes it feels like fighting windmills, but in the end I think that’s what lets you go to sleep peacefully. It’s all true, because of course, in fifteen years together… there was plenty of material. We liked the idea of telling the life that happens in between. In songs—especially love songs—you usually celebrate the moment you fall in love or the moment you say goodbye. Here, instead, that struggle isn’t there. The challenge was to tell the middle ground, the everyday life of a couple, which is a bit strange, but maybe also the hardest part.
[MA] Throughout the album, here and there, moments emerge that aren’t idyllic—otherwise it wouldn’t be truthful but just naïve. We’re in there: our discomforts, our unease, the more unsteady feelings that run through the record… and I really like that. Those things don’t descend from or depend on the relationship with the other person; they’re the obstacles, difficulties and heaviness you encounter in everyday life. If you have someone to share them with, crossing them becomes easier. You’re less fragile when you don’t feel alone. And in the end, being able to say: okay, I’m not alone—guess what? Some days I’m even happy—well, that makes you feel powerful. And I think it’s beautiful to say that, because it is possible to feel that way. In the end, I think it’s a political act. Giulia Brasi’s book has just come out, and she writes that happiness is a political act: for me this is absolutely true. Because when you feel happy you are powerful. And when you have power you can have an impact on the world, on reality, on yourself and on others. You can change something. When instead you feel alone, empty, drifting—what the hell can you change? You’re just trying to make it to the end of the day. You survive. In this sense, for me, this is an ultra-political record.
[MC] On that note, a line comes to mind from “Signorina, buonasera” and also from “Chantilly,” where you sing: “We like the waves, we don’t like the current.” This is a political line, one worth paying attention to.
[C] Yes, it is. Because those waves—if you manage to catch them—are absolute freedom. They’re part of a game much bigger than you, and following that route, trying to ride the wave, is far more interesting than falling in line. You tell yourself: okay, the current will drag you in one direction, and you know that will be your end.
[MA] I’m very attached to “Chantilly,” especially because of the ending.
[MC] You mean the spoken-word ending?
[MA] Yes. It was one of the very last things we wrote. The idea is to take all the shit around you, and if you have someone beside you to share it with, to make something out of it—songs, for example. In the end nothing can screw me over, because I love you — because you’re here, I’m strong and nothing can get to me. I’m happy that this came through in the song.
[C] Yes—and again, you can see that urgency. I remember that day so clearly; I could see Letizia was really unsettled about this track.
[MC] So are you sort of her natural sedative?
[C] Oh my God, yes. I play that part too! Speaking of “Chantilly,” I remember how it was written. The song was basically finished, but there was this musical coda, with a mantra repeating “I love you.” And yet I saw she wasn’t satisfied. So then she did one of her things: she gave in to that urgency to spit out a feeling, and—as she often does—she went into another room and within half an hour she had written a song.
For “Chantilly” it went exactly like that: I saw her counting the tiles on the floor, pacing around, wandering, and then suddenly she goes: “Giova, give me the mic and go into the other room.” I switched on the microphone, left, and when I heard what she had recorded I was stunned—amazed, totally taken. At one point she wanted to redo it, but I said: “No, keep this one, because it’s perfect as it is.”
It’s all a delicate balance, of course, but the point is: without that kind of urgency—if you want, a bit punk—I don’t know if I could have stayed fifteen years with someone. Because for us the challenge was exactly that: trying to do something new. The album is full of reggae, anachronistic references, and a good dose of craziness… We wanted to find something that reflected what we listen to, rather than what we plan, and to push ourselves. But also to free ourselves from ourselves — because in the end each of us is pretty heavy.
Someone wrote on Instagram that the album is beautiful but “lacks a bit of torment.” The truth is: there are many fish in the sea. Some are one way, some another. Sometimes you write about torment, you have things in your head that keep you from going out at night, and from there certain songs are born. Other times, it’s right to celebrate the beautiful things that happen to you.
But an artist, in my opinion, must put themselves on the line first — otherwise there’s no point in making music. I’ve always admired the great leaders: think of Dylan, the king of folk, the voice of his generation — and then suddenly he releases a fully electric record; or when, at the end of the ’70s, punk was everywhere, he comes out with a gospel album. Or De André publishing albums inspired by the Gospels right in the middle of ’68. Destabilising is always fascinating, because otherwise we’re all boxed in by the algorithm. And since that is extremely frustrating, it pushes you — or at least it should push you — to lift your head.
[MC] There’s a lot of food in this record — in the titles as well as the lyrics. Do you love cooking?
[C] True, there’s way too much! We realised it only at the end, as always, ahahah. Too much sugar!
[MA] But it all comes from something very concrete. Someone might wonder why we put so many food-related titles, imagining a symbolic layer or key. But actually the answer is very simple. The skeleton of some tracks was written fifteen years ago, in the first days we knew each other. We were full of that excitement of discovery, the thrill of writing songs with someone you’re falling in love with — or already in love with, who knows. We stayed up all night improvising, making music, and then 4 a.m. would come and I would be starving! Of course, nothing was open at that hour in Senigallia… so I carried around this atavistic hunger for hours, a bit ashamed to admit I wanted something to eat. And so, in the end, the tracks ended up with titles like “Falafel” — dictated by hunger, not because the lyrics mentioned anything of the sort.
[C] If you think about it, cooking is an act of taking care of someone; underneath it there’s warmth, a torch. And also… I really love cooking.
[MC] You mentioned Senigallia, and I think choosing to live in the Marche — your home region — while working in music is quite a radical choice. It always seems that if an artist doesn’t live in a major city, they can’t achieve what they want; yet that’s not true. What keeps you so anchored to your origins?
[C] I think the province — in the broadest sense — holds something mysterious, because you don’t see everything that’s happening. You’re not in a big city where everything takes place, where you can observe or showcase what you do. For me, the interesting thing is when you can disappear. That has always fascinated me.
When I look at the musicians I follow, I’ve always preferred imagining how they live their lives, how they move within their work. I remember seeing a photo of Billy Corgan from the Smashing Pumpkins as a kid: he was at an amusement park, riding the little train. And in that moment, I grew up! I didn’t want to see that image. At some point he had become elusive, and that photo stayed printed in my mind: a forty-something man, a bit heavier. Since then, I think that sense of mystery is what keeps us tied to our origins.
[MA] But this is exactly what our civilisation has lost — mystery! The province hides you: it allows you to disappear and reappear only when you want to. Then of course, when you need to promote concerts or do certain things, you go to Milan or Rome and play your part. But then there are those long stretches when, in fact, you don’t exist — and they are essential.
[MC] In another context, do you think you would have lost the connection to your origins?
[C] No, because where you were born and raised — and where you live — reflects who you are and what you do. I grew up in the province, so I’m used to slower rhythms, which allow you to observe details more closely. Of course isolation pushes you to stay updated, to inform yourself — even just by grabbing your phone to see where music is going, out of curiosity. But paradoxically, this makes you appreciate solitude even more. You have more time to focus and do your things; but on the other hand, FOMO hits, and you ask yourself: “What am I doing here?” That uneasiness — created by the distance from the big city and the solitude of the province — sparks a kind of agitation that leads you to write a song. In the end, I like telling human feelings — and that can happen just as much in a village as in a metropolis. What interests me is seeing what someone carries inside.
[MA] If I go out in a city like Milan, I’ll definitely run into someone I know, and we’ll almost always end up talking about work — and therefore about music. In a smaller place you’re less conditioned by what happens around you, and that leaves you with more space.
[MC] How much do your family and cultural origins influence your art?
[MA] A lot — because of the place itself, which generates unease. And when you’re restless you tend to search for answers, and for yourself, and to find a way to live, after all. As for family, my father was always a huge music lover: music was never missing at home. He was a DJ who played funk and soul, and that definitely influenced my approach to music — first as a listener, then as a musician. At ten years old I listened to Patti Smith and David Bowie, and I think encountering that world so early is a powerful experience, one that shapes you.
[C] For me, origins are mainly about attitude. I like — and I’m proud — to think of myself as someone coming from that environment. As a kid I had a band, Chewingum, and we played everywhere: in dives, small indie festivals… That experience shaped me. Thinking back to it today helps me overcome certain difficulties, like stepping onto a big stage. Origins, for me, are closely tied to attitude: they are what shape you, and they should never be forgotten.
[MC] Maria Antonietta, you studied Medieval History and in 2021 hosted the Sky Arte documentary series Sacra bellezza – Storie di santi e reliquie. Among the objects you own, which one do you value the most?
[MA] My books. My father keeps building me bookshelves because I no longer know where to put them. Over the years I’ve built a small library, fully catalogued, and I’m very proud of it.
[C] Marco, she’s lying to you! Books, yes—but through all the moves we’ve made, there’s one single object that has always followed us: a dinosaur-shaped teapot we bought at a flea market. That, and the books.
[MA] I’m looking around the house as we speak… but of course! A beautiful poster I bought at Joan of Arc’s birthplace: it shows her house in black and white, in this incredible place on the border between France and Germany. The village is called Domrémy-la-Pucelle, and it truly feels like being in the Middle Ages.
[MC] To finish, I’d like to ask Maria Antonietta to recommend a book, and Colombre an album.
[MA] L’armata dei sonnambuli by Wu Ming. I’m reading it now — I’m three quarters through — so I feel I can recommend it. It’s set during the French Revolution, with extraordinary historical research, and it deals with themes like freedom, authenticity, and hierarchies within human relationships. It’s a powerful novel, full of suggestions for anyone who loves historical fiction: entertaining and, at times, unsettling.
[C] Soul Jazz Records is a label that digs through Jamaican record shops to unearth old reggae songs by artists who may have recorded only three tracks in their entire lives, and then gathers them into compilations. I recommend one of those: Impact!.