Every year, the Abruzzo newspaper IL Centro elects its “Person of the Year,” and this year, the citizens voted and elected our Gianluca Ginoble!

Luca Telese conducted a very interesting interview, which I’m translating for you.

Gianluca Ginoble talks about himself:
“I’m Flying like Dean Martin.”

The Director’s interview with the singer of Il Volo: inspired by grandfather Ernesto, from Roseto to the world thanks to bel canto.

Where do we start?

“I want to tell you something, before any other considerations. We are three eclectic performers, we sing any genre as long as it’s good music and we like it. But…”

What?

“There’s only one melody, musically, that allows you to speak to everyone, all over the world.”

Really?

“Let me explain. There’s only one melody if you want to make music, if you’re Italian, if you want to be consistent with your history, and if you want to be successful abroad.”

Which one?

“Art alone holds all these threads together. It’s an ancient art, but one in which everyone recognizes us—we Italians, I mean—as masters, a language that still speaks to millions of people, and which is inextricably linked to our culture: I’m talking—obviously—about bel canto.”

This actually seems like a portrait of Il Volo. It’s your history, an important part of your repertoire. Are you sure it applies to everyone?

“No, I’m not necessarily talking about Il Volo. You see, we’ve sung and continue to sing everywhere, in five different languages. Our repertoire spans themes, genres, and obviously eras.”

Explain further.

“We’ve sung to the most diverse audiences. But audiences recognize us as ambassadors of this music.”

Is there a figure from the past who inspires you?

“In another era, I would have felt close to Dean Martin: a great man from Abruzzo, but also a profoundly international artist.”

Explain to me why you think opera speaks to people who know nothing about our country, who don’t speak our language, who know nothing of those operas.

“I wish you could see the same faces I see from the stage, in the audience, when we sing an aria like Nessun Dorma.”

Try to describe it. It’s beautiful if you can.

“Nessun Dorma is more than an aria. It’s more than a success or a famous hit: it’s a journey. Starting from Turandot, and a night in Beijing, emerging in a theater, and ending up walking, led by Puccini, along the paths that lead to a dream. A magic, an emotion everyone can relate to.”

Evocative.

“When I see those enchanted faces at our concerts, listening to the most famous melody in the history of opera, I understand that we’re not giving people something they need to know or learn, but that we’re giving them back something that’s already inside them.”

What?

“A music that’s a century old, but which is actually timeless and ageless.”

And when you sing Puccini, do you see on people’s faces that this ritual is being celebrated?

“Yes. We all have an enchanted story within us, but no one can reach it except through dreams. It’s wonderful to know that you’re the one making it possible. That’s why I can sing Nessun Dorma, a thousand times, in a hundred different stages, but it’s always as if it were the first time for me.”

But is bel canto still alive in the present time? Or is it a luminous but dead language, like Latin and Ancient Greek?

“Are you kidding? Schools and conservatories are full of Anglo-Saxons, South Americans, and even many Koreans and Japanese who study, even with great effort, our language and our music so they can sing in Italian.”

Is this what gives you the most satisfaction when you perform with Il Volo? The emotion of universality?

“Yes, I admit it. For me, performing this repertoire means never betraying who we Italians are.”

In what sense?

“It means paying homage to something we inherited from our masters as a gift, and that we must pass on to those who come after us as a legacy.”

Gianluca Ginoble, a baritone voice between two tenors in the global lyrical trio Il Volo. Gianluca is thirty years old: he has the face of an eternal boy that could be stolen from Peter Pan, but he displays the maturity of a wise highlander: refined vocabulary, omnivorous curiosity, a ravenous passion for literature. It’s as if in its fifteen years of activity, the most famous Italian group in the world has lived, as the android from Blade Runner says of himself: “I burned the candle of life from both ends.” It’s as if behind Gianluca’s smile (proud Abruzzese by birth but cosmopolitan by experience and education) there was something more mysterious: I found myself imagining a portrait of Dorian Gray hidden in some attic of his birthplace in Roseto degli Abruzzi. That’s why it wasn’t easy for me to write this interview, which we did in installments. You always learn something from those who travel through different worlds at the speed of light.

You learn in a flash: but then it takes much longer to understand everything. In these lines—almost without realizing it—we talk about national identity, education, values, and, of course, music. This interview, full of complex lives and stories, is the end-of-year gift I want to give to the readers of the Center. (Center is the name of the newspaper.)

Gianluca, one day—in a public debate—your father, Ercole, moved the audience by telling how, while you tour the world, you never stop promoting Abruzzo.

(He smiles) “It’s true. It’s a matter of principle for me. One evening, at the Circus in New York, Woody Allen meets us and asks, ‘Where are you from?’ And my classmates, who never have these problems, reply, ‘Sicily!’”

And you?

“I always have to be resourceful, depending on who I’m talking to.”

In what sense?

“Woody Allen is a cultured man: when I say ‘Abruzzo’ to him, he’s almost disappointed; he suffers from not knowing where to place it. So, I say, ‘Near Rome.’ And he says, ‘Ah…’ But he’s perplexed; something’s missing.”

Have you given up?

“No! Never. I’ve played my last card.”

Do you have a last card to geolocate yourself?

“Of course. He asked, ‘Where is it?’ I replied, ‘In the land of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.’ And he immediately smiled at me: ‘Wow!’”

Miracle.

“Think about it. Winemaking is replacing geography. There’s a part of America that imagines Tuscany as a fine winery. For some, we’re just a wine by the glass, but we’re there.”

Ha ha ha.

“In dramatic cases, finally, I also have a last resort, you know?”

Which one?

“Cinema: for a younger audience.”

What do you mean?

“Where is Abruzzo? Answer: ‘In front of Game of Thrones.’ But don’t write that, it makes me suffer.”

Let’s start with the astonishing success of Il Volo: wherever you go, the theaters are full.

(He laughs) “For now, yes.”

Why do you say that?

“You see, a lot has changed in recent years. My friends, Piero and Ignazio, and I realize that part of our audience has grown up with us: today, on average, they’re in their forties. In South America, fortunately, there are also many thirty-year-olds. We go there often.”

Guys who know everything about you. You’re stars.

“If that’s the case, it’s also thanks to those who came before us: abroad, Nessun Dorma is by Luciano Pavarotti, just as Con te partirò is by Andrea Bocelli, and Bohemian Rhapsody is by Freddy Mercury.”

Give me a parameter.

“We did a concert with Bocelli in the Vatican, which aired on Disney Plus, and had 100 million views.”

It’s scary. But you managed to get Venditti to speak Abruzzese, there’s proof.

“No, there’s a backstory there. Antonello’s partner is from Francavilla.” (A city in Abruzzo)

And when you were with him, you took out your phone.

“Antonello does it all by himself and starts reciting: ‘Ass up, Gianlu! Don’t give a damn, you fella!’” (words in the Abruzzese dialect)

You even mentioned Abruzzo to Barbara Streisand!

“Oh, she’s a sure thing. I’ve enlisted her among my fans. But do you want to know the real secret?”

Of course.

“Except when we’re in concert, I never listen to or sing opera.”

You were born in February 1995, in Roseto degli Abruzzi.

“I grew up here: in Montepagano, a beautiful hamlet of Roseto. As a child, I played in the village pine forest.”

It seems like a century ago.

“I feel great nostalgia for the Abruzzo of my childhood: because everything has remained as it was, except me. I’m the one who left.”

Like the migrants of the turn of the century.

“But I was alone.”

And yet you’re very attached to your coming-of-age story.

“Because I always come home. Except physically, I’m convinced that all artists remain children: Pueri aeterni.” (it’s written in Latin and means eternal children)

It’s evocative, but who knows if it’s true.

“In my case, yes. The explanation is simple. If you stop being amazed, you can’t play anymore.”

Who influenced your education, who introduced you to music?

“My paternal grandfather, Ernesto. He was the artistic soul of the family; he played with the village band.”

Is he still alive?

“In great shape. He’s 91 years old and has a great musical sensibility. His band instrument was the alto horn.”

And your father?

“Well, my father was everything in this adventure.”

What do you mean?

“A companion, a parent, an accomplice: from an amateur, he became one of the greatest connoisseurs of Italian pop music, and not just Italian.”

What did he do for you?

“The greatest gift imaginable. He gave up his adult job to follow me and help me in my work as a boy.”

But it all started with Grandpa Ginoble.

“Another pillar is my mother. She used to drive me to school, and along the way I would hum the tunes my grandfather had taught me. She also followed me and supported me, even when it seemed crazy.”

You’re in eighth grade when the earthquake that changes your destiny arrives.

“The great opportunity of my life brings with it my greatest regret: I formally only studied until eighth grade. From then on, I learned entirely by myself.”

Like Jimi Hendrix and Leonardo Da Vinci.

“Don’t make fun of me. It’s serious.”

What happened in the spring of 2009?

“I was 14, I was participating in a children’s talent show, ‘Ti lascio una canzone’. There I made my stage debut and met my future traveling companions, Ignazio and Piero.”

The sliding door of your life.

“I was on television while my peers watched me from home.”

The first to bring you together were director Roberto Cenci and the host, Antonella Clerici. Then it was producer Michele Torpedine, the man who discovered Zucchero, who had the idea of forming a stable group.

“He put us together based on the model of the three Tenors. Three ‘little tenorists,’ they said, even though I—as you know—am not a tenor.”

You were talented, witty, and easygoing: you burst onto the screen with incredible ease.

“I have controversial memories of that period. You leave as a perfectly normal child, and you come back with everyone applauding you, looking for you, making you the center of attention.”

A mechanism that can be dangerous, and which has crushed many in the history of entertainment.

“Today I have achieved the detachment necessary to protect myself. To never fall, I must always watch myself from the outside.”

And back then?

“I was naive. Potentially more fragile, but perhaps it was precisely this light-heartedness that helped me.”

How did you protect yourself?

“Everything seemed like a game to me. And the fact that there were three of us was crucial: if you can share such an all-encompassing experience with others, it doesn’t seem crazy.”

You were also the youngest.

“Piero is two years older than me. Ignazio is one. We all three had unusual childhoods and adolescents.”

Which, however, had its positive aspects.

“I thought: ‘I’m part of a minority that has enormous opportunities: traveling the world, learning languages…”

Absolutely true. Were you that clear-headed?

“No, everything was happening so quickly. Even my memories today are so compressed that I struggle to distinguish them, to date them exactly… After three months, we’re in Los Angeles signing a contract with Geffen Records, one of the most important American majors in the world. We’re told we’re the first Italians to do so.”

It was true.

“At that age, you’re a sponge; you learn English almost without realizing it. But then you have to go back to Roseto to take your middle school exams as a private student, and you go back. It’s like being on a roller coaster.”

And then back to the world of fairy tales.

“Recording our first album, leaving for South America with Tony Renis, building our first repertoire of Italian classics for concerts night after night.”

And then?

“Finding ourselves guests of Jay Leno on his Tonight Show.”

The sacred monster of American talk shows.

“Ha ha ha. Everyone was excited except us, who until a few days before hadn’t even known who he was.”

But you knew Gerard Butler.

“Yes, we met him in Oslo when we were special guests at the Nobel Peace Prize.”

Not to mention Jennifer Lopez and Steven Tyler of the rock band Aerosmith, who said of you, after your performance on the TV show American Idol, that you had touched the heart of America.

You grew up twice as fast as your peers.

“You know, I’m wondering about that now.”

Why?

“In terms of experiences, certainly. But being part of a group doesn’t mean discovering your true identity.”

Do you mean your formative experience wasn’t always about individual growth?

“No, think about it. Each of us was always 33% of what the world loved in Il Volo. And then…

What?

“It was like always being on a school trip, but without the school.”

Every kid’s dream.

“A land of toys, Collodi (he is the author of Pinocchio) would say. Imagine, while my beloved brother, Ernesto, was at school, I was singing for the Pope at the youth festival in Panama.”

And so, you have a unique memory of him.

“It’s the first time we sang with an altar as a stage. Just inches away from him.”

But the relationship with Pope Francis was a unique one, reiterated over time. In this case, I envy you.

“Something clicked, beyond the role-based relationship between a pontiff and artists.”

Two private meetings.

“We brought him a record with an Ave Maria recorded for the Pope. And he posted a photo of himself with our vinyl on Pontifex’s social media. We didn’t want to believe it: he liked us, he saw us as kids.”

And then you met him again.

“In 2022, we sang in the Vatican for World Family Day. I treasure a beautiful selfie.”

He was charismatic.

“Think about it. At that time, I was very skeptical; I didn’t feel tied to any religious idea. I was experiencing my own inner reflection, alone.”

And during World Family Day?

“When I saw him in that wheelchair, with the oxygen cannula in his nose, apparently weakened compared to when he was healthy, but almost euphoric: I realized his power. The charisma he exuded.”

Explain it.

“He communicated passion, energy. The exact opposite of his physical appearance. Stripped of his body, he overwhelmed you with the energy of his soul.”

You were lucky.

“This image of contrast that Bergoglio conveyed, I carry within me like a gift.”

Let’s return to the theme of the symbiotic relationship in Il Volo: you mentioned both the pros and cons.

“The greatness of what we built lies in the simplicity with which we lived our years between twenties and thirties.”

You had an ugly name at the beginning.

“We were born as a trio; the provisional name was: the Tryo.”

Then you draw on Domenico Modugno. (Volare = Il Volo)

“We needed a less descriptive, more metaphorical concept: flying was perfect as a tribute to Nel blu dipinto di blu.”

But…

“We couldn’t be a copy, clones. And so Volare became Il Volo. Simpler, more powerful.”

The first fairytale concert you remember?

“When we sang for Queen Rania of Jordan. I began to feel this magic that loved beyond us.”

I saw you have a curious photomontage in your gallery.

“There’s me—the one today—embracing myself as a child. Emotionally, I’m still that child.”

Actually, I sense that you feel older than your age.

“Because of the things I’ve done, perhaps. On an experiential level, as I told you, but not on an emotional and formative level. I’m starting to think that being an adult means becoming your own father and mother.”

So, very few succeed.

“In fact, there are plenty of people who think they’re adults but aren’t, even in our world. I can immediately recognize someone who seeks attention.”

Between 2011 and 2015, you did everything: two albums, singing the American national anthem in the most important baseball final, collaborating with the biggest stars. And then in Italy there was Sanremo. Almost a minor event.

“For us, however, it was a milestone. We had been there, but as guests, introduced by Clerici. Now they were coming back as adults. As competitors.”

And coming in first, with 39% of the votes.

“A unique, unrepeatable moment. Us on stage, and inside the Ariston everyone on their feet for the standing ovation.”

And you?

“I turned twenty in front of the cameras, in prime time.”

What’s it like to have won everything at 25?

“The answer I give you now is: the child in me is always there. I watch myself act. I can enjoy everything. But…”

What?

“Careers are long journeys. There are times when—incredibly—practicing gratitude is difficult.”

What do you mean?

“Days when I was always complaining about the things I didn’t have. Success? Yes, abroad, but not in Italy. Sanremo? Yeah, but we never won it. Asia? Let’s go to China, come on. And then we actually did all of this.”

Luckily, Piero and Ignazio are more pragmatic.

“Here, 33 percent is an advantage. When I believe in a project, I let it happen. Then the answers come, and I can be more at peace.”

The Beatles had George Martin, you have Michele Torpedine. Much more than a producer.

“He still has a gift today: vision. We all know that if we found ourselves together, it’s thanks to him. And if we’re still together, it’s always thanks to him.”

Tell me the first funny thing you remember about your relationship.

“We were kids, and he took us to the boutique of a very famous brand. He filled our walk-in closet with clothes and said, ‘Now you choose!’ We had no stylist. Just us and him.”

How does he treat you?

“Like three sons.”

And you?

“We all think we’ve lived Michele’s life.”

What do you mean?

“I remember, as if it were an episode of my own life, the story of Michele bringing the demo of Bocelli’s Miserere to Pavarotti, because he wanted to play it for him in Philadelphia. On an audio cassette.”

They still existed.

“The tape is rolling. They both listen, in silence. Michele is anxious.”

And then?

The recording ends and Pavarotti says, “I won’t sing it. He has to sing it.” Michele is taken aback. Pavarotti says, -”It’s one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard.”-  End.”

And what are you like as an artistic son?

“Michele and I are the only ones who have clashed.”

Why?

“In the role-playing game of our relationships, I’m the rebel, the black sheep.”

And him?

“He’s not afraid of confrontation. He always tells me: assert yourself. But in the end, before you decide, listen to me.”

Even in your trio, there are roles.

“I carve out the role of… creative. I plan ideas, the artistic part.”

And Piero?

“He’s a machine, always on the ball: we have to make this call, now, the contract must be closed under these conditions, immediately, we need to put together ten musicians… He’s the wizard of organization.”

And Ignazio?

“He’s the musical Art Director. Behind our sound, our choices, there’s his taste.”

A sticking point?

“We all three have the temperament of leaders. There was a time when each wanted to prevail. Tensions we’ve resolved over the years, with wisdom.”

You sound like Methuselah now.

“Imagine that in 2029—if I get there—I’ll be 33 years old together, and twenty years of career.”

Indeed.

“Do you realize we’re one of the longest-running Italian bands? We could beat Pooh.”

Oh my God, that’s impressive. Is it true that sooner or later you’ll try to do something solo?

“When you’ve achieved all the apparent goals, you feel like you have to find a deeper meaning.”

How?

“It’s not enough for me to just be a performer. This way I feel like I’m giving 60% of myself.”

Ouch! Doubts like this destroyed the Beatles, Pink Floyd, and Genesis.

(He smiles) “I want to give you a clear answer: Il Volo will never break up. Because of everything I’ve told you. We’re too close. Too supportive. Too many things unite us, for better or for worse.”

What do you share?

“I identify with Il Volo: I know it’s the same for Ignazio and Piero.”

But what is the most powerful bond between you?

“We’re proud of what we do. The three of us are unbeatable.”

Indeed.

“Believe me. There’s a chemistry that’s palpable. We’re incredibly powerful when we get on stage together. We feel it.”

There may have been shadows, too. I don’t believe in an idyll.

“True. Precisely for this reason, we know how much it costs to get along without clashing.”

So, imagine a parallel experience of yours that doesn’t challenge the group.

“We are not one. There comes a time when everyone comes to terms with themselves.”

And yours?

“It will be about exploring the masks I wear.”

Why are you an artist?

(He laughs) “Because I’ve been on stage since I was fourteen.”

And what do you want to understand now?

“When I strip myself of everything, who am I really? When you reach the end of every success, you feel the need for only one thing: the essential.”

What’s your relationship with your mother, Leonora?

“She’s my emotional archive. My great refuge. She knows how to listen to me like no other.”

Who have you taken most from?

“I can say I took from both sides.”

Even at school, they realized you had a beautiful voice.

“They asked me to sing; I’d stand behind the blackboard facing the wall.”

You’ve had analysis.

“A Lacanian method.”

And your brother?

“He’s the person I would have chosen if I had to find someone I could trust. He works with me. He’s six years younger than me, but sometimes he’s older than me.”

And your father?

“He saved my life twice. Imagine, the night of the avalanche I was supposed to be in Rigopiano. They even told me, ‘We’re coming to get you.’ My father got angry, looking at the sky: ‘You’re not going anywhere, okay? It’s going to snow.’ Angry.”

A premonition.

“He’s rarely this harsh. If I hadn’t listened to him, I would have died. We children are the extension of our parents.”

Your father agrees with this too.

“He’s completed his circle with me. Absolute solidarity. He experiences my success as if it were his own. And, luckily for him, with fewer doubts.”

The most beautiful memory your grandfather Ernesto passed on to you?

“The emotion of being welcomed into homes, when he toured the villages of Abruzzo with his band.”

Beautiful.

“One time, which he couldn’t forget, at a humble table, out of a sense of hospitality, they offered him the last piece of meat left. My grandfather thinks about it. But he takes it. It was 1954. This too, if only I had lived it.”

A steely ninety-year-old.

“Yesterday I went looking for him; he wasn’t home. I found him at the bar playing cards. Grandpa is always with me.”

When you travel the world.

“His voice accompanies me when he tells me: ‘I worked hard, even in the factory, in Switzerland, saving penny after penny to return to Roseto.’ This voice always helps me, in difficult times.”

Does your grandfather’s life lesson apply to you too?

“Yes. It reminds me that the best is yet to come.”

Gianluca and Luca Telese.

The newspaper’s paper masthead with the interview.

Gianluca also released a brief comment for Rete 8.

WOMAN’S VOICE = Your music takes Abruzzo to the whole world. Do you feel like an ambassador for Abruzzo in the world?

GIANLUCA = I’m very proud of my homeland, my roots, and I always make a point of mentioning Abruzzo and our land wherever I go, so I’m honored by this nomination, if I may say so. I must admit that with two Sicilians, it’s not easy, but I try to give my best.

WOMAN = And how is Abruzzo perceived around the world?

GIANLUCA = It’s certainly a land of great culture. In short, our history speaks for itself. Obviously, it also has a great musical and cultural culture, with D’Annunzio (poet and writer), but also great musicians like Ivan Graziani, and so many other great figures who have helped bring our land to fame, not only nationally but internationally. With Il Volo, we try to show that there’s so much more, especially me, of course, and I’m very proud of this.

WOMAN = Do you remember the first time you sang in public, that you took the microphone?

GIANLUCA = Yes, it was in church at my confirmation, so from there I somewhat overcome the barrier of shyness that had accompanied me for many years. But through that first performance, I managed to create a deep connection with the audience, and then I made it a profession, and today I can’t live without it.

WOMAN = Today, thanks to social media, there are so many emerging singers, a small shortcut to getting noticed. Do you believe in this path?

GIANLUCA = Let’s say that my beliefs are tied to my way of seeing things. We all have conflicting opinions on this matter. We certainly shouldn’t be slaves to this extreme production of music that ultimately lacks quality. However, there are many artists, there are voices that want to be heard, but there is a risk of consumerism that can in some way undermine the quality but also the mental health of many young people who are promised the world, when in reality success is achieved through sacrifice, through determination, even obsession, because excellence can only be achieved through sacrifice.

WOMAN = You’re thirty, you’ve been in the spotlight for many years, but what has success given you and what has it taken away from you, if it has taken anything away from you?

GIANLUCA = Perhaps identifying with the mask of success can be dangerous, especially when it happens at the age of 14. I am not my success, I am not the public, I have to try to build a strong personality that will allow me to be strong if I were to lose at any moment everything life has given me, certainly achieved with sacrifice, but I believe that beyond everything you have to really work on yourself to strengthen yourself as a person, then whatever comes… will come.

WOMAN = But when you’re in the car, stuck in traffic on the highway, what music do you listen to?

GIANLUCA = Lately Battiato, but also, say, Bruno Mars. I really listen to all kinds of music. I’m a music lover, especially Italian singer-songwriters, but also Bob Dylan, because it’s important to know all music, and everything comes from classical music. We know this. The scores are written in Italian, so we should be proud. Italians probably invented music!

Gianluca, as always, you amaze us and leave us speechless.

You are a cultured, refined, and kind man.

This award is a perfect fit for you; no one is a better ambassador for Abruzzo than you.

Congratulations, Gianluca, you are a special man!!

Daniela 🤗

Credit to owners of all photos and video.