It’s as old as time itself.
A melody that stirs the human instinct.
The eternal love affair.
The thrill of a stolen kiss that elicits the yearning to desire more.
Voices from the angels themselves, or the brut baritone of a Herculean cry to the sound of the heavens playing.
In secret or in the open air, it fills my heart with an unmatched joy.
In movement or in forever stillness, it beats on relentlessly drawing me in.
The words to the rhythm of the ocean waves, speaking truths only the heart truly knows.
Possessively claiming it for my own, knowing it betrays me with every unheard note.
In the throws of climactic passion, it ends before it ever truly began.
On the proud heels of Italy being the winners of Eurovision 2021, this is what Italian music means to me—if I can ever really find the right words to describe it—this poem would come close. Italian music moves me in ways English music could never, albeit some songs come close but on a different level. Threaded into my childhood, it’s all I knew for many years. The first English song I can remember was from Culture Club, Karma Chameleon, which I still adore. Madonna’s True Blue and Wham! were my first cassettes that I played relentlessly on my pink stereo (which I now use as a decorative piece in my daughter’s room).
Although I like many types of music I do have a favourite, Italian ballads/pop music. It’s what Saturday mornings were made for! If I could make the walls shake then I knew I had to turn it up just a little louder. My mother never protested. While we feverishly cleaned the house in our pajamas—along with my sisters—every once in awhile throughout the morning she’d call out, “Oh I love this song, turn it up a little louder”. My father for the most part was at work, so there was no one to contest our choice in music or volume level. Such happy memories.
I can appreciate all types of music (well I just don’t get country music, sorry!). I even loved listening to Punjabi music Sunday mornings. I can still hear my father coming down the stairs and joking with my mother that I may not really be his child. Good music transcends culture and language, and when it sounds just right you feel it in your gut.
Today, although I listen to less music in general, there is one thing that my husband recently discovered that will get me out of bed on Sunday mornings (after my 5:30 am walk I go back to bed and hide from the Sunday morning ruckus)—the blaring sound of (now retro) Italian music playing throughout the house. My children hide out in their rooms begging for the music to be turned down or shut off altogether—and I for a few brief moments bask in the music of my childhood.
Thoughts At F___ It Forties 
Very interesting read!
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