GIORGIO POI wrote part of his discography far from Italy, and a longing for parmesan and the northern Mediterranean has seeped into his songs. He makes nostalgic pop stained with machines, featuring a MIDI-like, galactic sound, grandiose orchestral choirs, the occasional extravagant arrangement, and lyrics drenched in heartbreak, as if we had rewound the entire project of cynicism. You will like GIORGIO POI if you are a fan of Battiato but have a broken leg, if you are a medieval troubadour, if you dance by subtly moving your hips, if you love pasta al pomodoro (cooking it patiently, eating it, dipping your finger into the sauce pan; also, and above all, cooking it for someone else); if you are the protagonist of Manel’s “Les cosines”, if you enjoy both Pau Vallvé’s music and an Aperol Spritz; if you have intense, transcendent feelings but do not want to make too much of a fuss about them; if you belong to a Vespa enthusiasts’ club; if you are a Mac DeMarco fan or Mac DeMarco himself (it is winter in Canada and you are having a soft day); if, when you get home after a party, you replay everything you said in your head (and you said quite a lot because your ears were burning from drink); if you drive one-handed through the green fields of the Empordà; if you would rather write an extravagance than actually do it; or if you watch Super 8 films of your childhood more than once a month, for example.
 

Irene Pujadas

Writer