21 Grammi feels like stepping inside someone’s mind, unfiltered and alive.
The album drifts between memory, desire, chaos, and fragile hope. Every track is a world on its own, but together they trace a thread of vulnerability, urgency, and longing. The album doesn’t guide you gently, it throws you into experiences, emotions, and reflections, leaving you both unsettled and captivated.
The production and lyrics lean into honesty and intimacy. Bodies, hearts, and fleeting moments are treated like fragile weights, light, yet heavy with meaning. There’s a tension throughout: moments of beauty alongside darkness, calm alongside chaos, love alongside absence. It’s not an easy listen, but it’s unforgettable.
È tutto così vero
This track is a late-night wander through memory and city streets. You smell black sap on the windowsill and hear distant explosions above. One moment you’re in a lonely tavern with soft music and rum, the next you’re staring at blood streaking over rooftops or a cyclops tossing stones into the sea. It’s beautiful and violent, comforting and terrifying, like walking home alone after dark knowing the world is both alive and indifferent.
Ventuno
You step into Ventuno and immediately feel the weight of life in fragments. The “two grams” lines hit like a pulse. Skin, limbs, eyes, a single gram of heart. You can almost feel each piece vibrating under your touch. It’s urgent, frantic, and restless, like screaming underwater or running through the streets at sunrise, desperate to catch something fleeting. By the time the track ends, you’re breathless, left with the tension of wanting to dive into life and escape it all at once.
Dimmi cosa vuoi
Dimmi cosa vuoi is like standing at the edge of a cliff with someone you love, shouting over the wind: “Tell me what you want!” The moments stretch impossibly short and infinite. A life, a lifetime, a single breath, all collapse into seconds. It feels like chasing lightning in a storm, reckless but electrifying. You’re aware of choices, of chance, of connection, and yet the song refuses to let you settle. Every repetition feels like both a promise and a question.
Fragile equilibrio
Here, the album turns inward. You’re inside a mind full of memories and monsters. Each card, each coincidence feels heavy, like walking on a tightrope above your own fears. You hold your breath to stay upright, feeling the weight of every thought. Dorian Gray’s portrait is a perfect image, decay contained in beauty, a reminder that fragility can also be seductive. It’s quiet, tense, and hypnotic, like pausing in a hallway before opening a door you know might change everything.
La mia Dea
Tender, devotional, almost sacred. You close your eyes and remember a childhood figure, a protector who smells like roses and lavender. The track makes you feel the weight of wanting to freeze time. Dancing by the sea, sharing a smile, everything becomes eternal. Even the idea of making a pact with death feels like a natural extension of this intensity. You are not just listening; you’re guarding something precious alongside the singer.
Cuore d’inverno
This song feels like love in slow motion. You can feel sun on your skin while winter chills your heart. Passion, jealousy, and fleeting ecstasy swirl together, like walking through a storm while carrying a candle. Every pause between lines is a heartbeat, every word a reminder that holding onto someone is both fragile and vital. You sense the bittersweet truth: love warms and freezes you at the same time, and you can’t escape either.
Tutto quello che vuoi
The chaos hits you immediately. In the kitchen, firecrackers pop while your grandma cooks sauce below. Outside, missiles streak across the sky. It’s absurd and playful, yet dark, like watching a carnival collapse in slow motion. The repetition of “we are the actors” makes you feel like you’re in on the secret: life is messy, but you get to perform it anyway. It’s a mix of laughter, fear, and daring that leaves you energized and slightly off-balance.
Una notte infinita
The night stretches endlessly here. Someone has left, footsteps dissolve, and your heart tips precariously with the bed. The emotions fly off like fragile birds, leaving you clinging to connection. It’s the 3 a.m. moment when the world is quiet but loud inside your mind. The song doesn’t resolve the night; it survives it. You feel small, suspended, but strangely alive, as if the darkness itself is teaching you how to feel.
Di estate non si muore
This one is sun and heat mixed with chaos. You can almost taste the pasta and eggplant while explosions happen across rooftops. Summer feels bright, ironic, almost defiant. You’re in a boat with hands in your pockets, watching the world burn, yet laughing at its absurdity. The track has a weightless danger—warmth and tragedy coexist so fully that you feel alive just breathing it in.
21 Grammi is an album of contrasts. Light and dark, joy and pain, intimacy and chaos live side by side. It never simplifies emotions or experiences, and it doesn’t hold your hand. Each track is an invitation into a fragile, messy, and deeply human world.
The album is best experienced in full, letting its flow carry you through highs, lows, and pauses. By the end, you feel the weight of its “grams”, small but heavy, fleeting but permanent.
It’s an album that makes you feel alive, even when it’s uncomfortable, and that’s its greatest strength.
