Singing the news: the story of Italy’s last ‘cantastorie’ – still performing in his 90s

Famous for combining true crime and political scandals into songs – and antagonising Silvio Berlusconi – Franco Trincale keeps the tradition alive in his nursing home

When Franco Trincale was a barber boy, he used to sing Sicilian songs in breaks between customers, his boss strumming the guitar.

Back then, he could never have imagined that he would grow up to become Italy’s last great cantastorie, a now dying tradition of wandering musicians who entertain audiences by recounting the news in song-form. And he could not have predicted he would still be performing at 90 – in a nursing home.

For six decades, Trincale walked the streets of Milan singing about key moments in history, from 1970s terrorism to Berlusconi’s election and the Iraq war. He has released more than 30 albums, and performed everywhere from the USSR to the US. He also played a key role in Italy’s labour rights movement, providing a soundtrack to workers’ protests.

Born in 1939 in Militello in Val di Catania, a small town in Sicily, he has been living in Milan for the past 70 years. We meet at the Il Parco delle Cave, an assisted living facility in a nondescript redbrick building, which has been his home for the past two years. Trincale has organised a concert for Valentine’s Day, and the main hall is packed with 150 people – elderly residents and their relatives. He entertains them with a recently composed song, Long Live Love. Trincale’s voice is struggling with the high notes, but the audience helps him out. After taking a moment to memorise the chorus, they sing and clap to the beat. Trincale’s wife Lina, who has Alzheimer’s and can only communicate with her eyes, is seated in the front row.

Decades ago, when many Italians were illiterate, the arrival of a cantastorie in a town was a big event. With the rise of TV, their role evolved into wandering musicians who entertained audiences recounting news in a dramatic or ironic manner, accompanied by a guitar or accordion and large illustrated posters. Like other travelling musicians across Europe, the cantastorie descend from medieval “troubadours”, but what sets them apart is that they only sing about real-life stories.

Traditionally, cantastorie supported themselves through donations from the public and by selling flyers with the lyrics of their cantate (or tales) and, later, records. Between the 1920s and 1970s, famous cantastorie such as Ciccio Busacca, Otello Profazio, Rosa Balistreri and Marino Piazza sang blood-soaked cantate about a young woman killing her rapist in revenge or women murdered by their husbands. Other common themes were migration, mafia and, occasionally, international news: “Nixon and Mao to all wars say ciao”, sang Marino Piazza about the two leaders’ meeting in 1972.

“Cantastorie followed current events,” says Mauro Geraci, an anthropologist at the University of Messina. It’s no coincidence, he says, that “they emerged at the beginning of the 20th century, when public opinion was forming”. It was social commentary: “Salvatore Di Stefano, a Sicilian cantastorie, used to say that when he saw something wrong, it was the time to write a song.”

Trincale become a cantastorie out of necessity: “I had just married Lina and left the navy after serving for three years. I tried selling vegetables, it wasn’t working, so I said to myself, ‘I’ll be a cantastorie.’” In 1959, he moved to Milan. He started out performing traditional Neapolitan songs in the city’s main streets, before playing outside factories that were absorbing thousands of migrants from the south at the time. It was there that he developed his signature style of “journalism in songs”.

Traditional cantate are hours-long, but workers outside the factories only had short breaks, so Trincale developed cantate that lasted just a few minutes. Labour conditions became a theme: “The workers asked me why I didn’t write about their problems, like the renewal of contracts. They gave me some suggestions and I put them in the song.”

“Trincale’s ballads can capture and denounce a problem in a few minutes,” says Geraci. Workers and immigrants saw him as their voice, and wrote him letters about their hardships.

Trincale also took an interest in true crime. One of his most famous works is about the 1969 kidnapping and murder of a 12-year-old boy, Ermanno Lavorini. It anticipated true crime podcasts: six separate recordings followed reports of the investigation in real time, as Trincale sang about the frantic search for the child and the clues and urged the kidnappers to come forward. He even did original reporting: “When Trincale sang about a seven-month-old baby killed by police teargas during the eviction of a occupied house, he spoke to the mother. How is that different from journalism?” asks Geraci.

Later, Trincale began performing regularly in a corner of Piazza Duomo, where he sung about Tangentopoli – the early 90s corruption scandal that swept away Italy’s political class – as well as Diego Maradona, the 2001 G8 summit in Genoa and the advent of mobile phones. In 2002, Silvio Berlusconi, the late prime minister, asked to move a corruption trial away from Milan, arguing that Trincale’s performances mocking him were creating a biased environment.

In 2008, Milan awarded Trincale a medal. The government gave him a lifetime pension for his artistic achievements and, in 2018, a museum dedicated to him opened in his birthplace.

Today, Trincale’s life revolves around his wife. It was because of her condition that he decided to move to a retirement home so they could be together: “Lina and I have known each other since she was 13 and I was 17, and I am happy to spend the last part of my life with her. I visit her as often as possible. I sing songs to her when she opens her eyes and smiles at me. It’s as if I were recharging my batteries.”

Being in a nursing home hasn’t stopped him from performing: he now sings for the other residents and recently performed a concert in a nearby public library.

Trincale has filled his room with mementoes: posters, awards, newspaper clippings and even statuettes depicting him. He has a YouTube channel and shows off a video with 400,000 views: “I am proud to be able to sing and I will do so for as long as I can. I am happy to still be able to stir emotions, also because I have received so much from others.”

The nursing home staff are supportive: “It’s wonderful to see a resident who is still able to give a concert in the afternoon,” says Laura Sartori, the manager.

The San Valentino’s concert was a success. But the one he held for his 90th birthday, in September, was an even bigger one: “The hall was full – there was no room for anyone else,” recalls Trincale. He would like to hold a small music workshop for people with Alzheimer’s, such as his wife. But adds: “I should observe them first to see if they respond to the songs. I hope it’s possible.”

Before leaving, Trincale approaches his wife and sings her a song. Not one of his own – the love of his life is granted a rendition of Era de Maggio, a Neapolitan classic by Roberto Murolo. Hearing the familiar tune, she opens her eyes and smiles.