By Richard Giaquinto, La Nostra Voce 

I’m a second-generation Italian American. My mother’s family was from Calabria, and my dad’s side was from Naples. What a mix! I have their best qualities: I am passionate, sometimes stubborn, and most of all, I love music.

However, on some Sunday evenings, we put our culture on hold for about an hour. My uncle Mike was the culprit. He purchased a bag of bagels and rolls from a deli; he drove five miles to do so. Once at my house, he turned the coveted carbohydrates over to a lighthearted cooking master — his wife, Millie. She could slice through a bagel or roll like a surgeon. Then within a matter of seconds, she would take orders. The choices were simple: butter, jelly or a combination.

This article first appeared in La Nostra Voce, ISDA’s monthly newspaper that chronicles Italian American news, history, culture and traditions. Subscribe today.

My mother made the coffee — not espresso — but a Maxwell House blend that was “good to the last drop.” My father, the family’s patriarch, was always the first served and he would polish off two warm rolls before I got my first.

The conversations focused on absent family members who had “something going on” in their personal lives. Oftentimes, the gossip veered toward an uncle who married a schifosa; he turned to the bottle and a goomara to ease his pain.

As soon as the table was cleared, it was time for the music. My uncle, under the careful direction of my sister, turned on our Hi-Fi record player. He dug into our vinyl record collection and always pulled out a Jimmy Roselli record. It was Roselli’s magical The Best of Neapolitan Songs and Life and Love Italian Style Tonight.

Within seconds, we were singing what is now called karaoke. We started with Mala Femmena, Anema E Core and concluded with the more religious Ave Maria. It was loud and seriously off-key, but it was memorable. Next, we moved on to Lou Monte’s Peppino’ o suriciello. I can still see my mom singing and laughing, and best of all, hearing my dad and uncle crooning in Italian.

My favorite lines were:

• Ma tu che sì? Sicliano?
• No! I’m a Calabrese, you nut!

Occasionally, we switched to live music. My uncle Mike played the mandolin, and we sang along. I remember Come Back to Sorrento and ‘O Sol’ Mio. While he played, I often imagined myself strumming a mandolin beside him. I imagined bowing when we finished our song. The living room concert lasted 30 minutes or fewer.

After it was over, we headed into the living room to watch The Ed Sullivan Show. It started precisely at 8 p.m. I disliked the comedians and circus acts, but the singers always captured my attention. There was one Sunday evening show that I will never forget.

It was February 9, 1964, and I was in high school. The number one song on the radio was the Singing Nun’s Dominique, and they played it every hour on the hour — ugh. No matter how much I enjoyed our Italian karaoke that night, it was also a sad period as President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated only a few months prior.

I sat there praying the musical guests would provide some relief. Then several minutes into the show, four shaggy-haired mates from Liverpool sang All My Loving. I watched in awe. Immediately after they finished their last song — I Want to Hold Your Hand — I forgot all about the mandolin.

The next day I begged my parents for a guitar. They gave in, however, my playing was so bad they forced me to take music lessons. I practiced and learned the basics. Eventually, I joined my uncle and played guitar on karaoke night. My first song was Come Back to Sorrento. I made mistakes, but no one cared. I was, for those few moments, the center of attention. I also felt for the first time my passione per la musica. 

After several months, I joined my friend’s band, The Apollos. We could only play two Beatles songs. The girls who came to see us hollered along with us, and some even offered up their phone numbers.

I had to quit the band because of my studies at the great Brooklyn College. Despite this, I continued listening to Sinatra, Bennet, and my favorites, Lou Monte and Jimmy Roselli. The guitar also helped me continue my exploration of rock ‘n’ roll. Occasionally, I’d take lessons and study music theory if time permitted.

I became a teacher, earned a Ph.D. and I always squeezed in time for playing guitar. In memory of my Italian karaoke days, I played my versions of Luna Mezza Mare or Mala Femmena. Of course, I also played the Beatles, Stones, and even Sinatra.

Several years ago, I had the privilege of performing Con Te Partiro’ with one of my students at Brooklyn’s St. Francis College, where I taught. We took the audience on a dream vacation to Italy with our lyrics and pictures displayed as we sang. I had the same feeling I experienced back home with my folks: pride and love for my heritage and its culture.

At 75, I’m still playing and taking guitar lessons from a teacher who happens to be a fourth-generation Italian American. With plenty of practice, I just relearned Torna a Sorrento. As I play the chords and sing, I get the overwhelming sense and feeling I’m back performing at our Italian karaoke Sunday night sing-alongs. And some part of me feels the glow and beauty of my Italian heritage. The poet Robert Browning best describes that feeling in his famous quote, “Open my heart, and you will see graved inside of it, Italy.”

With this in mind, I continue my cultural journey of renewal through recollection.