Vespa Tunes VII - Veni l'Autunnu, Franco Battiato, 1988.

As those of you who follow me on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook may have noticed I have recently been in Sicily.

A breakfast of autumnal mellow fruitfulness with a view: Persimmon and a perfectly peeled fico d’India (prickly pear). Ortigia, Syracuse.

I was persuaded by a delightfully insistent long-standing client to talk to folk about Norman-Arab architecture, Norman-Byzantine mosaics, and the Baroque, and to come along for the ride for the rest of the trip. It is, as they say, a tough job but someone’s got to do it.

Lengthening shadows and October skies at Selinunte.

While in Sicily I listened to Franco Battiato, everyone’s favourite slightly eccentric Sicilian singer-songwriter. Battiato died in 2021 and was fantastic. He sang in Italian, Sicilian, and Arabic. His songs are a manifestation of Sicily as the crossroads of the Mediterranean; his lyrics wear their erudition delightfully lightly. His Centro di Gravità Permanente was a big hit, familiar with all Italians. He also played a wonderful multi-lingual concert in Baghdad in 1992.

The uniquely Sicilian fusion of Norman-Arab architecture at La Zisa, Palermo.

Finding myself in Sicily in mid-October (the perfect time to go, afternoon temperatures were about 25c, the sea was warm) the Battiato song which I’ve had running through my mind, and which I’m singing on my Vespa now I’m back in Rome is this one in Sicilian (and a bit of Arabic at the end) from 1988. To add to the linguistic eclecticism this live version is from a Scandinavian tv show hence the subtitles.

Stamu un pocu all'umbra
Ca c'è troppu suli

Let’s stay in the shade a bit

There’s too much sun

Veni l'autunnu

Scura cchiù prestu

L'albiri perdunu i fogghi

E accumincia a scola

Da mari già si sentunu i riuturi

E a mari già si sentunu i riuturi

Autumn’s coming

It gets dark earlier

The trees are losing their leaves

And school is starting again

From the sea you can already hear the sound of the wind

From the sea you can already hear the sound of the wind

Mo patri m'insignau lu muraturi

Pi nan sapiri leggiri e scriviri

È inutili ca 'ntrizzi

E fai cannola

Lu santu è di mammuru

E nan sura

My father taught me to become a bricklayer

Because you never know*

There’s no point in plaiting your hair

To make curls

The saint is made of marble

And doesn’t sweat*

Sparunu i bummi

Supra a Nunziata

'N cielu fochi di culuri

'N terra aria bruciata

E tutti appressu o santu

'Nda vanedda

Sicilia bedda mia

Sicilia bedda

They’re setting off fireworks

Up at Nunziata*

The sky is full of colours

And on the ground burned air

Everyone’s following the [procession for the] saint

In the little road

My beautiful Sicily

Beautiful Sicily

Chi stranu e cumplicatu sintimentu

Gnonnu ti l'aia diri

Li mo peni

Cu sapi si sì in gradu di capiri

No sacciu comu mai

Ti vogghiu beni

What a strange and complicated feeling

One day I’ll have to tell you

My suffering

I don’t know if you’ll be able to understand

I don’t know how

I love you

ما اسمك؟ اسمي خليفة

ادرس اللغة العربية

لكل شيء وقت وأذان

لكل شيء وقت وأذان

لكل حلم مثابر أمل

لكل حلم مثابر أمل

What’s your name? I’m Khalifa

I study Arabic

Everything has its time

Everything is a dream except for the waiting

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*lit. “per non saper né leggere né scrivere” (not knowing how to read or write, i.e. not knowing what else to do)

*a Sicilian expression which effectively means “nothing good can come of this”. It comes from a tale of a young woman in love with a man who shows her no affection (like the marble saint he is a statue, incapable of expressing emotion). It is, therefore, pointless for her to embark on complicated hair-curling.

*a village near Catania, the city where Battiato was born.

Baroque balconies in Noto.