Learn Italian With Gazzelle with these 15 Song Recommendations (Full Translations Included!)

**“Blu” is a bittersweet postcard from Gazzelle’s Rome, where neon lights slice through late-night tram windows and memories echo like a soundtrack you cannot turn off. The singer watches a past lover drift inside the blue of the city’s night sky, feeling both awe at her new-found strength and pain at her absence. Everyday details – broken windows, half-lit rooms, a hunt for a biscuit in a coat pocket – show how love and loss sneak into the smallest corners of life.

The chorus asks, Che fine hai fatto? (What happened to you?), repeating like a refrain in the mind of anyone who has ever lost touch with someone who once colored their sunsets and photographs. Even though she is gone, a faint scia (trail) of her presence lingers in the darkest days, proving that some connections never truly fade. “Blu” captures that delicate moment when nostalgia meets self-reflection, turning heartache into a poetic, fluorescent glow.

“7” catapults us into the chaotic heart of a love story that feels like a bar fight and a seaside getaway all at once. Over a shimmering indie-pop beat, Gazzelle lists everyday snapshots — from grabbing a drink to boarding a speedboat — that should be romantic, yet everything keeps unraveling. The couple spar with each other and with themselves, so much so that even simple things like “non mi tocchi più il sedere” (you don’t touch my butt anymore) become evidence of a deeper disconnect. The singer is “impigliato nei tuoi cambi d’umore” (tangled in your mood swings), but he cannot let go; he begs, “Liberati per le sette e portami dentro di te” — be free by seven and let me in.

Beneath the playful count-off “uno, due, tre… sette,” the number seven turns into a deadline, a ritual, a last-chance checkpoint where the lovers might hit reset. The song balances irony and melancholy: soap bubbles burst beside an inner apocalypse, and a planned swim stops before it starts. Ultimately, “7” is an anthem for anyone stuck in a loop of break-ups and make-ups, clinging to the hope that, just maybe, the next hour — or the next seven — will bring the love back to life.

“Lacri-ma” is Gazzelle’s bittersweet postcard from the eye of an emotional storm. Over a hazy, synth-pop backdrop he zooms in on a single lacrima (tear) sliding down a lover’s cheek, then blows that moment up into a cinematic scene full of neon skies, rushing hurricanes and lonely spaceship walks. The singer is both observer and culprit: he apologises for not being there, admits he still needs her breath close to his skin and confesses that the heartbreak has stolen his appetite. Despite the sadness, he keeps repeating “Guarda che bella giornata” (“Look at this beautiful day”) as if to remind them that pain can share the stage with hope.

The song’s real magic lies in its contrasts. Ordinary images like not being able to eat sit next to cosmic ones—her hands become rivers that lead to the sea, and she drifts through the street like an astronaut among stars. “Lacri-ma” is ultimately a gentle lesson on resilience: yes, tears fall and mistakes sting, but life is still “non è poi male” (“not so bad”) once you learn to dry your eyes and step back into the daylight.

Settembre feels like that very first breath you take when summer finishes and the air suddenly smells of the sea, wet asphalt and new plans. Gazzelle wanders through a half-dream, half-memory where even looking at a welcoming house, or watching a shooting star, is sweeter than actually grabbing what you want. September might seem like a “crappy month” to begin again, yet the singer reminds us that everything looks brighter when two people share the same view — your eyes and mine, side by side, turn real life into something better than a movie.

The lyrics juggle contrasts: desire over possession, joking over hating, forgiving over judging. By letting go of pressure, postponing chores, and simply staying up talking, we discover a gentler restart button hidden in the ordinary. September, with all its bittersweet baggage, becomes the perfect time to reboot not because it is flawless, but because imperfection lets dreams fit more comfortably. That mix of melancholy and hope is exactly what makes the song feel like the end credits of summer and the opening scene of something wonderfully unknown.

Scintille literally means sparks, and Gazzelle uses that image to look back on a relationship that flared up brightly before burning out. He speaks directly to an ex-lover, half-teasing and half-aching: “Pensavo fosse amore, invece erano guai” – he thought it was love, it turned out to be trouble. Line after line, he reassures her that she can “sleep peacefully” because he will not harm himself or run off to India, yet the pictures he paints (lost eyes, a screaming sky, black trees) betray how disoriented he really feels. The contrast between calm words and unsettling scenery makes the song feel like a late-night confession wrapped in indie-pop sweetness.

In the chorus, time seems to freeze in “momenti in cui vorrei non morire mai” – moments so intense that even a second is not enough to live them fully. Still, the singer ends up “at the bottom of a bottle,” cycling between nostalgia and self-destruction while repeating a mantra-like “In fin dei conti sto bene” (“When all is said and done, I’m fine”). The result is a bittersweet snapshot of post-break-up survival: a mix of dark humor, raw vulnerability, and the stubborn hope that tomorrow the sparks might hurt a little less.

Gazzelle’s “OK” feels like a late-night walk through the city with your pockets full of unanswered questions. The lyrics list a series of small, uncomfortable moments: showing up when everyone has gone, feeling embarrassed with no one to rescue you, swallowing anger you wish you could spit out like last Thursday’s drink. Every time life pokes him, the singer replies with a simple “Ok”. Those two letters sound casual, yet they mask frustration, exhaustion and the fear of no longer recognising yourself.

In the chorus, that repeated “Ok” becomes a fragile shield. It is the word you mutter when you are too tired to fight back, when you have “collected slaps” but never thrown any, and when insomnia pushes you to search for meaning “from midnight to six”. The song captures the bittersweet vibe of modern life: we keep stumbling, pretending we are fine, and telling the world “Ok” even as we hope someone will finally say, “Come with me, I’ve got you.” A minimalist phrase turns into a quiet anthem for everyone who is struggling but still standing.

**“Destri” catapults us into the messy aftermath of a breakup that happened in a blink. One minute the couple is sharing toothbrushes, cheap cigarettes, and late-night road trips in a vintage Panda; the next, she’s “flown away,” leaving only a puff of smoke and a heart full of questions. Gazzelle paints the lovers as “two flowers grown in the wrong place” – fragile yet stubbornly alive on the edge of a busy highway – and sprinkles the memories with vivid snapshots: Christmas lights, slap-happy jokes, mixed-up Roman-English slang, and 4 a.m. zombie faces.

At the song’s core is a realization that sometimes love slips away without a villain. The singer repeats “non è colpa mia / non è colpa tua” (“it’s not my fault / it’s not your fault”), admitting that neither warm household lights nor angry punches at the wall (“destri”) can rewind time to those carefree days when everything was “a gonfie vele” – smooth sailing. Bittersweet, raw, and oddly romantic, “Destri” is a cinematic flashback to the beautiful chaos of a relationship that burned bright, burned fast, and left its mark on the wallpaper and the heart alike.

Gazzelle’s “Punk” feels like stumbling out of an underground club at half past midnight, pockets full of ticket stubs and heart full of bruises. The singer remembers a past love who “tasted a bit like punk” – rebellious, sweet, a little bit messy, like chocolate cake eaten too fast or a trampled flower on the sidewalk. Their kisses carry the flavors of different places (Milan, Long Island) and different eras (Nirvana-obsessed nights on the subway). In the verses, the two ex-lovers try to talk like casual friends, but every word drips with the ache of wasted time, tours on the road, and ugly memories they can’t quite shake.

Under the neon lights of regret, the chorus crashes in: he drinks “like a kid” and she cries into a pillow filled with his tears. The line “Preso male che non c’è più nessuno come te” sums it up – he is gutted because there is simply no one else like her. “Punk” is a bittersweet anthem for anyone who has ever tried to act cool about a breakup, only to realize that the raw, noisy feelings are louder than any guitar riff. It is tender, nostalgic, and just rough enough around the edges to wear its heart on a safety pin.

Martelli feels like an emotional roller coaster viewed through a cracked kaleidoscope. Gazzelle paints the moment right after losing love and direction: pockets emptied, memories of Caterina still staring him up and down, and a spring so dull it almost hurts. Each new day “sembra un martello” – it slams down like a hammer on his aching head – and the dramatic refrain “oggi mi sparo in testa” is less about literal self-harm, more a raw shout of frustration, confusion, and exhaustion.

Yet underneath the grey clouds, the singer keeps repeating a simple wish: "Voglio solo stare bene, ritrovare il mio colore" – “I just want to feel good, to find my colour again.” The track swings between darkness and light, mapping the messy path from heart-break to healing. It reminds us that even when life pounds away like heavy tools in a workshop, the stubborn hope for brightness still flickers and pushes us forward.

Meglio Così sounds upbeat at first, yet Gazzelle is really pouring out a cocktail of irony and heartbreak. The singer looks back on a doomed relationship where nothing ever lined up: he was broke, she had no dreams, even the sun refused to shine. Every shortcoming is brushed off with the sarcastic refrain "meglio così" (“better this way”), as if repeating it might make the pain feel smaller. When she decides to fly to Medellín with “uno stronzo, un pezzo di fango,” he drowns his feelings in Jim Beam, in memories of her jeans, and in endless tears that quickly turn into regrets.

Behind the catchy melody lies a raw confession about self-destructive coping and the sting of being left behind. Gazzelle paints love as a series of missed chances and tiny wrong turns, wrapping despair in casual language and sing-along hooks. The song reminds us that sometimes we proclaim “it’s better this way” not because we believe it, but because it is the only armor we have against the hurt we are still learning to face.

Gazzelle’s Quella Te feels like flipping through a slightly crumpled photo album of a past love. Each snapshot carries a timestamp — the sun-bleached summer of 2003, a rainy Friday, a wintry night in a London club — and together they paint a vivid portrait of two young people hiding behind drinks, jokes, and endless walks in the downpour. The singer clings to those ordinary-yet-magical details (a dirty sweatshirt, a Saturday hangover, the insistence on walking even when it pours) because they reveal the most genuine version of his partner: “quella te” (that you) who laughed freely and felt truly alive.

Beneath the nostalgia is a bittersweet confession: it takes years to admit that what each of them really wanted was not a perfect relationship, but rather a fleeting reflection of themselves found in the other. The chorus repeats “solo te” like a mantra, underscoring both longing and resignation. Even as time marches on, the memory of that version of you still jolts him awake on Saturday mornings, proving that the simplest moments often leave the deepest footprints.

Tutta La Vita – which means All Life or Our Whole Life Ahead – drops us right into a hazy Roman twilight, where cigarette smoke curls through the air and the fridge light flickers like a broken memory. Gazzelle paints loneliness with everyday objects: an empty kitchen, a forgotten piano, a tram disappearing down the tracks. Yet each image is playful and relatable, turning small, ordinary scenes into metaphors for those moments when you feel like a single raindrop stuck outside the window.

Just when the gloom threatens to swallow him, the chorus bursts in with a cheeky grin: "Abbiamo tutta la vita davanti" – "We’ve got our whole life in front of us". Standing outside a bar while the night “eats our skin,” the singer calls for a time-out from heartbreak and bad vibes, insisting that we can be perfectly fine on our own. By repeating "Stiamo bene anche soli" – "We’re good even alone" – the song flips melancholy into empowerment, inviting listeners to switch off the noise, pocket forgotten hands, and snap a fresh photo of life’s next adventure. The result is a bittersweet, late-night anthem for anyone who has ever felt both alone and invincible at the very same time.

Belva – which literally means “beast” in Italian – captures the messy tug-of-war between tenderness and raw instinct inside a relationship. Gazzelle sings from the viewpoint of someone who feels fragile, ignored, and on the edge of collapse. He begs his partner to look at his face, hold his arms, and stay, even when he loses his head, turns into “half a bear,” and becomes a jerk. The repeated question “Come vuoi che sto?” (How do you expect I’m doing?) hints at unspoken pain, while the promise “Giurami che cercherai di stare qui” reveals a desperate need for reassurance.

Beneath its catchy indie-pop vibe, the song wrestles with opposing forces: order vs. chaos, comfort vs. conflict, sweetness vs. savagery. Gazzelle admits that not everything heals and that sometimes love simply hurts, yet he still offers his partner a place “to sleep inside” him. The result is a heartfelt confession of vulnerability wrapped in gruff honesty – a reminder that even a “belva” just wants someone to hold them before they fall.

Ever wondered what it feels like when your head becomes a carnival of day-glow dreams, reckless wishes and bittersweet memories? "Meltinpot" drops you straight into that whirlwind. Gazzelle fires off surreal snapshots—jumping out of helicopters, skidding off-road in a friend’s car, sipping ginger drinks to stop from exploding—so we can taste how chaotic love can feel when it blurs into fantasy. Each image is loud, colorful and a little dangerous, just like the flamingo-pink sky he sings about.

Beneath the playful absurdity lies a very human confession: "La verità è che sei solo un inganno della mia testa" (The truth is you’re only a trick in my mind). The singer is stuck between wanting to break free and being unable to say a simple “ciao,” so everything around him turns into a melting pot of people, memories and emotions. That mix—half party, half heartbreak—captures the dizzy moment when you realize love might be all in your head, yet it still burns bright enough to set every photograph (and maybe yourself) on fire.

“Stelle Filanti” feels like stumbling through Rome at 2 a.m. with someone you adore and annoy in equal measure. Gazzelle strings together vivid snapshots — hands on cheeks, rain-soaked streets, sparklers fizzing like streetlights — to show a love that is messy but still glowing. He admits he has “ruined everything in the last seven months,” yet those stolen kisses and late-night adventures keep the flame alive.

The heart of the song is a tug-of-war between craving closeness and fearing the heavy words “Ti amo.” The couple dreams of running away, sleeping in, and arguing just for fun, anything to keep the spark without the pressure. Gazzelle’s lyrics capture that bittersweet phase where romance is equal parts magic and rust, where promises of tomorrow shine as brightly as carnival streamers before drifting to the ground.