Stray Kids au (italian boy version)
Bang Chan as Riccardo Martini
Born and raised in the bustling outskirts of Rome, Riccardo Martini grew up in a tight-knit, working-class neighborhood where the smell of laundry soap and Sunday ragù filled the stairwells, and neighbors still shouted across balconies like family. There was a particular stillness to the early mornings in the outskirts of Rome, just before the city opened its mouth and roared. A fragile pause, where the burnt scent of espresso drifted from open windows, and the echo of a distant Vespa hummed like a lullaby. Riccardo Martini had grown up in that quiet — that narrow margin of calm between obligation and noise.
He was the eldest of three in a household that spun on the axis of his mother’s resilience, a strong willed single mother. A woman with strong hands, calloused from hospital double shifts as a nurse and late-night ironing, who never raised her voice but never had to. She ruled the small apartment like a conductor — timing meals with bus schedules, budgets with rent, and still managing to hum along to Eros Ramazzotti as she folded laundry. Riccardo watched her with a reverence he never spoke aloud. She was his first rhythm — patient, consistent, unyielding.
From a young age, Riccardo had an ear — not just for notes, but for rhythm, tone, silence. At six, he dismantled his cousin’s broken stereo and rebuilt it using scrap parts. At eight, he was borrowing his uncle’s dusty guitar. By twelve, he was writing rough instrumental compositions in a tattered notebook his mother kept tucked in a drawer like it was something sacred. And though he’d never admit it, the only reason he survived the gray haze of adolescence — the loneliness of being the “responsible one,” the pressure of holding things together — was because of those melodies no one else heard.
He was a quiet kid. Observant. Mature. Not shy. Just… tuned differently. While other boys played calcio in the courtyard until sunset, Riccardo was on the balcony with headphones on, scribbling lyrics, watching the sky change color over the rooftops of the city he both loved and felt trapped in. He listened to the world in layers: the creak of old elevators, the hush of wind through alleyways, the tinny laughter of neighbors on balconies. To him, everything was a kind of song — waiting to be caught.
Rome was beautiful, but heavy. Like a place that remembered too much. Riccardo loved it fiercely — the food, the voices, the city that never shut up — but he also longed to breathe differently. To exist outside of the corners people kept pushing him into: the good son, the helpful brother, the one who didn’t make trouble. Music wasn’t rebellion. It was salvation.
In high school, Riccardo stood out without ever trying to. He wasn’t the loudest or the most confident — but people gravitated toward him. He had a calm that drew others in. He defended the quieter kids, helped classmates with group projects even if he did most of the work himself. He listened more than he spoke, but when he did speak — it mattered.
Music became not just a passion but a survival tool. Between the pressure to help at home, keep his grades high, and be the “man of the house,” composing was the one space he could fully breathe in. He played small gigs in local bars by the time he was seventeen. His dream wasn’t fame — it was freedom. To create without limits. To finally be somewhere where people understood that music wasn’t a hobby, it was oxygen.
He applied to Milan’s conservatorio with hands shaking. He didn’t tell anyone when he submitted the form. When the acceptance letter came, his mother cried like she’d been holding her breath for years. He left for Milan two months later with one suitcase, two notebooks, and a promise to never forget where he came from.
He arrived in Milan with one suitcase and two notebooks: one filled with lyrics, the other with lists. Rent to pay. Studio contacts to email. Shifts to take. While the other students wandered wide-eyed through Corso Buenos Aires or queued for aperitivo in Brera, Riccardo mapped out a budget and found a shared flat with creaky floors and questionable heating. He didn’t come here to play. He came to work.
Milan was a shock. Faster. Colder. More polished. Where Rome was loud and chaotic and warm, Milan was steel and angles and tempo. But Riccardo adjusted — not by changing who he was, but by adapting. He picked up part-time work in recording studios, helped edit tracks for film students, did mixing for small indie artists. He became known in his faculty as the guy who could quietly save your project last-minute without asking for credit. And People started noticing — not because he demanded attention, but because he earned it. Professors respected his precision. Classmates came to him when deadlines loomed. He never bragged. He just fixed things. That was Riccardo. The quiet fixer.
In Milan, he met people who were nothing like him — and it fascinated him. He formed friendships slowly, cautiously, but when he let someone in, he meant it. He’s the one you call at 3 AM. The one who carries someone else’s weight without complaint. The one who reads the room before he speaks. Not because he’s shy — but because he cares enough to listen first.
His room became a sanctuary of tangled cords, warm lighting, half-drunk coffees, and hours of composition that blurred into dawn. He wasn’t chasing fame. He was building something else — something cleaner. Something that mattered.
And somewhere along the way, he met people who cracked through his solitude. Federico with his chaos and color. Giulio with his unfiltered thoughts and endless poetry. Edoardo, who saw beauty where Riccardo saw blueprint. They were different — scattered, brilliant, intense. But Riccardo needed them. And they, perhaps without realizing, needed him too.
Riccardo Martini doesn’t arrive with a bang. He doesn’t announce himself. He settles into a space like a melody you didn’t know was missing until it’s there — steady, warm, grounding. He doesn’t command attention, but he holds it. Quietly. Unshakably. There’s something about him — not obvious, not loud — that makes people pause, even if they don’t understand why.
He’s the kind of person who notices things most people miss. The way someone’s voice trembles before bad news. The scratch on a vinyl cover. The shift in light through a curtain as afternoon slides into dusk. He remembers details. How you take your coffee. What song you were humming under your breath. That one book you mentioned once but never finished.
Riccardo was never one to chase the spotlight. Praise doesn’t feed him. Purpose does. He works late, often until the city has gone silent, tinkering with melodies or lost in layers of sound — building tracks that speak more than words could. He thrives in that space between discipline and passion, where art becomes structure, and structure becomes freedom. For him, music isn’t just creation. It’s control in a world that too often spins beyond it.
He wears things until they soften. His leather jacket smells of espresso and rain, dark jeans, soft cotton shirts. His notebooks are worn at the edges, ink bleeding through pages he refuses to tear out. Always has a pen on him, but never lends it — not out of selfishness, but principle. Some things, like ideas and boundaries, are sacred. You don’t hand them over lightly.
His likes are subtle, textured. Mornings before the world wakes, the ritual of making coffee, the hiss of vinyl, overcast skies, the way Milan softens under snow, intimate concerts, studio sessions that run till dawn, black licorice, long walks when the city empties. On the other end, he dislikes performance without depth, like people who talk to be heard, superficial ambition, dishonesty wrapped in politeness, big egos in small rooms, over production in music, thee sound of chewing, disrespect, especially when subtle and definitely wasting time — his or anyone else’s.
He has his faults. Of course, he does. He holds things in too long. Doesn’t always know how to ask for help. Struggles with stillness when it isn’t chosen. He’s terrible at small talk, sometimes distant when he’s too deep in his own thoughts. There’s a restlessness to him — a need to move forward, even if no one’s chasing him. Sleep, for him, is not rest. It’s interruption.
There are nights he can’t shut his mind down. When music isn’t enough to drown out the noise of expectation — of memory. He smokes sometimes, when the pressure coils too tight, leaning out his window with a hand in his hair and a jaw set too hard. Not a chain smoker. Not proud of it either. Just moments. Little rebellions. Quiet escapes.
His addiction, if anything, is perfection. The need to get it right — the mix, the timing, the tone. He’ll play the same sequence twenty, thirty times. Not out of obsession, but hunger. For clarity. For that clean, undeniable moment when a song finally breathes on its own.
He’s a protector by nature — not in the overt, chest-puffed way, but in quiet gestures. He listens. He stays. He remembers. He never walks away when it matters. He’s the one you call at 3:00 a.m. when things fall apart — not because he’ll fix it all, but because he won’t flinch when you show him the wreckage.
He keeps few people close. Not out of arrogance, but care. He believes in slow trust. In building something brick by brick. Once you’re in, you’re in. And Riccardo loves fiercely, though he rarely uses the word. For him, loyalty is louder than affection. And he has a softness, buried deep — the kind of softness that comes from carrying too much, for too long, without complaint.
His hobbies are quiet, almost monk-like: collecting rare records from old markets, reworking classic Italian ballads into modern compositions, watching vintage films — Tornatore, Pasolini, sometimes even Kurosawa, reading interviews with musicians rather than biographies and taking midnight bike rides when the streets are empty and the world feels gentle again. He’s not trying to impress. He’s trying to create something real. Something that outlasts him. A sound. A feeling. A moment frozen in time.
Riccardo Martini is the silence that comes after a beautiful song — the kind you don’t want to break. He’s the anchor, the rhythm beneath the chaos. The one who stays. Who listens. Who makes you believe, even for a moment, that something sacred still exists in this world.
And when he plays — when he really lets go — the world stops spinning. Just long enough to remind you what it means to feel.
Family Background
Riccardo’s family wasn’t the kind of family you brought to TV shows. But it was the kind you’d fight for. Every time. No questions asked. The kind of place where the dinner table was too small, the fridge was too loud, and love showed up in practical ways: a plate kept warm, a text at midnight, a folded hoodie left on the bed before an early shift. There was no shouting. No chaos. Just the slow, heavy rhythm of survival. Coffee at 6:00 a.m., dishes stacked by 8:00 p.m., a kiss on the forehead that meant more than a hundred “I love you”s. They didn’t always talk, but they understood each other.
Monica, mother (ER Nurse, 55) — worked double shifts for most of Riccardo’s childhood. Quiet strength, no-nonsense love, the kind of woman who held her own grief behind gritted teeth and coffee cups. Their bond is steel-threaded. Riccardo respects her like no one else. He rarely says “I love you,” but calls her before every gig, every exam, every breakdown. She taught him how to survive, but more importantly — how to stay kind. He still calls her “Ma’.” She still tells him to eat more.
Marco, father (age unknown, estranged) — left when Riccardo was 8. Scattered contact for a few years, then nothing. Said he had dreams. Said he’d send money. Didn’t. Their bond is none. Riccardo doesn’t talk about him. If you bring him up, Riccardo changes the subject. The only trace of his father is Riccardo’s quiet fear of becoming unreliable himself. He once saw his name on a contact form and scratched it out.
Davide, younger brother (studying computer science in Rome, 19) — smart, withdrawn, a bit anxious. Always the “quiet one.” Thinks in code, not feelings. Grew up watching Riccardo leave for the North — admires him but doesn’t know how to say it. Their bond is based on wires and awkward texts. Riccardo makes an effort — sends music links, checks in before exams, helps him with rent. They don’t say much on calls, but the silence feels safe. Davide wears Riccardo’s old headphones like armor.
Annalisa, younger sister (high school senior, dreams of studying sociology or political science, 17) — fiery, opinionated, always in trouble for correcting teachers. She’s the one who challenges Riccardo the most — calls out his hypocrisy, teases him relentlessly. But she’s also the first to defend him if anyone speaks ill. Their bond is volcanic but unbreakable. She sends him voice notes when she’s upset, and he always listens. He sometimes overprotects her — she hates it. But she knows he’d drop everything if she asked. She calls him “il saggio scemo” — the wise idiot. Only she’s allowed.
Friends
Antonello (from Rome) — actor, part-time bartender, full-time chaos. Met Riccardo during a summer trip home. They knew each other vaguely from high school — Antonello was that loud-mouth kid always cracking jokes in religion class. They reconnected at a dive bar in Trastevere, where Antonello jumped behind the counter mid-shift and started mixing drinks for free. Riccardo just shook his head. Antonello’s the wildcard. The storyteller. The guy who brings drama, flirts with everything that breathes, and cries watching La Vita è Bella. He and Riccardo argue constantly — about loyalty, art, masculinity, ethics — but they always leave the table with a clink of glasses and some vulgar joke only Romans could get away with.
Marcella (from Rome) — philosophy student, radical, sharp-tongued, impossibly patient. They met during a protest outside a university building. Marcella had a megaphone and a black eye from the night before — refused to explain it. Riccardo handed her a bottle of water. She called him “borghesuccio” (bourgeois boy). He smirked and said: “You sound like Pasolini with a hangover.” Now they meet for espresso and argue about Sartre vs. Arendt. She critiques his lyrics. He edits her essays. She never lies, never flatters, and Riccardo needs that — someone who sees through performance and loves you anyway.
Gianni (from Milan) — sociology grad student, knows everyone, DJs for fun, ex-skater. He met Gianni at a rooftop jam session in Lambrate. Gianni wore ripped cargos, had half a mullet, and handed Riccardo a spliff like they were old friends. “You’re the Roman, right? Thought you’d be taller.” Gianni’s the glue. He doesn’t judge, doesn’t push. Just holds space. He brings people together: Giulio, Cesare, Federico — half of them met through him. His apartment is where they crash after long nights, talk politics over spaghetti at 3AM, cry when shit gets too heavy. Everyone owes Gianni something — and he never cashes in.
Claudia (from Milan) — film student, shoots everything on Super 8, smokes like a chimney. He met Claudia at an open mic when she was filming a short about loneliness in urban spaces. He thought she was pretentious — until he saw her footage. It made him cry. She shrugged and said, “It’s not about being sad. It’s about not lying.” Now she documents their lives in fragments. Smoking in alleyways, Giulio reciting poetry in an abandoned stairwell, Cesare pacing in silence. Claudia doesn’t speak much — just captures. But when she does talk, it’s like cutting glass. Riccardo calls her “la lente” — the lens.
Leonardo (Lee Know) — disciplined, focused, cool exterior, loyal to the bone. They met at a small contemporary dance workshop in Isola, Milan — Riccardo had signed up to explore rhythm through movement for a production class, and Leonardo was there fine-tuning footwork for an upcoming piece. Riccardo noticed him instantly — precise, unreadable, nearly clinical in execution. Not a wasted motion. Not a single glance at the mirror unless it was necessary. They partnered for an exercise on syncopation. Riccardo was stiff. Leonardo didn’t sugarcoat it. “You think too much with your head. Let your chest decide.” It wasn’t rude — it was true. And Riccardo respected it. Their bond is built on mutual rigor — two perfectionists, quietly understanding the pressure of always needing to be a little better than yesterday. Riccardo sees in Leonardo someone who demands excellence not out of ego, but love for the craft. He often makes sure Leonardo eats, stretches, breathes. In time, Leonardo begins to trust Riccardo with the parts of himself he keeps hidden: the bruises behind his knees, the anxiety of being overlooked, the way he freezes before performances. Riccardo doesn’t try to fix it — just stands behind him, steady as stone.
Cesare (Changbin) — straightforward, loud, tough appearance with an heart that melts like an ice-cream in the sun. They met at an underground music showcase in Milan. Riccardo had just moved for university and was networking at a local music collective where Cesare occasionally freestyled or worked beats with people from the hip-hop circuit. Riccardo clocked Cesare immediately — the brooding guy in the corner with headphones on, nodding to beats but not speaking. Riccardo approached him, asked what he thought of the mix. Cesare just looked up and said: “Troppo pulito. Manca il sudore.” (“Too clean. Needs sweat.”). It was the start of a creative rivalry, then an intense friendship. Like yin and yang. Riccardo’s warmth balances Cesare’s sharp edge. They often argue about rhythm, politics, authenticity — but there’s profound respect under it. Riccardo’s one of the few people Cesare trusts with his lyrics. Their arguments are explosive, but their loyalty is unshakable. Riccardo knows when to challenge Cesare — and when to just sit beside him in silence.
Edoardo (Hyunjin) — dramatic, expressive, a living sculpture with soft heart. They met at a cross-department art jam at school — Riccardo needed costume help for a student showcase and saw Edoardo sketching in the corner with kohl on his lids and paint stains on his sleeves. When Riccardo asked if he’d be interested in designing, Edoardo barely looked up and said, “Only if I can make it hurt a little.” The partnership was electric. Edoardo stitched anguish and grace into every look. Riccardo laid sound under the garments like heartbeat. They didn’t talk much — until they did, and then they couldn’t stop. About music videos that made them cry. About the cruelty of beauty. Riccardo is a grounding anchor for Edoardo — the one who doesn’t flinch when he spirals, doesn’t mock when he weeps. He knows when to let Edoardo dissolve in velvet and silence, and when to snap him out of it with black coffee and a reminder: “You’re more than what they see.” In turn, Edoardo brings out Riccardo’s hidden softness — his buried romanticism, his fear of being seen, his unspoken desire to be beautiful, too.
Giulio (Jisung) — vulnerable, brilliant, living proof of the Cheshire Cat. They met in the studio. Not the professional kind — the kind tucked under a laundromat, with mold on the ceiling and cables taped to the floor. Giulio had just arrived from Bologna, fast-talking and wide-eyed, too skinny for the oversized denim jacket he wore like armor. Riccardo didn’t notice him at first — until he heard someone laughing behind the mic, mid-take. Not mocking — genuinely amused. Riccardo stopped the track. “You got something to say?” Giulio grinned. “Yeah. You play that loop again and I’m gonna fall asleep standing.” Everyone went silent. Riccardo raised an eyebrow. “Then fix it.” Giulio did. In twenty minutes. The beat he built was unorthodox — messy, raw, brilliant. Giulio and Riccardo have a profoundly emotional bond. Riccardo sees in Giulio all the things he once tried to hide: softness, yearning, fear of not being enough. He protects Giulio without smothering him — offers structure without killing the chaos. He helps Giulio finish poems, reminds him to sleep, listens when Giulio spirals about being “too much” or “too dramatic.” And in return, Giulio makes Riccardo feel again — cracks his armor with poetry, kisses on the cheek, and spontaneous joy.
Federico (Felix) — ridiculously stylish, cheerful, sometimes he plays fool to catch wise. They met backstage at a student showcase where Riccardo was doing the ambient set between fashion segments. Federico brushed past him in a vintage velvet blazer, doc martens, and a pearl earring — not just styled, but curated. Riccardo, half-judging, asked: “Don’t you get tired dressing like a magazine cover?” Federico didn’t blink. “Don’t you get tired dressing like a heartbreak?” It should’ve been a standoff. But Riccardo grinned — and Federico winked. Their friendship is based on mutual contradiction: Federico is flamboyant but deeply observant. Riccardo is restrained but intensely emotional. Federico calls Riccardo “il Prete” (“the Priest”) when he gets too stoic. Riccardo calls Federico “La Diva” when he takes too long to pick a jacket. But they talk about identity, masks, how the body becomes armor — and how art is sometimes the only way to survive being looked at. Federico’s one of the few people Riccardo trusts enough to open up emotionally — usually after 2AM, a drink too many, and some Lucio Dalla playing low in the background.
Vittorio (Seungmin) — intellectual, dry wit, thoughtful observer. They crossed paths at a music-for-film seminar in Milan. Riccardo was presenting a piece he’d scored for a short film — Vittorio sat in the back, arms crossed, unimpressed. After the session, he came up and said: “The strings were manipulative. But the silence? That was genius.” Riccardo didn’t know whether to thank him or slap him. They got coffee instead. Their bond is based on deep creative respect and philosophical debate. They argue over ethics in film, talk about Tarkovsky and Fellini until sunrise, send each other obscure essays and forgotten scores. Riccardo respects that Vittorio never panders, and Vittorio trusts Riccardo to deliver sound that speaks to the soul, not the spotlight. Vittorio becomes like a cousin you didn’t ask for but would take a bullet for — emotionally restrained, sarcastic as hell, but deeply loyal. When Riccardo is in trouble, Vittorio doesn’t offer comfort. He shows up at his door and says, “Come on. I brought food.”
Valerio (Jeongin) — stubborn, meticulous, sardonic, quiet or not quiet at all. They met at a shared project mixer hosted by their department — Riccardo was fiddling with cables on the wrong channel, and Valerio leaned in without a word and just fixed it. Not smug. Just efficient. “Cable A goes to Input 2. Otherwise, you’re gonna kill your highs.” Riccardo blinked. “Thanks.” Valerio just nodded and walked off. Like a cat who did you a favor and doesn’t need your gratitude. Valerio is the youngest, most withdrawn, and hardest to read. But Riccardo treats him with silent tenderness — not infantilizing, just present. He knows Valerio won’t open up easily. So he never pushes. Instead, he brings snacks to the studio, lets Valerio fall asleep on the mixing couch, reminds him quietly that he’s doing well. Riccardo sees Valerio’s genius — his surgical mind, his stubborn pride — and wants to protect it. He doesn’t compliment often. But when he does, Valerio pretends not to care, then saves the voice memo in a secret folder. Their bond is quiet loyalty. Riccardo will fight anyone who underestimates him. And Valerio, for all his silence, would burn down a city if someone hurt Riccardo.
Neighborhoods
Trastevere, Rome (where he grew up) — narrow cobbled alleys. Graffiti that tells stories. The smell of fried artichokes and cigarettes. He grew up in a third-floor walk-up with green shutters, raised by a single mother who played Eros records on Sunday mornings. Trastevere shaped his rhythm — its mix of history and rebellion, its rawness. He learned how to observe people here. It gave him edge and tenderness.
Isola, Milan (where he lives now) — a contrast to Trastevere, colder, more vertical, but quietly artistic. He chose Isola for its duality: old Milanese charm meets post-industrial grit. Street murals. Indie cafés. Musicians on balconies. It suits him: a place where he can disappear, yet remain surrounded by sound.
Favorite Italian artists
His playlists aren’t curated to impress — they’re honest, layered with nostalgia and rebellion.
Fabrizio De André – his anchor. The pillar. The poet. The eternal echo in Riccardo’s bones. De André doesn’t just write songs — he writes people. Marginalized voices, quiet dignity, layered truths. Riccardo finds safety in that humanity. There’s a compassion in De André’s lyrics that mirrors Riccardo’s own way of seeing the world: clearly, but with grace. Fave track, “Coda di lupo” -> Not the most obvious pick — but fierce. It’s about rebellion, transformation, and legacy. A soft song with teeth. It’s a song about remembering where you came from — and carrying it, no matter how heavy.
Mango — he blends sensuality and mysticism in a way Riccardo is obsessed with. That voice — pure falsetto, emotional without being theatrical. Mango makes you feel like you’re underwater, somewhere between heartbreak and rebirth. Riccardo listens to him when he’s alone in the studio, lights low, half-drunk on memory. Fave track, “La rondine” -> it’s delicate but devastating. A metaphor about departure and return. The way Mango sings “amore” here hits him like a breath he forgot to take. Reminds him of someone he lost, or maybe just never had.
Ludovico Einaudi — Einaudi gives space. His minimalism is emotional without trying to be. Stillness. Reflection. Sometimes silence says more than words. Fave track, “Fly” -> he plays this when writing lyrics. It makes everything clearer, like fog lifting from thought. It’s what he imagines falling in love in a snowstorm sounds like.
Adriano Celentano — charisma, irony, a bit of rock’n’roll — the older brother Riccardo never had. Celentano’s rhythm is timeless. He brought American sound to Italy, but kept it deeply Italian. Riccardo admires the effortless blending of charm and bite. There’s also a theatricality to Celentano that Riccardo never claims for himself, but secretly enjoys. Fave track, “L’emozione non ha voce” -> One of Celentano’s slower, more reflective songs. Melancholic, romantic, achingly sincere. It reminds Riccardo of his first heartbreak — the girl who loved his music but not his silences.
Subsonica — for his modern side. The studio side. The producer in him. Clean beats, tight production, emotional restraint. Riccardo admires the structure — the tension. When he’s mixing his own tracks, Subsonica plays in the background, like a metronome for precision and mood. Fave track, “Nuova Ossessione” -> It’s the kind of track that moves without yelling. Riccardo respects that — intensity without desperation. It reminds him that some obsessions are productive — music, discipline, memory — and others are not. He’s still learning the difference.
Favorite dishes
Cacio e pepe — the comfort dish. His mother made it every Friday when the fridge was empty. He still makes it with too much pepper.
Cannoli (Sicilian-made, don’t mess with him on this) — he doesn’t have a sweet tooth, except for this. He eats them slowly. Ritualistically. Texture matters to him.
Pane carasau with pecorino and honey — sardinian crispbread — he discovered it while traveling alone. It’s dry and sweet and rough around the edges. Like a moment you didn’t expect to matter.
Risotto allo zafferano – milan in a dish. He rarely makes it, but orders it in his favorite trattoria on Via Vigevano when something needs celebrating.
Pane e pomodoro – his nonna’s go-to. Warm bread. Crushed tomato. Olive oil like a benediction. No frills, just intention.
Favorite movies
He loves cinema that lingers — quiet frames, long silences, emotional violence wrapped in visual softness.
La leggenda del pianista sull’oceano (1998) by Tornatore — it’s about a pianist who never sets foot on land. Riccardo relates — living always slightly off-world, on his own terms. The piano duel — beauty meeting arrogance. The absurd tension of genius.
Lost in Translation (2003) by Sofia Coppola — it captures the ache of connection and disconnection. That feeling of floating, of reaching out in a place that doesn’t speak your language — metaphorically and literally. A scene that breaks him? The whisper in the final scene. We never hear it. It’s everything he’s ever left unsaid.
The Double Life of Véronique (1991) by Krzysztof Kieślowski — duality. Fate. Art as a mirror of the self. Riccardo plays this on rainy days and lets himself dissolve into the soundscape. The marionette performance is a scene he is obsessed over. He says it’s like watching a soul being puppeteered.
The Lives of Others (2006) by Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck — surveillance, resistance, art — but told through stillness. Riccardo admires the watcher slowly becoming human. The man listening through headphones, hearing the pianist cry is a scene he replays too many times. The music changes him. That, Riccardo believes, is the real point of art.
Favorite writers
Cesare Pavese — bleak. Sparse. Poetic. Like standing in front of a lake and knowing it’s too cold to swim, but diving in anyway. Riccardo feels Pavese’s loneliness. The kind that doesn’t scream — it sinks in quietly. “Il mestiere di vivere” (The Business of Living – diaries) -> Pavese’s vulnerability is brutal. Riccardo reads a page at a time. He says it’s “not literature, it’s blood.”
Alessandro Baricco — lyrical prose with a fevered pulse. Always something a little mad underneath. For Riccardo, Baricco represents elegance that doesn’t compromise passion. Literary, but musical. “Castelli di rabbia”, it’s surreal, tragic, and whimsical all at once. He loves how Baricco breaks logic in favor of emotion. It reads like a hallucination — exactly Riccardo’s tempo.
Joan Didion — sparse, surgical. Never sentimental. But still devastating. She writes emptiness like no one else. Riccardo relates to her distance — her ability to analyze pain without drowning in it. “Play It As It Lays”, a woman unraveling in slow motion. LA heat. Blank spaces. Riccardo calls it “despair in a convertible.”
David Foster Wallace — dense. Neurotic. Hyper-aware. Riccardo likes things that don’t let you relax. DFW is mental chaos with intent. He pushes the limits of what writing can be. Riccardo doesn’t always enjoy it — but that’s why he returns to it. “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men”, it’s brutal. Narcissistic. Dissecting masculinity with a scalpel. Riccardo read it after a fight and couldn’t look at himself in the mirror for a week.
Favorite seaside spots
San Vito Lo Capo (Sicily) – for the food, the sunsets, the chaos that somehow feels sacred.
Sperlonga (Lazio) – a day-trip spot from his youth. It feels like his brothers’ laughter is still echoing off the cliffs.
Camogli (Liguria) – tiny, a little forgotten. He goes in late September when it’s already emptying out.
Bosa (Sardinia) — old, pink houses. Barely anyone around. Seclusion. He loves the wind there — dry, constant. Time slows down.
Most used slang words
Ao’ — literal meaning: none, it’s an interjection, like “Hey!” and it’s used to call someone’s attention. Short, direct, unmistakably Roman. He’ll say it low under his breath when frustrated, or in a teasing tone when Giulio messes up in the studio. It’s a verbal eyebrow raise. It’s in his mouth constantly. A reflex, not a choice.
Annamo bene… — literal meaning “We’re doing just great…” actual usage: sarcastic, like “We’re screwed”. He uses it with dry humor. He doesn’t panic — he deadpans this and keeps going. It’s his way of handling chaos. usually said while rubbing his forehead in disbelief.
’Namo — in italian is the short roman way for “Andiamo” (Let’s go). It has that casual Roman rhythm, like he’s not rushing anyone, but they better move. Especially used when everyone’s dragging their feet.
Daje — literal meaning: “Give it!” but actual usage is “Come on!” / “Let’s go!” / “Hell yeah!”. It’s his way of expressing restrained enthusiasm. He doesn’t shout it — he murmurs it with a tight smile when the mix finally sounds right. It’s the quiet pulse of momentum.
Sta cosa m’ammazza — “this thing is killing me”, not literal — just very tired, very overwhelmed.
Most used slurs
Riccardo doesn’t use discriminatory language. But he will curse in frustration, especially in Roman dialect, or drop sharp one-liners when angry.
Minchia (technically Sicilian, but adopted widely) — literal meaning: “Dick” but used like: “Damn,” “Holy shit,” “What the hell”. A Sicilian word he picked up from an ex. It’s funnier when he says it, half-under his breath. Usually in reaction to something shocking or ridiculous.
Cristo santo — is an Italian expression that translates to "Christ, holy one" or "Holy Christ" in English. It's often used as an exclamation to express surprise, shock, or even frustration, similar to phrases like "Oh my God" or "For Christ’s sake". Riccardo uses it to convey strong emotions.
Mortacci tua — literal meaning: “Your damn dead relatives”. Deeply Roman. Both poetic and offensive. Used when truly pissed. Rare, but serious. He says it under his breath when everything crashes in the studio at 2am. It’s never thrown casually. When he says it, it means something.
Che cazzo fai? — literal meaning “What the fuck are you doing?” Sharp tone, but rarely angry. Just startled.
Representatives phrases
Le cose vere fanno rumore piano [ real things make quiet noise ] reason: Riccardo’s philosophy in the studio. Perfection takes time. So does healing. He said this once in a late-night session. Giulio wrote it on a wall.
Se non lo senti nello stomaco, non vale [ if you don’t feel it in your gut, it doesn’t count ] reason: whether it’s music, people, or truth — Riccardo only believes in what hits deep.
La perfezione mi fa paura [ perfection scares me ] reason: he doesn’t trust what’s too smooth. It’s the cracks that make something human.
Favorite idioms
Avoja a dì [ you could say it a thousand times ] meaning: no matter what you say, it won’t change anything / it’s pointless. Used when someone keeps repeating something that won’t make a difference. There’s something fatalistic and freeing in it. He’ll say it with a shrug, especially after arguments.
Stare con un piede in due scarpe [ to have a foot in two shoes ] meaning: to be indecisive or two-faced. Riccardo uses it critically — hates people who aren’t clear about where they stand.
Chi semina vento raccoglie tempesta [ those who sow wind, reap storms ] meaning: actions have consequences. Riccardo heard this from his nonna growing up. It’s stayed with him. He quotes it when people try to justify cruelty or chaos.