As Editor-in-Chief of Lost & Found Italy, I’ve spent years unearthing the stories that shape Italian culture—the ones hidden in corridors, in chance encounters, in the quiet moments before a life changes forever. But some stories live in my own home.
My husband, Tony Blescia, doesn’t often sit down to revisit his early years in music. He’s a man of few words, who moves forward, always writing, always producing. But, upon the news of Gino Paoli’s death, he was more silent than usual. Something shifted from within. When I asked him about his first encounter with Gino Paoli, the legendary singer-songwriter who plucked him from obscurity at nineteen years old, Tony was slow to respond. The memories came back in fragments: a hallway at Castrocaro, a stolen Mercedes, a bullet that stayed lodged in a man’s heart for a lifetime.
This is not just about mentorship. It’s about the complicated, often unsentimental way that greatness passes something down to the next generation. It’s about the first person who truly believed in you.
For Tony Blescia, that person was Gino Paoli: a giant—intimidating, disruptive, blunt to the point of cruelty. But he was also a poet, an immense artist, and he saw something in the young talent that no one else had yet recognized. What follows is our conversation. I hope it offers a glimpse into Sanremo’s golden age, of artists who carried their demons onstage, and of the fleeting, transformative encounters that define a life.
“You know what? Fuck this. I like drinking. Why do you want to write about this? This is something people will eventually deal with. You don’t want to dress this in a song, especially at your age.”
– Gino Paoli
Q&A: Tony Blescia on Gino Paoli
When was your first encounter with Gino Paoli?
It was 1992. I was 19 and a half.
And how did you see the world at that time?
Truly, deeply enthusiastic and full of opportunities. I was focused on my goals and my dream—and that dream was Music.
What was the first moment like when you met Gino? What was your impression of him?
Like the giant of the music industry. Very intimidating. Not friendly, not right away. Few words, but so charismatic and intense. He also reminded me of my father. The same white hair and mustache—and something in his eyes. It gave me a sense of familiarity, as if I had known him long before we ever met.
Where were you when you met him?
I was at the Castrocaro Music Festival—the one they called the “baby Sanremo” because it was the most important contest before Sanremo and the winner secured a spot at the upcoming Sanremo festival. Everyone who was anyone went through Castrocaro: Eros Ramazzotti, Zucchero, Zarrillo, all of them. I was there competing. I remember meeting him in the hallway of the Grand Hotel, by chance. They introduced me to him because he was the president of the judges.
So he already knew you were going to win?
No, but he knew he wanted to sign me with Warner. At the time he was one of the biggest artist for Warner. Whatever he would say, they would do. So he said, “This is gonna be the one.” I didn’t know that until after, because his manager approached me backstage and said, “We want to sign you. Whatever happens tonight, we’re gonna sign you.” I didn’t know I was going to win—and then I did. I think he played a big part in that decision.
What is the best advice he gave you?
To not be so impegnato—not so heavy. I was writing songs already about very sad, intense things, social themes. He said, “You’re going to be a little more leggero, lighter. For example, I wrote a song about an alcoholic that never came out. I remember him saying, “You know what? Fuck this. I like drinking. Why do you want to write about this? This is something people will eventually deal with. You don’t want to dress this in a song, especially at your age.” I was like, okay. I never released that song. So that was criticism and wisdom together.
What did he criticize you most about?
Also the look. I was going on stage with a collared jacket and shirt. He wanted to change that right away. He told someone else to tell me, “Take off the jacket, just shirt and jeans.” . He did this several times—at Sanremo too.
You went from winning Castrocaro to Sanremo very quickly.
Yes. I won Castrocaro in October 1992, and four months later I was on the Sanremo stage. Big giant leap. Like a shock.
How did he work with you during that period?
He was my first artistic “supervisor” producer, on my first record. It was always disruptive. Changing things last second. For example, after three months of rehearsal with the orchestra—first in Rome, then Sanremo—everything so precise you can’t mess up even a centimeter of the musical sheets. Then, two hours before the live show, he came in and said, “You know what? It looks good, but let’s do it four BPM faster.”
Everyone was like, what? You can’t do that. But because it was Gino Paoli, no one could say no. He talked directly to the organizers, and they would do whatever he said.
What happened after your first performance that year?
The night after the first performance, they stole his new Mercedes parked underneath his hotel. He was so pissed. He left early. I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye. He just left.
What did you admire most about him?
I admired his being blunt and real. And his talent as a poet—a true songwriter. One of the greatest pioneers of the cantautorato italiano.
I had the privilege of traveling with the production and watching many of his concerts from backstage. We shared the same manager and label, so they wanted me to see and learn from the master. That’s where I got to breathe and live what a true performer was: the way he communicated with the audience, the pauses, the flawless delivery. He always had a glass and a cigarette in his hand, even while singing—something you’d see done by Sinatra and other old-school greats of the past. Pure class!
What is your favorite song he ever wrote?
There are a few, but for sure Senza fine. It’s a true classic. And obviously Il cielo in una stanza is a masterpiece. What some people might not know it was inspired by a prostitute he was seeing. He talks about this moment he was with her in a room, imagining the sky. That song is pure poetry—like a painting.
Was there another thing about him that blew your mind?
Yes. He lived his whole life with a bullet in his heart. He tried to kill himself when he was around 30—as he would later explain— because he had everything—wealth, beautiful women who loved him, success—and none of it made him feel anything. So he wanted to end it. The bullet stopped a centimeter from the heart, and they couldn’t operate to remove it. He carried that bullet his whole life. This was only few years before his friend Luigi Tenco—they were very close—would take his own life in Sanremo, during the Sanremo Music Festival. That story alone is unimaginable. Something like this doesn’t happen. Obviously it was God that wanted him to live, to leave a legacy that would change the music and the culture forever.
Tony’s time with Gino Paoli was impressionable. There was no warm farewell, no closing of the circle—just a stolen car, a quick departure, and a young singer left to make sense of it all on his own. But that is often how it works with the giants. They enter your life not to hold your hand, but to propel you into the spotlight and dare you to stay there.
Paoli’s legacy, of course, is secure. His songs still float through Italian homes, his voice still carries that blend of melancholy and defiance. But listening to Tony speak about him, I realized that Paoli’s influence was never just about the music. It was about the blunt wisdom, the refusal to coddle, the insistence on authenticity over sentimentality. When Paoli told an nineteen-year-old Tony to take off the jacket, to stop writing about other people’s pain before he had lived enough of his own, he was doing something more profound than producing a record. He was teaching a young artist how to stand on his own.
Tony went on to write his own songs, find his own voice, and build a life far beyond that hallway in Castrocaro. But he never forgot the man with the bullet in his heart who saw something in him before anyone else did.
Some mentors stay for years.
Others pass through like a storm—disruptive, unforgettable, and gone before you can say thank you.
For Tony, Gino Paoli was both. And for that, he remains grateful.
All Photos courtesy of Alessandro Moggi
