On a Tuesday morning in a local Australian town hall, my tutor, Sara, was rattling off the imperfetto.

Ero, eri, era, eravate, eravano, eravamo. Her lips moved like butterfly wings, while mine felt glued shut. I’d mastered the passato prossimo—the Italian past tense that relies on a relatively simple compound pattern. But the imperfetto? My tongue struggled to form the endings. As I reached for my notes—reliant on them to guide me through this new verb form—Sara opened her phone and played me a song.

Lucio Battisti’s “Era”: The Imperfect Tense

Era aprile, era maggio

Era, chi lo sa

Era bella o era bella

Solo la sua età

(It was April, it was May

It was, who knows

She was beautiful, 

or just her age was beautiful)

“It’s a sad song,” Sara explained as the acoustic guitar notes of Lucio Battisti’s “Era” (1965) echoed around our table. The Roman-born cantautore (singer-songwriter) was singing nostalgically about a past moment—an “era”, if you will—and a love that finished with it. Through Battisti’s wistful lyrics, I finally understood the imperfetto. I listened on repeat until the conjugations were etched into my consciousness.

Studies suggest the same mental activities that allow us to appreciate music help us learn language. A 2018 study from Rome’s Catholic University of the Sacred Heart found that linguistic aptitude is rooted in rhythm and musical perception, while research from the University of Edinburgh suggests we recall new words far more accurately when they are sung rather than spoken. Even without full comprehension, a song’s melody and emotion neurologically imprint language into our memory—a connection that is only more profound in children.

One of the reasons I’ve been so determined to understand Italian and the language’s whopping 21 verb tenses is so I can pass my ancestral language to my five-year-old daughter. Italian-English children’s books were daunting, and I felt strange speaking to her in my broken Italian. Then, I found a bilingual children’s playlist. 

Within weeks of listening in the car, my daughter could recite, “Ciao, come stai? Sto molto bene, grazie,” with the exact intonation and pronunciation of the singer. (This is backed up by a recent study of Finnish adults learning English, where participants with musical affinity were more proficient in their pronunciations.) Her “grazie”, with the crisp “e” at the end, took me years to get right. 

We use a whiteboard at home to translate the lyrics, but at my daughter’s age, she’s more of a sponge than an analyst. She’s learning by absorbing and mimicry, not by fully understanding—which is the same way we all learn our native language.

Sergio Endrigo’s “Ci Vuole un Fiore”: The “Ci Vuole” Construction

We moved on to “Ci Vuole un Fiore” (1974), Sergio Endrigo’s flower-era exploration of the cycle from seed to tree to kitchen table. The song opens with marching-band horns and percussion, and the verses are accompanied by a children’s choir. As we drive to school, I like to imagine that my daughter pictures herself amongst that collective.

The lyrics explain how each phase requires, or “wants,” the previous phase in order to exist—creating a life cycle. The phrase “ci vuole” means “it’s wanted,” or “one must have,” requiring a reflexive verb—a construction unique to Romance languages, and a difficult one to master. One of the benefits of lyrics is that they’re often colloquial. If you can confidently throw “ci vuole” into a conversation, you’ve moved far beyond language-school basics. 

Matia Bazar’s “Solo Tu”: The Reflexive Verb

Even without my daughter in the car, I’ve let the music-app algorithms lead me toward more Italian music, starting with disco. “Solo Tu” (1979) by Matia Bazar is defined by synth-pop beats and Antonella Ruggiero’s soaring soprano; not only is it catchy, but it’s a masterclass in the reflexive verb. 

Risvegliarsi ormai per me 

Non ha senso senza te

(Waking up again now, for me

It doesn’t make sense without you)

It’s easier to understand risvegliarsi—to re-awaken oneself—when it rhymes. 

Per alzarmi ancora un giorno insieme a te

(To still get up one day together with you)

To get up: alzarmi. The swoony vocals and tight drums bolster my improving Italian as I drive, tired from having to alzarmi too early. 

Andrea Bocelli’s “Con Te Partirò”: The Simple Future Tense

Perhaps one of the most internationally recognizable Italian voices is Andrea Bocelli, the blind tenor with dramatic vocals and a world-class voice who can largely be credited with filling contemporary non-Italian speakers with admiration for the language—including, lamentably, the Kardashians and current US president. .

I find myself blasting the melodramatic ballad “Con Te Partirò” (1995)—which skyrocketed Bocelli to fame after he performed it at Sanremo—at full volume. The song is a perfect vehicle for the futuro semplice—the simple future. Bocelli’s articulation allows us to feel the force of his intentions. 

Con te partirò 

Paese che non ho mai 

Veduto e vissuto – con te

Adesso, sì, li vivrò

Con te partirò

(With you, I will go

Countries I have never 

Lived and seen – with you

Now, yes, I will live it

With you, I will go)

As we leave the present and jump to the future, for a moment, I’m driving through the poppy-dotted hills of Tuscany—until I pick my daughter up and she requests “K-Pop Demon Hunters” (2025).

Giacomo Puccini’s “O Mio Babbino Caro”: The Subjunctive Tense

Lately, I’ve also been hooked on opera—specifically Puccini’s “O Mio Babbino Caro” (1918), but the version from A Room With a View (1985). The aria (a self-contained piece for one voice) has been employed to advertise brands like Grand Theft Auto and McDonald’s and even appears in the Italy-set Pixar film Luca (2021), proving that you don’t have to understand the lyrics to enjoy the song (or to sell products). 

In it, young Lauretta pleads with her father to let her marry the boy she loves. 

E se l’amassi indarno

Andrei sul Ponte Vecchio, 

Ma per buttarmi in Arno!

(And if I have loved in vain,

I will go onto Ponte Vecchio,

to throw myself in the Arno!)

Amassi means “if I have loved.” It uses il congiuntivo (the subjunctive tense), which is used in regards to various states of unreality like wishes, emotions, possibilities, judgments, or actions that have not yet happened. One of the most elusive forms in the Romance language family, the subjunctive is perfect for threatening to throw oneself into the Arno River; there’s the implication of chance, of possibility, but it’s never sure. The subjunctive can manipulate. It can plead. It also expresses doubt. The subjunctive is the unknown, the question mark of where language is taking us. 

Listening to music in our learned language activates parts of the brain that briefly make us feel as if we are there, as if we are that version of ourselves. For me, music is freedom; a connection to Italian without the mediation of a tutor; a bonding ritual with my daughter; and a quantum leap into a future, fluent version of myself. 

For those of you on your Italian-learning journey, or just who love music, here is a playlist of songs mentioned above, plus a few extra. May your throat grow hoarse as you release your inner Italian vocalist on your next mundane commute, no matter if it’s past eucalyptus, concrete buildings, or Italian cypress.