CARUSO
In this hauntingly personal interpretation, Natalja reimagines Caruso not as a tale of fleeting romance, but as the last confession of a man who loved one thing more than anything else:
the voice that made him immortal.
“Here, where the sea glistens and the wind blows hard, on an old terrace in front of the Sorrento gulf, a man embraces a girl after having cried then he clears his throat and restarts the song…”
This is not a song about a girl.
It is a goodbye to a life lived through music.
In her haunting interpretation, Natalja reveals Caruso as a final love letter— not to a woman, but to the Opera itself.
The green eyes are the footlights.
The sea is the stage.
And the voice, once so powerful, begins to falter.
Here, love is not romantic. It is sacred.
It is the ache of an artist parting from the only thing that ever made him whole.
Sung not as performance, but as memory,
Natalja offers Caruso as it was always meant to be heard:
a soul singing to its muse, one last time.
For Those Who’ve Loved Until It Hurt
Lucio Dalla wrote Caruso after an unexpected night in Sorrento.
His boat had broken down, and he checked into a quiet hotel overlooking the sea. By chance—or fate—it was the same room where Enrico Caruso had once stayed during his final days. The hotel staff told him stories: of the great tenor, in pain, clinging to life, gazing out at the water and singing softly to a young student he adored. Whether myth or memory, it stirred something deep in Dalla. That night, he wrote a song—not just about love, but about farewell.
Caruso had given everything to his voice. In the end, that voice was leaving him. And as he lay in that room, watching the light flicker on the sea, he sang—not to a woman, perhaps, but to the Opera itself.
His muse. His torment. His salvation.
Natalja understands this kind of devotion. She, too, has lived her life inside the music and she sings Caruso not as a cover, but as a conversation across time. A woman with her own voice, reaching back to touch the soul of a man who gave his away.
