Musical Discoveries: Minuetto, by Mia Martini

I’ve just finished watching “Alan and Amanda’s Italian Job.” I briefly thought about watching this before, but was put off by the presenters, Alan Carr and Amanda Holden. I don’t have anything against them, but I’ve never really warmed to them, so this show wasn’t at the top of my “must watch” list.

Then one Friday evening, my friend Clive popped around and mentioned that he had been watching the programme, and really enjoyed it. He urged me to watch it, and we watched the first episode of “Alan and Amanda’s Spanish Job” together. Spain is, of course, a country that I adore, so after the first episode I was inspired to continue watching, especially since it is filmed around the area that is particularly special to me.

And you know what? I quickly found myself hooked.

The show became my regular treadmill viewing, and I binged all three series of it. I loved the settings. I loved the properties. And I came to love Alan and Amanda (plus, of course, the real creative genius behind the projects, Scott).

But anyway, this is all largely irrelevant, because it was the music that most impressed me. Whoever chose the music for this show should definitely get a pay rise.

Whilst there are many nuggets of gold on the soundtrack, the one that really took my breath away was the song over the closing credits of the final episode – “Minuetto” by Mia Martini. I had never heard the song or indeed of Mia Martini before, but it instantly captivated me, and has been a regular feature of my audible journey recently. Blending a stunning melody with a richly layered orchestral and choral arrangement, the song is utterly beautiful. Mia’s glorious voice is the cherry on the cake.

It turns out that Mia Martini is something of a legend in the Italian pop world, particularly during the 1970s, when she had major success with tracks like Piccolo Uomo, Donna Sola, and the song that first drew me in — Minuetto.

Released in 1973, Minuetto is often regarded as her signature track. The music was written by Dario Baldan Bembo, who took inspiration from the elegance of the classical minuet and shaped it into a contemporary ballad. The producer, Giovanni Sanjust, was looking for a summer hit and had various lyricists try their hand at writing something suitable. In the end, it was Franco Califano’s version that stuck — drawn from real conversations with Mia herself, giving the lyrics a striking emotional intimacy. You can hear that connection in every line.

The song’s recording brought together a remarkable ensemble of musicians for the backing vocals — including the La Bionda brothers, Bruno Lauzi, Maurizio Fabrizio, Mia’s own sister Loredana Bertè, and her then-partner, tennis star Adriano Panatta. It debuted on the RAI television show Adesso Musica and went on to become a massive hit. Minuetto shared the Festivalbar award with Marcella Bella’s Io domani, remained in the Italian charts for 30 weeks, and became the country’s best-selling single that year.

Lyrically, it’s a masterclass in quiet devastation. Minuetto tells the story of a woman trapped in the push and pull of a relationship she can’t quite leave, nor quite hold onto. There’s a haunting vulnerability in lines like “Every night of mine is uncertain… Waiting, it seems like an agony.” It’s not melodramatic. It’s just heartbreakingly true.

Mia’s own life, sadly, echoed some of that same fragility. In the late 1970s, her career was derailed not by any lack of talent or success, but by something far stranger: a damaging and completely unfounded rumour. At some point, someone in the industry decided — absurdly — that she brought bad luck. And somehow, that ridiculous idea stuck. Promoters dropped her. TV appearances dried up. Some artists even refused to share a stage with her. It’s difficult to believe now, but the impact was devastating. For years, Mia was effectively blacklisted, not because of anything she did, but because of a myth.

And yet — she came back. In 1989, she stepped back onto the stage at the Sanremo Music Festival and performed Almeno tu nell’universo, a spine-tingling performance that brought the audience to its feet and won her the Critics’ Award. It was a quiet, dignified act of defiance, and it reminded everyone exactly what they had lost when they turned away.

Mia Martini passed away far too young, in 1995, at the age of 47. But her voice — rich, aching, extraordinary — still rings out. And for me, Minuetto has become much more than a closing credits discovery. It’s the sound of something rare and beautiful: a moment of grace, held aloft by someone who knew the cost of it.

If you’ve never heard Minuetto, you can watch a live performance here — and I really hope you do: