Alessandra and Elisabetta recall the atmosphere of the legendary Roman studio their father built.

Transmission 275: Piero Umiliani’s legacy: an interview with his daughters

Related article: L’Uomo Elettronico: The Dark, Scientific Soul of Piero Umiliani, Interview with Pierpaolo De Sanctis

Piero Umiliani was an Italian composer, arranger, and bandleader. In his compositions, he navigated multiple musical worlds, applying his ideas to jazz, experimental electronics, and an extensive catalog of film scores. An early adopter of jazz in a country where it was once forbidden, he later established his own Sound Workshop studio in Rome to operate with complete artistic autonomy. Umiliani wrote the music for Mario Monicelli‘s 1958 caper I Soliti Ignoti, creating what is regarded as the first full jazz score in Italian cinema.

His prolific method often involved composing music in advance, maintaining a personal library of themes that could be adapted for specific cinematic contexts. He is the author of the globally known tune ‘Mah Nà Mah Nà‘, a composition that brought him unexpected success, though he often expressed the bittersweet feeling of being remembered for that tune over his more complex works. Umiliani’s vast body of work includes 158 soundtracks and over two thousand registered songs, much of which was rediscovered during the 1990s lounge music revival. Umiliani’s vast body of work includes 158 soundtracks and over two thousand registered songs; the catalog is now managed by his daughters Elisabetta and Alessandra through Liuto Edizioni Musicali.

Your father discovered jazz in an Italy where it was still forbidden music. Besides the famous anecdote about Duke Ellington, did he ever tell you other details of how he cultivated this clandestine passion and what the atmosphere was like at home regarding this subversive music?

Elisabetta: My grandparents did not approve; they didn’t look kindly on his passion for music. We have a high school diary of his where he was already talking about taking harmony lessons, about jazz, about this passion he managed to cultivate by listening to the radio and buying V-Discs (special records produced in the United States during World War II until 1949, specifically for American troops. “V” stood for “Victory”, ed.), although I believe that was later, because the diary is from 1940. At first, my grandparents let him be. Dad was self-taught; he learned to play the piano at home with just a few lessons from an aunt, but this passion overwhelmed him. There’s a sentence in the diary that says: “Tomorrow I’m going to a harmony lesson with Mr. Gigino who advised me, if I ever compose something one day, to open my own publishing house so I can then earn some money.”

So he already had an idea in his head. When the Americans arrived, who had set up large tents along the Arno riverbank, he started playing for them, and he played jazz, which was dance music at the time. Today, you don’t dance to jazz, but back then it was the music young people listened to for dancing. When my grandparents saw that he was serious about it and dedicating a lot of time to it, they set boundaries for him: “Look, you have to study law, you must become a lawyer, a notary, a serious profession.” In fact, he did graduate with a law degree. However, he started earning a lot of money playing for the Americans. He would come home very late at night and, there’s this anecdote, he would walk in and throw the money down with a theatrical gesture, as if to say: “And what do you have to say now? I can earn my living playing jazz too.” He graduated in law and tried to practice for a while.

Alessandra: He was forced to graduate because his parents said: “You will never earn money as a musician, you won’t have a career, you need something solid.” It was the Americans who sparked this love for jazz in him, and from there he decided to go to the conservatory. He was so talented that he managed to complete his studies in half the time.

Elisabetta: He did eight years in four, because he was already much further ahead than the other students, both in personal talent and in field experience.

Alessandra: He graduated in counterpoint and fugue from the Conservatorio Cherubini in Florence.

Elisabetta: He wasn’t encouraged at all; on the contrary, they would lock the piano.

“He would come home very late at night and… walk in and throw the money down with a theatrical gesture, as if to say: ‘And what do you have to say now? I can earn my living playing jazz too.'”

And how did he reconcile this instinctive and improvisational spirit of jazz with the discipline of the Academy?

Alessandra: He was always very independent. He attended classes, did everything he had to do at the conservatory, but in the end, he did what he wanted. He was an independent, a bit of a revolutionary.

Elisabetta: He was always multitasking, capable of doing three or four things at once, spanning very different genres: it could be a soundtrack, electronic music, jazz. He switched from one genre to another without any problem.

Alessandra: He was always a very open-minded person.

The commission for I Soliti Ignoti from Monicelli was the turning point. Did he ever tell you how he, a purely jazz musician, managed to create an iconic soundtrack in just fifteen days, perfectly tailored to the soul of the commedia all’italiana?

Elisabetta: There was a little trick to it: he often wrote soundtracks in advance. He was so prolific, he had constant inspiration, so he would compose and, when a film came along, he would look through his music for something that might fit best. So he already had the music, he just had to arrange it, and he was brilliant at arranging. He started as an arranger for Armando Trovaioli, and it was Trovaioli himself who recommended him to Mario Monicelli. No one really believed in that film, which featured Vittorio Gassman in his first comedic role; they thought it would be a flop. Monicelli had heard one of dad’s records; he had also already done a documentary for the Taviani brothers. When his name was suggested, they got in touch. Dad had great admiration for Monicelli. He already had the soundtrack ready: he played it for him and Monicelli adapted it. This happened often during his career. He had a big book where he wrote all his compositions and then he would propose them to directors.

Alessandra: There are rare cases where he composed specifically for a certain film. Sometimes he would get inspired: he would go with the film crew to the shooting locations, like for Angeli Bianchi e Angeli Neri in Brazil. There, he would also record local sounds, he was contaminated by the place and the local music, finding inspiration during the making of the film. Other times, no.

“There was a little trick to it: he often wrote soundtracks in advance. He had constant inspiration, so he would compose and, when a film came along, he would look through his music for something that might fit best.”

What memories did he pass on to you of that period of paying his dues, of the jam sessions and collaborations with figures like Chet Baker, Gianni Basso, and Oscar Valdambrini?

Elisabetta: By that time he had already arrived in Rome and had started with soundtracks. He had already begun with I Soliti Ignoti, because he met Chet Baker after that first soundtrack, which was the first entirely jazz one in Italy. We were children, so we didn’t talk much about those years.

Alessandra: We saw many musicians as friends; Oscar Valdambrini was always at our house, there was a great friendship. Dad always considered Chet Baker a legend, even though he was his friend.

Elisabetta: When we saw him in Rome, it was a few years before he died in that accident whose circumstances are not well known. He was already physically worn out. I remember it made an impression on me, because I had in my mind the image of this beautiful man from the record covers, and when I found myself in front of him he looked much older, gaunt.

Alessandra: Dad introduced him to us as a genius: “You are about to see a genius, an absolute legend as a musician.” I was a little intimidated because I understood I was in the presence of someone very important. Dad had immense esteem for Chet Baker. There was that episode during the recording of the soundtrack for L’audace colpo dei soliti ignoti where Chet disappeared to get a fix. He had the driver take him to Termini station and didn’t show up. The producer wanted to replace him, but dad said: “If Chet doesn’t come back, I’m not doing the soundtrack. If you change musicians, I won’t continue.” Luckily, after three days Chet returned. He had sold his trumpet to get drugs, but when he started playing, he played like he had never played before. He had such great talent and skill that he would improvise, immediately reaching perfection.

“Dad said: ‘If Chet doesn’t come back, I’m not doing the soundtrack. If you change musicians, I won’t continue.'”

How did the global success of Mah Nà Mah Nà impact his career and his life? Was it a fun surprise for him, a cumbersome label, or both?

Alessandra: He always used to say: “With all the beautiful music I’ve written, they remember me for Mah Nà Mah Nà.”

Elisabetta: He was happy, undoubtedly it’s a great satisfaction. It’s one of those tracks that, if you’re out in the world, you get into an elevator and start humming it, there’s always someone who finishes the verse, because everyone knows it. Maybe a little less so now.

Alessandra: It was more linked to the Muppets. If you say Mah Nà Mah Nà, you say Muppets, but nobody knows who the composer is.

Elisabetta: With the money from Mah Nà Mah Nà, he managed to buy a slightly larger boat than the one he had, which he named Mah Nà. From that point of view he was happy, but I think he would have hoped that another of his tracks would have had the same success. Also because he hadn’t even included it on the soundtrack album for Svezia, inferno e paradiso; he didn’t think it could have that kind of response.

Alessandra: It was the Americans: when he sent the whole tape, they took just that little piece of one minute and thirty seconds. They completely transformed it, even changing the title. In fact, when they informed him of the great success of Mah Nà Mah Nà in America, dad replied: “But I didn’t write Mah Nà Mah Nà.” Only later did he realize it was Viva la Sauna Svedese. At the time, communications were what they were, he didn’t speak English well, so it took a while to understand what had happened.

“He always used to say: ‘With all the beautiful music I’ve written, they remember me for Mah Nà Mah Nà.'”

Piero Umiliani · Mah na mah na

He worked with giants like Monicelli, Pasolini and many others. What kind of creative relationship did he establish with directors?

Alessandra: With some directors, like the ones you mentioned, there was a lot of esteem, a professional relationship. With others, like Scattini and Capitani, they became family friends.

Elisabetta: At the beginning of his career, when he wasn’t completely independent with his own labels, he had access to bigger films. When he later opened his recording studio and his labels, he became completely independent and, necessarily, his soundtracks were for directors he was truly friends with, because many no longer called him. He dedicated himself in particular to Library Music, which were his personal productions. The collaboration with directors had to change due to the market and lower demand.

Alessandra: The big production companies like RCA or CAM wanted to own the publishing rights, and for this reason, dad was often passed over.

The Sound Workshop was his laboratory. What memories do you have of this place? Did he let you play with his instruments?

Elisabetta: I’m the eldest, so I remember it better; he opened it in ’68. The studio still exists, it’s identical to how it was then, now we manage it. We probably play in it more now. Back then, we had to be quiet. When the large orchestra was there, they had to optimize their time and it was chaotic. I remember peeking from the control room; there was the cinema screen where they projected the images. There was a good energy, it was thrilling. The musicians were boisterous, they liked to joke around, they made wisecracks, they smoked like chimneys. It was an environment that I liked, but I didn’t spend much time there because I had to go back to my studies.

Alessandra: There was a great atmosphere. Unlike many other composers, with dad there was always cheerfulness, there wasn’t that tension you felt with others. But we had to sit still and not touch anything.

Elisabetta: When he worked alone for the libraries, he would lock himself inside. There was an intercom, which we still have, connected to our grandmother’s apartment upstairs. She would call him to say “the pasta is ready,” he would go up, eat, and then come back down. We wouldn’t see him for days when he worked like that, even at night. Generally, at night he made electronic music and during the day, soundtracks.

The collection L’Uomo Elettronico explores his more introspective side and also a somewhat dark aspect of his music. Was this more scientific, sci-fi vein a reflection of a more hidden part of his character or was it pure sound exploration?

Elisabetta: In my opinion, it was pure experimentation. He made albums ranging from “Angoscia Cosmica” to “Su con la vita”; he was bipolar par excellence. He explored all possible spectrums because he was curious and because with library music you had to imagine a thousand scenarios for which to propose music. He liked finding new sounds with electronic instruments, new sonorities. Many of the songs in the collection had been used for documentaries. Pierpaolo De Sanctis did a great job of taking these tracks from a thousand different albums; he did some great research.

And how many songs did he write in total?

Elisabetta: We have two thousand tracks registered with SIAE. 158 soundtracks and more than two thousand tracks. Even today, despite it being our job to manage his catalog and the studio, sometimes they play us pieces that we don’t remember, we don’t know all of them. Especially the more experimental ones. CAM Sugar is doing a huge job of digitizing the catalog they have of dad’s, and there are tracks from films that can’t be found, for which records were never released, and which therefore even we haven’t heard yet.

In the 90s, the rediscovery of his music through the lounge music phenomenon brought him back into the international spotlight. How did he experience this second, unexpected artistic youth?

Elisabetta: There was a period where he didn’t work due to major health problems. He was away from music for many years, he fell into depression. Then there was this unexpected thing with lounge music. He would ask himself: “What is this ‘lounge music’?” He had become the symbol of a musical genre he didn’t understand. However, whenever there was an opportunity to play, like at the Leoncavallo in Milan or the Brancaleone in Rome, all he needed was to play. When he saw the young people, he couldn’t believe it; he was very happy about this rediscovery by them.

What is the most surprising discovery you have made while navigating his immense archive?

Alessandra: One thing that struck us is that, when he was ill and could no longer compose, he had already prepared a library and registered tracks for a new album. Listening back to the tapes with Pierpaolo, we listened to a master practically every afternoon. We discovered this master with unreleased tracks, because often on the tapes the title was not the final one. Many things were new and unknown to us. Among these tapes, we found the material for a vinyl that will be released next year with Four Flies. It’s an unreleased work, the last thing he was taking to SIAE before he fell ill.

Photos courtesy of Elisabetta Umiliani e Alessandra