Gazzelle’s “Punk” feels like stumbling out of an underground club at half past midnight, pockets full of ticket stubs and heart full of bruises. The singer remembers a past love who “tasted a bit like punk” – rebellious, sweet, a little bit messy, like chocolate cake eaten too fast or a trampled flower on the sidewalk. Their kisses carry the flavors of different places (Milan, Long Island) and different eras (Nirvana-obsessed nights on the subway). In the verses, the two ex-lovers try to talk like casual friends, but every word drips with the ache of wasted time, tours on the road, and ugly memories they can’t quite shake.
Under the neon lights of regret, the chorus crashes in: he drinks “like a kid” and she cries into a pillow filled with his tears. The line “Preso male che non c’è più nessuno come te” sums it up – he is gutted because there is simply no one else like her. “Punk” is a bittersweet anthem for anyone who has ever tried to act cool about a breakup, only to realize that the raw, noisy feelings are louder than any guitar riff. It is tender, nostalgic, and just rough enough around the edges to wear its heart on a safety pin.