It was one of those sharp Brooklyn nights where the cold nips at your fingertips, but inside the Brooklyn Paramount, warmth rose like a tide. Under the cathedral arches, washed in that soft amber glow the venue seems to breathe out on its own, Damiano David turned the room into something holy. The crowd stretched wide – teenagers clutching homemade signs, kids on their parents’ shoulders, older couples who have lived through more eras of music than I can count. Last night felt like a reminder that melody doesn’t care about age or category; it chooses anyone willing ot listen, anyone still alive enough to feel.
David, forever known as the lightning rod frontman of GRAMMY-winning Måneskin, stepped into a different skin with this solo chapter, anchored by his debut project FUNNY little FEARS (DREAMS). On the record, he leans toward a polished pop silhouette, but live, you realize he’s never really abandonned the grit he grew up on. There’s a fullness the studio versions can’t quite capture, a hidden backbone of distortion and pulse that comes alive only when he’s backed by a seven-piece band. The songs might flirt with the mainstream, but his voice still cuts through with that familiar ache, that rasp that sounds shaped by late nights, heavy amps, and thoughts too dark to name. David can do radio, yes. But he can also still set fire to a stage like a purebred rockstar. Both are true at once.
And then there’s the Brooklyn Paramount itself – still the most magnificent, welcoming venue New York has to offer. I always say this, but last night the space and the sound felt stitched together, like a film scene pulled straight from a director’s favortie reel. His voice floated up into the stained glass ceiling and dissolved there, sacred and fragile. Standing in that room, it didn’t feel like we were watching an artist rediscover his passion; it felt like we were being invited into a chapel of heartbreak, resurrection, and every messy thing in between. There was no opener, and for once, it made perfect sense. This was David’s story told without interruption, a nearly two-hour confession.
The set wasn’t just a list of songs; it was a narrative carved into three chapters. First came the “rockstar” era: louder, faster, stamped with adrenaline. He mixed his new pop-forward material with covers of “Sex on Fire” and “Nothing Breaks Like A Heart,” both of which reminded the room that he knows exactly where he came from. Those opening moments were a jolt to the system, a rush of sound that wrapped its hand around the audience and didn’t let go.
But the second act, his “breaking point, was where the night cracked open. David paused, reflecting on the wild ride of Måneskin’s rise and the burnout that trailed behind it like smoke. He admitted he wasn’t read for the magnitude of it all, how fame ballooned faster than he could keep up with, and how the band’s hiatus left him questioning whether he even wanted to return to music. Hearing him say that outloud felt like being allowed into a room he rarely lets people enter. And yet, like most artists who realize music is less of a choice and more of a lifeline, he found his way back. This portion of the show went almost entirely acoustic – every word trembling in the air, every breath suspended. His voice revealed itself in full: a vibrato so rich and textured it felt impossible that it belonged to someone still so early in his solo journey.
The band shone too – two backup vocalists weaving harmonies that made the songs feel like they had bones and blood. The female vocaslist especially brought a kind of glow, a charisma that didn’t overshadow David but illuminated him in a way only genuiune collaboration can. Those harmonies tugged at the edges of each lyric, making every line sting just a little more.
Then came the third and final chapter: rebirth. The outfit changed, the lights shifted, the room lifted. David peeled back stories behind each track with an honesty that made us feel folded into his narrative. We danced, cried, screamed ourselves breathless. But beneath it all lived a single truth: he understands music that way people who rely on it for survival understand it. As a bridge. As a balm. As a way of speaking when the mouth can’t keep up with the heart.
He closed the main set with “Mars,” a love song he called the best he’s ever written. And honestly, it’s hard to argue. When the chorus swelled and the crowd threw their hands up, it didn’t matter who had someone to love; we all felt held by something bigger.
When he left the stage, no one budged. On a Monday night in a packed theater, not a single person dared to leave early. He returned with a two-song encore, ending the night with “Naked / Solitutde (No One Understands Me),” the thesis statement of this whole era. He summed up what he’s learned, that uncertainity isn’t a threat, but a strange sort of blessing – especially in your twenties and thirities, when the world expects permanence from people still shaping themselves. The song tied the show’s storyline together so tightly it felt like watching the arc of a film resolve.
If you missed Damiano David’s performance last night, he returns to the Brooklyn Paramount tonight, December 9. Whether you crave the polished sparkle of his solo work or the bite of his rock roots, this show bridges both worlds with a rare kind of intention. It’s the kind of night that stays with you – not just because of the music, but because of the honesty threaded through every second if it.
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