The Bocelli Effect

I went to the cinema with my mum recently. We watched Because I Believe, a film about the Italian opera (or rather, operatic pop) singer Andrea Bocelli. I grew up in Italy between the ages of seven and eighteen, and heard his music everywhere, but I knew little of his humble origins, his struggles, and hadn’t remembered how sudden his phenomenal rise to fame really was.

I left feeling moved and inspired, yes, but also a bit triggered. Because somewhere in that film was a mirror.

In the movie, he talks about how there was a time, early on in career but already a big star, where he often felt sick with nerves before concerts. Something Pavarotti (probably the most famous Italian opera singer, then and now) didn’t suffer from, he noted once when they were waiting backstage for a shared performance. This anxiety didn’t come from fame or pressure. It came from knowing, deep down, that his technique wasn’t perfect. He judged himself, and he was scared his voice wouldn’t hold.

Not to compare myself to Bocelli (haha, imagine), but... I’ve felt that too. We all have.That inner voice that says: “You can do this pretty well, yes, but only for a public that doesn’t know any better.”  Or, in my case: “You better not perform in front of real musicians; they’ll hear the cracks.” It doesn’t stop me from singing or performing, I don’t take myself seriously enough for that, but it’s there.

After the movie, I went down a little Wikipedia rabbit hole and found, much to my surprise, that Bocelli’s insecurities weren’t just imposter syndrome born from humble self-scrutiny — they were, actually, based on evidence.  Over the span of several years, he’d received some brutal reviews from the experts. To cite just a few:

“lacks the technique to support and project his sound. His sustained notes wobble. His soft high notes are painfully weak.”

 “has trouble with basic things, like breath support" 

"the tone is rasping, thin and, in general, poorly supported. Even the most modest upward movement thins it even more, signalling what appears to be the onset of strangulation.

"The critic's duty is to report that Mr Bocelli is not a very good singer."

Ouch. Reading these, I felt my skin crawl on his behalf.  Meanwhile, this cringy “not very good singer” was selling millions of albums and winning countless prizes like the World Music Award for Best Italian Singer and for Best Classical Interpretation. It shows that even if you sing like goddamn divinity itself, you’ll still be judged. 

How is it possible that while critics dissected Bocelli’s technique, millions sighed in awe at his performances. Who’s right? Are fans just a bunch of ignoramuses? Or are critics too blinded by expertise to recognise brilliance? 

I’d say both. 

To compare: When I walk into an art museum, there might be paintings that move me to tears and others that leave me cold. I can only explain this in generic terms: it’s the colour, subject, something about the feeling of it. But I know when I’m in awe. And being in awe, even for a few minutes, is being in touch with something divine. But obviously even the ‘b-roll’ paintings are outstanding to the critics, or they wouldn’t be displayed in a museum. Ultimately, it’s the general impression that meets my untrained eye, combined with my subjective preferences, which make me love the painting or think meh, next. 

Here’s the thing: when I walk into an art museum, I’m looking for an experience. All these expectations happen sub consciously, but in the very best of the best case scenario, I want to feel curious. I want to be stimulated. I want to be enchanted. I want to be transported. In short: I want to be in awe. But even a slither of all this will do. Because it’s just a museum and it’s a Tuesday morning.

Critics aren’t looking for that, though. Their job is to find the cracks.  To guard the standards of the genre, to decide what’s “good enough.” And rightly so — within that context. And sure, perhaps there were some power-hungry bullies who just liked to tear down a man with unreal talent who dared to merge opera with a filthy low-grade genre like pop.

But most of us who create and dabble in the arts (sing, paint, write, cook, garden, dance, whatever) we’re not performing for critics. We’re performing for people who are simply looking for an experience.

And that’s the Bocelli Effect (I coined the term first, lol): when emotion, presence, and heart carry people beyond technical perfection. When rawness and beauty outweigh flawlessness. I’m not advocating for ignoring technique; I’m advocating for  letting human vulnerability and imperfection be part of the offering. Often times, it’s the imperfections that show our audience where we are on our journey, which is translated into authenticity and recognition. As an audience, we crave realness, and we love to recognise ourselves in the artist and in their creation. It sows a sense of connection and unity, which is such a basic need to us humans.

What a pity it would be if we stopped sharing our art, our voice, our writing (even though it brings the artist and the audience so much pleasure) just because it’s not “good enough”. All those ideas trapped in people’s heads by their inner Regina George (if you can remember the chief character in Mean Girls ) — it’s tragic!

When that voice shows up for me, I ask myself:

• Is it true? Can I 100% be objectively sure that it’s true? Usually, it's a no. It’s just fear wearing a fancy hat under a stern face. But if I find the answer is a yes: I imagine who I would be, how I would feel without that thought. And I tend to notice how much a fickle thing like a thought is weighing me down and holding me back.

• What if that “flaw” is actually a crack of light? I’m referring to Leonard Cohen’s “there’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”

• What if my raw, unpolished practice/product/service is exactly what someone else needs to reconnect with something within themselves or to remember their own creative pulse?

  
  

Maybe that’s what the Bocelli Effect really is: when the heart and desire to create sing louder than the technique, and the cracks become their own kind of prayer.