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There’s a certain kind of record that doesn’t ask for your attention—it demands your presence. Singing to Serpents, the new LP from Cello (Marcello Valletta), is that kind of record. It’s not just heard; it’s experienced. And sometimes endured. In the best possible way.
Cello arrives at this project with the instincts of an actor and the vulnerability of a poet, and you feel that duality immediately. This isn’t a neatly packaged genre exercise. It’s genre-fluid, emotionally combustible, and spiritually restless. Think late-night confession booth meets bedroom studio therapy session. Think beauty and bruise in the same breath.
The opener, “Stay Here,” sets the tone with reckless urgency. It pulses with romantic obsession and self-awareness colliding at high speed. There’s tension between desire and damage—between the plea to remain and the fear of inevitable loss. It’s raw, hypnotic, and unfiltered. The repetition in the hook feels less like pop structure and more like emotional incantation.
Across the album, Cello navigates ego, insecurity, lust, doubt, and faith without sanding down the edges. “Elevate” swings between ambition and detachment, pairing icy imagery with a restless hunger for transcendence. “Sucks to Be Used” is blunt and biting, exposing the uglier corners of romantic power dynamics. It’s uncomfortable—and that’s the point. Cello doesn’t flinch from his own contradictions.
Then there’s “Pray” and “Faith,” two tracks that feel like they were written staring into a mirror at 2 a.m. Spirituality here isn’t polished or preachy; it’s complicated. “Faith” in particular circles around self-doubt and self-belief like a fighter pacing the ring. The repetition of needing strong faith becomes mantra, plea, and battle cry all at once.
“Cravings” and “Full Moon” lean into sensuality and emotional intoxication, weaving obsession with atmospheric imagery. There’s a cinematic quality to these songs—like neon reflections on wet pavement. “Full Moon” especially captures that sense of transformation, of becoming something unfamiliar under emotional pressure.
By the time we reach “Sleeping,” the energy shifts. The bravado softens. The vulnerability lingers longer. It feels like the comedown after emotional chaos—the quiet reflection after the storm. It’s tender without being sentimental, romantic without being naïve.
What makes Singing to Serpents compelling isn’t perfection. It’s authenticity. Cello isn’t posturing. He’s processing. His voice carries conviction, even when the narrator is unsure. The production embraces space and mood, allowing the lyrics to breathe—and sometimes suffocate.
This is an album about confrontation—of self, of lovers, of belief systems. It doesn’t offer easy answers or polished resolutions. Instead, it invites listeners into the mess. Into the wrestling match between light and shadow.
And in that vulnerability, Cello finds his power.
Singing to Serpents isn’t safe. It’s not tidy. But it’s honest. And in a landscape saturated with overproduction and emotional distance, that kind of unguarded expression feels not just refreshing—but necessary.
