Nicolò Rubanu
Musician
Nicolò, the singer of the past
In Orgosolo, if you say Rubanu, everyone understands. It’s not just the name of a musical group. It’s a piece of identity, history, and pride. And behind that name is him: Nicolò Rubanu, now 85 years old, the son of a shepherd, a musician by passion, and a living memory of a Sardinia that has fought, sung, and loved.
The Rubanu Group was founded in 1966, in a village that was beginning to find its voice.
A few years later, that voice turned into a cry: it was the time of Pratobello, a common grazing plateau that the Italian army intended to turn into a military zone. But Orgosolo rose up. Unarmed, but brave. Nicolò was there. From that moment on, nothing would be silent again.
The people of Orgosolo, led also by young men like Nicolò, stood united, occupying the plain and forcing the military to retreat.
From that experience of popular resistance, a new awareness was born in Nicolò. The village needed a voice to tell its story and its dignity—a music that could be protest, poetry, and memory all at once.
“We started singing about what we knew,” he says. “The agro-pastoral life, injustices, struggles. We couldn’t do otherwise. I was the son of a shepherd, the others were shepherds, and one was the son of a factory worker. That was our reality.”
With the Rubanu Group, Nicolò was among the first to bring politics into canto a tenore, the ancestral singing tradition of Barbagia, now recognized by UNESCO as Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity.
What they sing is protest, but also poetry. Like Pratobello, written by him: an anthem of resistance that spread throughout the island.
But his favorite song is Anna, dedicated to his wife. “After all those protest songs, we needed a love song,” he says with a smile.
In the early ’70s, the Rubanu Group carried the voice of Orgosolo across Italy. From Milan to Rome, Venice to Florence. They played alongside the leading singer-songwriters of Italian political music and met the Inti-Illimani, who had fled Chile after the coup d’état.
About those years, Nicolò recalls: “We’d gather with a guitar and sing protest songs. It wasn’t just about making music; we wanted to say something.”
And saying something has always been essential for Nicolò, even in the murals of Orgosolo, which he sees as direct descendants of that era. “We’re not interested in famous artists. What matters to us is the message, something that speaks to our young people. If someone has an idea, we discuss it, and the mural gets made. All you need is a good idea.”
Today, Nicolò still keeps his shop open, where for 56 years he has sold souvenirs, told stories, and offered advice. He still plays the accordion and guitar. The Rubanu Group dissolved long ago, as often happens, but the music remains.
What does he think of today’s music? “It’s good, sure. But when it gets over the top and you can’t understand what they want to say, I don’t like it. I want to understand; otherwise, I wonder: am I ignorant, or is he trying to trick me?”
What he loves most about Orgosolo is the friendship. “You know, here you know everyone. Someone passes by and asks, ‘Hi, how are you? Where are you going?’ That’s the beauty.”
And maybe that’s the thread that ties his whole story together, the desire to create connections. With the village, with people, with memory.
Because for Nicolò Rubanu, music has never been a stage but a means. A form of resistance, yes, but also a way to stay close, to understand, and to remember who we are. A guitar, a shop, a wise laugh, and the perseverance of someone who never stopped believing that if words reach straight to the heart, then yes, music can change the world.