Words by Alexandra Schmidt

Music Tip: In Conversation with LA NIÑA

LA NIÑA is more than just a name. It’s a link to her roots and a trust in her own instincts and abilities. Behind it is Carola Moccia, a musician, songwriter, and performer from Naples, who stands out in the Italian music scene with her unique sound and stage presence. She grew up in a city where music, voices, and stories are everywhere, and that energy still runs through every one of her songs. In our chat, she talks about how Naples shaped her, why she chose Neapolitan to express herself, the role of myths and legends in her work, and how she channels personal truth and social realities into her music.

“When I write, I’m not trying to be political, I’m just trying to be honest.”

Your name is LA NIÑA, “the girl.” What’s the story behind it, and how did it become your artist name?

La NIÑA is not about age. For me it’s about origin. She’s the first spark, the instinct that survives every transformation, the untouched place inside me that never stopped singing. LA NIÑA is also the name of a natural phenomenon, a powerful and unpredictable climatic force, and that was actually the first thing that drew me to it. I wanted a name that felt as if the earth itself could generate it; something wild, cyclical, and alive. A force that shows up out of nowhere, reshapes the surrounding air, and leaves a different landscape behind. I think the name really came to me when I realized I didn’t want to imitate anything human anymore. I wanted something elemental.

How would you describe your music style? And in what ways does your hometown influence it?

My music is a conversation between opposites. Something ancient and modern, delicate and brutal, sacred and ordinary. I’m always drawn to voices or sounds that shouldn’t fit together but somehow do. Naples, and the countryside around it, is the pulse underneath it all. It’s not a place you learn to understand, it’s a place you learn to feel. Its chaos, tenderness, rituals, and contradictions live inside every rhythm I write.

Growing up in Naples, what memories still shape who you are today?

I remember the voices more than the actual moments. Women singing from their balconies, the musical chaos of street markets, the sea hitting the rocks like a drum. Those sounds taught me rhythm long before any instrument did. And my grandmother’s hands, always busy with something, always blessing or fighting something, taught me what devotion and tenderness look like. I’ve never touched hands softer than hers. Those memories are the bones of my work.
“Tradition is not a museum to me but a living creature that evolves and breathes.”

You once said that Naples feels like a mother to you. How would you describe your “mother-daughter relationship” with the city today?

Naples is not a gentle mother. She pushes you, she tests you, and she exposes you, but she also keeps you alive in ways you only understand much later. When I was younger, I struggled with how heavy she felt, and I wanted to escape, to breathe somewhere lighter. At some point I realized that her heaviness was a rhythm asking to be composed, not a chain I had to carry. Now our relationship feels more grown. We look at each other with all our wounds and choose to stay.

What does “home” mean to you nowadays, especially with all the traveling you do?

Home is not really a place for me anymore, it’s more like a kind of frequency. It’s that moment when I recognize myself, even if I’m far away. I feel like home is something I carry with me, not something I have to go back to.

After years of singing in English, what made you turn to Neapolitan, and what does that language allow you to express that others can’t?

English felt like a costume I put on so people everywhere could understand me, and I still love its power. But Neapolitan feels like a skin. It’s intimate, raw, and instinctive. It lets me be contradictory, sensual, fragile, and brutal at the same time. It’s a language that sings even when it hurts, and it lets me speak from the body rather than the mind.
“Naples is not a gentle mother.”

Your music blends Neapolitan traditions with modern influences from all over the world. How do you decide which roots to keep and where to take risks?

I don’t decide; I just listen. Some roots anchor me, and others pull me in new directions. I let them wrestle, and that’s usually where something new is born. Tradition is not a museum to me but a living creature that evolves and breathes. I follow its movement instead of trying to preserve it.

Mythology and folk tales often inspire your work. Is there a story that resonates with you most?

There’s one story from the folklore of my land that has always haunted me. It’s the legend of Manalonga, the witch with the “long hand.” She lives at the bottom of a well in Benevento. They say that after centuries of trying to climb out, her arm grew unnaturally long and deformed. Just a woman alone at the bottom of a well, waiting, stretching, and surviving. She moved something inside me, and I ended up writing a song about her. It’s hidden as the final track on the limited vinyl edition of my album. I gave her a chorus of voices to keep her company in that dark, echoing place. It felt like a small act of tenderness for someone who has been feared, abandoned, and misunderstood for centuries.

In your song "Guapparìa", you talk about a society that loves spectacle but looks away from real suffering. Do you think artists today have a responsibility to highlight social issues?

I don’t think of it as responsibility, I think of it as truth. If you feel the world trembling, you can’t just pretend it’s still, or maybe you can, but why lie to yourself? I’ve always thought that art doesn’t need to teach,
it can reveal the things people try not to see. When I write, I’m not trying to be political, I’m just trying to be honest. And right now, honesty already feels like a kind of resistance.

You have such a strong artistic identity. How do you deal with moments of doubt or uncertainty?

Thank you. I let them in because doubt is a part of the ritual. Sometimes I have to lose my shape to find something truer. My music has always grown in the cracks, never in perfection.

You just had a tour stop in Naples. What’s it like performing for your own city?

It feels like singing inside a mirror that knows all your secrets. It’s terrifying and beautiful at once. Napoli doesn’t applaud just to be polite. She can tell what’s real.

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