Leonardo Guillermo Mattioli nació el 13 de agosto de 1972 en Santa Fe. Se c… Read Full Bio ↴Leonardo Guillermo Mattioli nació el 13 de agosto de 1972 en Santa Fe. Se crió en un complejo de viviendas lindero al estadio de Colón conocido como Barrio Centenario. Ese fue el escenario de sus primeros shows: subía al árbol de la vereda de su casa para cantarles a los vecinos a viva voz.
A ese nene le costaba estudiar. Con mayor insistencia que esfuerzo completó la primaria, y en el secundario duró lo que tardaron en expulsarlo: una semana. Mamá María Isabel se sentó con su niño (ya adolescente), que luego del reto le confesó: "No quiero volver a la escuela, prefiero trabajar". Hubo nuevos regaños, sí. Y más retos. Pero el jovencito se salió con la suya.
Para Marina Rosas, Leo era "el más lindo del barrio". Y se enamoró. No, no: se enamoraron. Ella tenía 14 años y él estaba a días de los 18 cuando se pusieron de novios. Tuvieron un hijo pronto; enseguida otro más. Recién ahí formalizaron, no con una boda (jamás pasarían por el altar) sino con la convivencia: un tío de Marina les prestó "una piecita más chiquita que la mesa esta", como recordó Mattioli en el living televisivo de Susana Giménez.
Pese a todos los pronósticos aquel corazón maltrecho no interrumpió sus latidos, y los pulmones parecieron recuperar el vigor que la neumonía había jaqueado. Así fue cómo en abril de 2009 la prensa debió archivar para otra ocasión esa necrológica varias veces actualizada: un par de semanas después de salir de terapia intensiva Leo volvería a brindar un recital…
En esa habitación mínima una garrafa se esforzaba para alimentar la pequeña hornalla de la cocina y darle temperatura -más tibia que caliente- al agua de la ducha. Pero esas cuatro paredes ya eran un hogar, el primer destino de la flamante familia. Hubo otros más en muy poco tiempo mientras Leo buscaba abrirse camino en la música.
Su aventura como cantante arrancó al incorporarse al grupo Trinidad con apenas 20 años. Y esa voz, el carisma, la presencia en el escenario, el romanticismo innato: Mattioli tenía todo para ser una gran estrella de la cumbia. Un locutor contratado para un show improvisó el apodo que terminó de sellar su destino como solista: "Damas y caballeros, con ustedes… ¡El León Santafesino!".
En aquellos días de 2009 sus fans no hablaron de milagro, aunque le dedicaron innumerables cadenas de oración. Y en la noche de su regreso (un viernes muy frío, más invernal que otoñal), un Mattioli al que le costaba desplazarse sobre el escenario del Teatro Colonial de Lomas de Zamora les devolvió semejante adoración en forma de canciones. Entre los aullidos y los aplausos resultaba difícil oírlo, distinguir aquella voz un poco cansada, bastante más herida. El León ronroneaba antes que rugir, y le sobraba con eso: más que un sobreviviente, a esa altura era una leyenda…
Con el éxito musical llegó el dinero. No de golpe, claro, sino más bien de a pedacitos. Pero cada vez más. Y de ese mismo modo Leo fue construyendo su casa. La diseñó a mano sobre un papel, tanto la construcción original como las habitaciones que fue agregando a medida que la familia iba agrandándose: con Marina tuvieron seis hijos. Se instalaron en el Barrio Luz y Fuerza de la ciudad de Santo Tomé, desde donde alcanza con cruzar un puente por la Ruta 11 para regresar al Barrio Centenario. Leo nunca se alejó de sus orígenes.
Letras de amor y de erotismo: Mattioli escribía lo que vivía. Y el público se identificaba con lo que cantaba. "Soy un ser humano como cualquiera y a la gente le pasa lo que me pasa a mí", decía este fanático de las armas, los autos y las joyas: en su mano derecha usaba un enorme anillo con la inscripción LEO, que se engarzaba a una pulsera mediante una cadena, todo en oro.
Cada mañana, Leo se despertaba a las 6.30 para hacerles el desayuno a sus hijos y llevarlos al colegio en la camioneta. Después a casa, para los mates con Marina, su mujer y su representante. Y el almuerzo familiar, luego de recoger a los chicos en la escuela. Así era la rutina semanal; los fines de semana venían los recitales. "Con la música puedo dejarle algo a cada uno de mis hijos -se entusiasmaba Leo-. Cuando mi viejo murió quedamos con una casa embargada y mil cosas, y no quiero que eso les pase a ellos".
La época de furor trajo el exceso y los peligros: más de 10 shows cada noche, cruzando semáforos en rojo y yendo a alta velocidad para hacer a tiempo. No siempre lo lograba. Cierto día, en Jujuy, se presentó para dar el último recital ya siendo las 10.30 de la mañana del domingo. "Y la gente me estaba esperando…", contaba Leo, orgulloso. Todo eso cambiaría con el accidente.
En aquella noche de 2009 Mattioli debió excusarse luego de cantar un puñado de temas: anunció que los músicos seguirán tocando mientras él se tomaría un descanso. Que le tuvieran paciencia, agregó, y caminó unos pasos hasta ocultarse al otro lado del telón del teatro El Colonial. Resguardado, se sentó en un banquito. La camisa entreabierta, el gesto apesadumbrado: estaba agitado. La neumonía había hecho estragos. Con la mano izquierda tomó la mascarilla de un respirador portátil. Luego de cada bocanada de oxígeno que recibía, casi salvadora, se la quitaba. Y le daba una pitada al cigarrillo que le habían encendido en la mano derecha. Minutos después, ya con otro semblante, regresaría al escenario para seguir cautivando a un público que ignoraba lo ocurrido detrás de escena, pero que quizás lo intuía…
El 15 enero de 2000 el auto que lo trasladaba al regreso de una gira chocó en una ruta santafesina. Y Mattioli se encontró de frente con la muerte: fallecieron dos integrantes de su grupo (Sergio Reyes y Darío Bevegni), y su propia vida corrió peligro. En la cama del hospital en el que estuvo internado tres meses escribió las canciones del que sería nuevo disco, Un homenaje al Cielo, dedicado a sus viejos amigos. Cuando lo presentó en vivo Leo era otro: un león herido. Había perdido peso, se sostenía en las muletas y atenuaba con morfina los dolores de su cuerpo, lesionado en la columna vertebral.
A partir de entonces su corazón y sus pulmones (afectados por el cigarrillo) pagarían las consecuencias. Los shows se espaciaron y disminuyeron, las internaciones se hicieron frecuentes: una de 2006 en Santiago del Estero y esa de 2009 en Santa Fe, las más graves. El desenlace fatal se convirtió en una posibilidad cierta, y la prensa comenzó a reescribir su necrológica. "¡Tengo para muchos años más! Obviamente, si me cuido…", le dijo Mattioli a Susana cuando la visitó en su programa. Era 2007. Tenía apenas 35 años.
El 7 de agosto de 2011, dos años después de aquel otoño de su regreso milagroso, una insuficiencia cardíaca lo derrotaría de una vez por todas en un hotel de Necochea. Acababa de ofrecer un show en un teatro marplatense, en una banda que contaba con tres de sus hijos. Leo Mattioli murió seis días antes de cumplir 39 años, naciendo el mito que a nadie consuela. Porque con su partida la cumbia perdió al último de los románticos. Y su mujer, sus hijos, su familia, sus amigos no querían al ídolo, amaban al hombre. Aquel que se fue demasiado pronto. Y que todavía llorarán más de diez veces. Muchas más.
/////////////////////// English
Leonardo Guillermo Mattioli was born on August 13, 1972 in Santa Fe. He grew up in a housing complex adjacent to the Colón stadium known as Barrio Centenario. That was the scene of his first shows: he would climb the tree on the sidewalk of his house to sing loudly to the neighbors.
That boy had a hard time studying. With more insistence than effort, he completed elementary school, and in high school he lasted as long as it took to expel him: a week. Mama María Isabel sat down with her son (already a teenager), who after the challenge confessed to her: "I don't want to go back to school, I prefer to work." There were new scoldings, yes. And more challenges. But the young man got away with it.
For Marina Rosas, Leo was "the prettiest in the neighborhood." And he fell in love. No, no: they fell in love. She was 14 years old and he was 18 days old when they started dating. They soon had a son; immediately another one. Just there they formalized, not with a wedding (they would never go through the altar) but with coexistence: an uncle of Marina lent them "a little piece smaller than this table", as Mattioli recalled in Susana Giménez's television living room.
Despite all the forecasts, that battered heart did not stop beating, and the lungs seemed to recover the vigor that the pneumonia had sacked. This is how in April 2009 the press had to file that obituary several times updated for another occasion: a couple of weeks after leaving intensive care Leo would give a recital again...
In that minimal room, a jug struggled to feed the small stove in the kitchen and give temperature -warmer than hot- to the shower water. But those four walls were already a home, the first destination of the new family. There were others in a very short time as Leo looked to make his way in music.
His adventure as a singer began when he joined the Trinidad group when he was barely 20 years old. And that voice, the charisma, the stage presence, the innate romanticism: Mattioli had everything to be a great cumbia star. An announcer hired for a show improvised the nickname that ended up sealing his destiny as a soloist: "Ladies and gentlemen, with you... The Santafesino Lion!".
In those days of 2009, his fans did not speak of a miracle, although they dedicated countless prayer chains to him. And on the night of their return (a very cold Friday, more winter than autumn), a Mattioli who had trouble moving on the stage of the Colonial Theater in Lomas de Zamora returned such adoration in the form of songs. Between the howling and the applause it was difficult to hear him, to distinguish that slightly tired voice, much more wounded. The Lion purred before he roared, and he had more than enough of that: more than a survivor, at that point he was a legend...
With musical success came money. Not all at once, of course, but rather piecemeal. But more and more. And in the same way Leo was building his house. He designed it by hand on paper, both the original construction and the rooms that he added as the family grew: with Marina they had six children. They settled in the Luz y Fuerza neighborhood of the city of Santo Tomé, from where it is enough to cross a bridge on Route 11 to return to the Centenario neighborhood. Leo never strayed from his origins.
Letters of love and eroticism: Mattioli wrote what he lived. And the public identified with what he sang. "I am a human being like anyone else and what happens to me happens to people," said this fanatic of weapons, cars and jewelry: on his right hand he wore a huge ring with the inscription LEO, which was crimped to a bracelet through a chain, all in gold.
Every morning, Leo woke up at 6:30 a.m. to make his children breakfast and take them to school in the van. Then home, for the mates with Marina, his wife and his representative. And the family lunch, after picking up the kids from school. That was the weekly routine; the weekends came the recitals. "With music I can leave something to each of my children -Leo was enthusiastic-. When my old man died we were left with a repossessed house and a thousand things, and I don't want that to happen to them".
The era of fury brought excess and danger: more than 10 shows every night, crossing red lights and going at high speed to make it on time. He didn't always make it. One day, in Jujuy, he showed up to give the last recital at 10:30 on Sunday morning. "And the people were waiting for me…" Leo said proudly. All that would change with the accident.
On that night in 2009, Mattioli had to excuse himself after singing a handful of songs: he announced that the musicians would continue playing while he would take a break. That they have patience with him, he added, and walked a few steps until he hid on the other side of the curtain of the El Colonial theater. Protected, he sat down on a stool. His shirt ajar, his expression sorrowful: he was agitated. Pneumonia had taken its toll. With his left hand he took the mask of a portable respirator. After each breath of oxygen he received, almost saving, he took it off. And he was puffing on the cigarette that had been lit in his right hand. Minutes later, already with a different face, he would return to the stage to continue captivating an audience that was unaware of what had happened behind the scenes, but perhaps sensed it...
On January 15, 2000, the car that was taking him back from a tour crashed on a Santa Fe route. And Mattioli found himself face to face with death: two members of his group died (Sergio Reyes and Darío Bevegni), and his own life was in danger. In the hospital bed where he was hospitalized for three months, he wrote the songs for what would be a new album, A Tribute to Heaven, dedicated to his old friends. When he presented it live Leo was another: a wounded lion. He had lost weight, supported himself on crutches and mitigated the pain in his body with morphine, injured in the spinal column.
From then on his heart and lungs (affected by the cigarette) would pay the consequences. The shows were spaced out and decreased, hospitalizations became frequent: one in 2006 in Santiago del Estero and that in 2009 in Santa Fe, the most serious. The fatal outcome became a certain possibility, and the press began to rewrite his obituary. "I have for many more years! Obviously, if I take care of myself…" Mattioli told Susana when he visited her on her show. It was 2007. He was barely 35 years old.
On August 7, 2011, two years after that autumn of his miraculous return, heart failure would defeat him once and for all in a hotel in Necochea. He had just offered a show in a Mar del Plata theater, in a band that had three of his children. Leo Mattioli died six days before his 39th birthday, giving birth to a myth that consoles no one. Because with his departure, cumbia lost the last of the romantics. And his wife, his children, his family, his friends did not love the idol, they loved the man. The one who left too soon. And that they will still cry more than ten times. Many more.
A ese nene le costaba estudiar. Con mayor insistencia que esfuerzo completó la primaria, y en el secundario duró lo que tardaron en expulsarlo: una semana. Mamá María Isabel se sentó con su niño (ya adolescente), que luego del reto le confesó: "No quiero volver a la escuela, prefiero trabajar". Hubo nuevos regaños, sí. Y más retos. Pero el jovencito se salió con la suya.
Para Marina Rosas, Leo era "el más lindo del barrio". Y se enamoró. No, no: se enamoraron. Ella tenía 14 años y él estaba a días de los 18 cuando se pusieron de novios. Tuvieron un hijo pronto; enseguida otro más. Recién ahí formalizaron, no con una boda (jamás pasarían por el altar) sino con la convivencia: un tío de Marina les prestó "una piecita más chiquita que la mesa esta", como recordó Mattioli en el living televisivo de Susana Giménez.
Pese a todos los pronósticos aquel corazón maltrecho no interrumpió sus latidos, y los pulmones parecieron recuperar el vigor que la neumonía había jaqueado. Así fue cómo en abril de 2009 la prensa debió archivar para otra ocasión esa necrológica varias veces actualizada: un par de semanas después de salir de terapia intensiva Leo volvería a brindar un recital…
En esa habitación mínima una garrafa se esforzaba para alimentar la pequeña hornalla de la cocina y darle temperatura -más tibia que caliente- al agua de la ducha. Pero esas cuatro paredes ya eran un hogar, el primer destino de la flamante familia. Hubo otros más en muy poco tiempo mientras Leo buscaba abrirse camino en la música.
Su aventura como cantante arrancó al incorporarse al grupo Trinidad con apenas 20 años. Y esa voz, el carisma, la presencia en el escenario, el romanticismo innato: Mattioli tenía todo para ser una gran estrella de la cumbia. Un locutor contratado para un show improvisó el apodo que terminó de sellar su destino como solista: "Damas y caballeros, con ustedes… ¡El León Santafesino!".
En aquellos días de 2009 sus fans no hablaron de milagro, aunque le dedicaron innumerables cadenas de oración. Y en la noche de su regreso (un viernes muy frío, más invernal que otoñal), un Mattioli al que le costaba desplazarse sobre el escenario del Teatro Colonial de Lomas de Zamora les devolvió semejante adoración en forma de canciones. Entre los aullidos y los aplausos resultaba difícil oírlo, distinguir aquella voz un poco cansada, bastante más herida. El León ronroneaba antes que rugir, y le sobraba con eso: más que un sobreviviente, a esa altura era una leyenda…
Con el éxito musical llegó el dinero. No de golpe, claro, sino más bien de a pedacitos. Pero cada vez más. Y de ese mismo modo Leo fue construyendo su casa. La diseñó a mano sobre un papel, tanto la construcción original como las habitaciones que fue agregando a medida que la familia iba agrandándose: con Marina tuvieron seis hijos. Se instalaron en el Barrio Luz y Fuerza de la ciudad de Santo Tomé, desde donde alcanza con cruzar un puente por la Ruta 11 para regresar al Barrio Centenario. Leo nunca se alejó de sus orígenes.
Letras de amor y de erotismo: Mattioli escribía lo que vivía. Y el público se identificaba con lo que cantaba. "Soy un ser humano como cualquiera y a la gente le pasa lo que me pasa a mí", decía este fanático de las armas, los autos y las joyas: en su mano derecha usaba un enorme anillo con la inscripción LEO, que se engarzaba a una pulsera mediante una cadena, todo en oro.
Cada mañana, Leo se despertaba a las 6.30 para hacerles el desayuno a sus hijos y llevarlos al colegio en la camioneta. Después a casa, para los mates con Marina, su mujer y su representante. Y el almuerzo familiar, luego de recoger a los chicos en la escuela. Así era la rutina semanal; los fines de semana venían los recitales. "Con la música puedo dejarle algo a cada uno de mis hijos -se entusiasmaba Leo-. Cuando mi viejo murió quedamos con una casa embargada y mil cosas, y no quiero que eso les pase a ellos".
La época de furor trajo el exceso y los peligros: más de 10 shows cada noche, cruzando semáforos en rojo y yendo a alta velocidad para hacer a tiempo. No siempre lo lograba. Cierto día, en Jujuy, se presentó para dar el último recital ya siendo las 10.30 de la mañana del domingo. "Y la gente me estaba esperando…", contaba Leo, orgulloso. Todo eso cambiaría con el accidente.
En aquella noche de 2009 Mattioli debió excusarse luego de cantar un puñado de temas: anunció que los músicos seguirán tocando mientras él se tomaría un descanso. Que le tuvieran paciencia, agregó, y caminó unos pasos hasta ocultarse al otro lado del telón del teatro El Colonial. Resguardado, se sentó en un banquito. La camisa entreabierta, el gesto apesadumbrado: estaba agitado. La neumonía había hecho estragos. Con la mano izquierda tomó la mascarilla de un respirador portátil. Luego de cada bocanada de oxígeno que recibía, casi salvadora, se la quitaba. Y le daba una pitada al cigarrillo que le habían encendido en la mano derecha. Minutos después, ya con otro semblante, regresaría al escenario para seguir cautivando a un público que ignoraba lo ocurrido detrás de escena, pero que quizás lo intuía…
El 15 enero de 2000 el auto que lo trasladaba al regreso de una gira chocó en una ruta santafesina. Y Mattioli se encontró de frente con la muerte: fallecieron dos integrantes de su grupo (Sergio Reyes y Darío Bevegni), y su propia vida corrió peligro. En la cama del hospital en el que estuvo internado tres meses escribió las canciones del que sería nuevo disco, Un homenaje al Cielo, dedicado a sus viejos amigos. Cuando lo presentó en vivo Leo era otro: un león herido. Había perdido peso, se sostenía en las muletas y atenuaba con morfina los dolores de su cuerpo, lesionado en la columna vertebral.
A partir de entonces su corazón y sus pulmones (afectados por el cigarrillo) pagarían las consecuencias. Los shows se espaciaron y disminuyeron, las internaciones se hicieron frecuentes: una de 2006 en Santiago del Estero y esa de 2009 en Santa Fe, las más graves. El desenlace fatal se convirtió en una posibilidad cierta, y la prensa comenzó a reescribir su necrológica. "¡Tengo para muchos años más! Obviamente, si me cuido…", le dijo Mattioli a Susana cuando la visitó en su programa. Era 2007. Tenía apenas 35 años.
El 7 de agosto de 2011, dos años después de aquel otoño de su regreso milagroso, una insuficiencia cardíaca lo derrotaría de una vez por todas en un hotel de Necochea. Acababa de ofrecer un show en un teatro marplatense, en una banda que contaba con tres de sus hijos. Leo Mattioli murió seis días antes de cumplir 39 años, naciendo el mito que a nadie consuela. Porque con su partida la cumbia perdió al último de los románticos. Y su mujer, sus hijos, su familia, sus amigos no querían al ídolo, amaban al hombre. Aquel que se fue demasiado pronto. Y que todavía llorarán más de diez veces. Muchas más.
/////////////////////// English
Leonardo Guillermo Mattioli was born on August 13, 1972 in Santa Fe. He grew up in a housing complex adjacent to the Colón stadium known as Barrio Centenario. That was the scene of his first shows: he would climb the tree on the sidewalk of his house to sing loudly to the neighbors.
That boy had a hard time studying. With more insistence than effort, he completed elementary school, and in high school he lasted as long as it took to expel him: a week. Mama María Isabel sat down with her son (already a teenager), who after the challenge confessed to her: "I don't want to go back to school, I prefer to work." There were new scoldings, yes. And more challenges. But the young man got away with it.
For Marina Rosas, Leo was "the prettiest in the neighborhood." And he fell in love. No, no: they fell in love. She was 14 years old and he was 18 days old when they started dating. They soon had a son; immediately another one. Just there they formalized, not with a wedding (they would never go through the altar) but with coexistence: an uncle of Marina lent them "a little piece smaller than this table", as Mattioli recalled in Susana Giménez's television living room.
Despite all the forecasts, that battered heart did not stop beating, and the lungs seemed to recover the vigor that the pneumonia had sacked. This is how in April 2009 the press had to file that obituary several times updated for another occasion: a couple of weeks after leaving intensive care Leo would give a recital again...
In that minimal room, a jug struggled to feed the small stove in the kitchen and give temperature -warmer than hot- to the shower water. But those four walls were already a home, the first destination of the new family. There were others in a very short time as Leo looked to make his way in music.
His adventure as a singer began when he joined the Trinidad group when he was barely 20 years old. And that voice, the charisma, the stage presence, the innate romanticism: Mattioli had everything to be a great cumbia star. An announcer hired for a show improvised the nickname that ended up sealing his destiny as a soloist: "Ladies and gentlemen, with you... The Santafesino Lion!".
In those days of 2009, his fans did not speak of a miracle, although they dedicated countless prayer chains to him. And on the night of their return (a very cold Friday, more winter than autumn), a Mattioli who had trouble moving on the stage of the Colonial Theater in Lomas de Zamora returned such adoration in the form of songs. Between the howling and the applause it was difficult to hear him, to distinguish that slightly tired voice, much more wounded. The Lion purred before he roared, and he had more than enough of that: more than a survivor, at that point he was a legend...
With musical success came money. Not all at once, of course, but rather piecemeal. But more and more. And in the same way Leo was building his house. He designed it by hand on paper, both the original construction and the rooms that he added as the family grew: with Marina they had six children. They settled in the Luz y Fuerza neighborhood of the city of Santo Tomé, from where it is enough to cross a bridge on Route 11 to return to the Centenario neighborhood. Leo never strayed from his origins.
Letters of love and eroticism: Mattioli wrote what he lived. And the public identified with what he sang. "I am a human being like anyone else and what happens to me happens to people," said this fanatic of weapons, cars and jewelry: on his right hand he wore a huge ring with the inscription LEO, which was crimped to a bracelet through a chain, all in gold.
Every morning, Leo woke up at 6:30 a.m. to make his children breakfast and take them to school in the van. Then home, for the mates with Marina, his wife and his representative. And the family lunch, after picking up the kids from school. That was the weekly routine; the weekends came the recitals. "With music I can leave something to each of my children -Leo was enthusiastic-. When my old man died we were left with a repossessed house and a thousand things, and I don't want that to happen to them".
The era of fury brought excess and danger: more than 10 shows every night, crossing red lights and going at high speed to make it on time. He didn't always make it. One day, in Jujuy, he showed up to give the last recital at 10:30 on Sunday morning. "And the people were waiting for me…" Leo said proudly. All that would change with the accident.
On that night in 2009, Mattioli had to excuse himself after singing a handful of songs: he announced that the musicians would continue playing while he would take a break. That they have patience with him, he added, and walked a few steps until he hid on the other side of the curtain of the El Colonial theater. Protected, he sat down on a stool. His shirt ajar, his expression sorrowful: he was agitated. Pneumonia had taken its toll. With his left hand he took the mask of a portable respirator. After each breath of oxygen he received, almost saving, he took it off. And he was puffing on the cigarette that had been lit in his right hand. Minutes later, already with a different face, he would return to the stage to continue captivating an audience that was unaware of what had happened behind the scenes, but perhaps sensed it...
On January 15, 2000, the car that was taking him back from a tour crashed on a Santa Fe route. And Mattioli found himself face to face with death: two members of his group died (Sergio Reyes and Darío Bevegni), and his own life was in danger. In the hospital bed where he was hospitalized for three months, he wrote the songs for what would be a new album, A Tribute to Heaven, dedicated to his old friends. When he presented it live Leo was another: a wounded lion. He had lost weight, supported himself on crutches and mitigated the pain in his body with morphine, injured in the spinal column.
From then on his heart and lungs (affected by the cigarette) would pay the consequences. The shows were spaced out and decreased, hospitalizations became frequent: one in 2006 in Santiago del Estero and that in 2009 in Santa Fe, the most serious. The fatal outcome became a certain possibility, and the press began to rewrite his obituary. "I have for many more years! Obviously, if I take care of myself…" Mattioli told Susana when he visited her on her show. It was 2007. He was barely 35 years old.
On August 7, 2011, two years after that autumn of his miraculous return, heart failure would defeat him once and for all in a hotel in Necochea. He had just offered a show in a Mar del Plata theater, in a band that had three of his children. Leo Mattioli died six days before his 39th birthday, giving birth to a myth that consoles no one. Because with his departure, cumbia lost the last of the romantics. And his wife, his children, his family, his friends did not love the idol, they loved the man. The one who left too soon. And that they will still cry more than ten times. Many more.
Me Las Pagarás
Leo Mattioli Lyrics
Jump to: Overall Meaning ↴ Line by Line Meaning ↴
Quiero poner a beber i un cigarrilo fumar
A la mujer q mato mis sentimientos ire a buscar.
Tu no debiste jugar con mi tonto corazon lo
Q has hecho con mi amor juro q pronto vas a pagar.
No estoi triste ni es mi llanto es el humo del cigarrilo
Q me hace llorar kien te crees una diosa flor hermosa
Q algun dia se marchitara.
A la mujer q mato mis sentimientos ire a buscar.
Tu no debiste jugar con mi tonto corazon lo
Q has hecho con mi amor juro q pronto vas a pagar.
No estoi triste ni es mi llanto es el humo del cigarrilo
Q me hace llorar kien te crees una diosa flor hermosa
In Leo Mattioli's song "Me las Pagarás," the singer expresses his anger and disappointment towards a woman who has hurt him deeply. He wants to drown his sorrows by drinking and smoking cigarettes as he sets out to confront the woman who has killed his emotions. He believes that she shouldn't have played with his foolish heart and promises that she will pay for what she has done to his love. The song portrays the singer's hurt feelings and his resolve to seek revenge. He is not sad, and his tears are only from the smoke of his cigarette. He emphasizes that the woman shouldn't think of herself as a beautiful flower deity as one day, just like any other living thing, she will wither away.
The lyrics are powerful and emotional, delivering a message of bitterness and resentment, creating a captivating atmosphere of tension and revenge. The sadness and anger that the singer feels are palpable and relatable to those who have experienced heartbreak. The words express the pain of being used by someone, and the frustration of being betrayed by someone who was trusted. The line, "Tu no debiste jugar con mi tonto corazon," (you shouldn't have played with my foolish heart) hits particularly hard while expressing the vulnerability that comes with falling in love. Overall, the lyrics in "Me las Pagarás" communicate the theme of heartbreak and the consequences of playing with someone's emotions.
Line by Line Meaning
Quiero poner a beber i un cigarrilo fumar
I want to drink and smoke a cigarette
A la mujer q mato mis sentimientos ire a buscar.
I'll go find the woman who killed my feelings
Tu no debiste jugar con mi tonto corazon lo Q has hecho con mi amor juro q pronto vas a pagar.
You shouldn't have played with my foolish heart, what you've done to my love, I swear you'll pay for it soon.
No estoi triste ni es mi llanto es el humo del cigarrilo Q me hace llorar kien te crees una diosa flor hermosa Q algun dia se marchitara.
I'm not sad, nor is it my tears, it's the cigarette smoke that makes me cry. Who do you think you are, a beautiful goddess flower that will wilt someday.
Contributed by Jake V. Suggest a correction in the comments below.
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