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My dad wasn’t a marketer. But he understood resonance better than most CMOs I’ve met.

He had this intuition, a way of knowing what would hit, whether it was a song, a story, or a moment. He never needed to justify it. He just felt it. And you felt it too when you were around him.

Last week, he passed away. And as I’ve been sitting with the memories, the quiet gaps he left behind—one thought keeps circling in my mind:

How much of the way I work—the way I write, decide, and trust the message—came from him.

In his youth, music was everything. He was a DJ on one of Italy’s first independent rock stations. A songwriter with a sharp ear for what moved people—before the charts, before the marketing. He had taste. And he stood by it.

Then, in his 30s, he left that world behind. He chose stability over spotlight. Started his own business and took care of our family through plenty of ups and downs.

He never returned to music professionally. But that sense of taste never left.

He had absolute conviction. He didn’t care what people thought. He cared whether it was right. And because he had lived it—really lived it (we’re talking about the 70s…)—you listened.

That’s what I’ve been thinking about this week.

Because I realize… I try to do the same.

Not with music (even though I’ve been playing drums for over 20 years thanks to him). But with messaging and copy. When I’m deep in customer research, shaping a story, writing a line I know will land or even meticulously editing. It’s a sense. Something that clicks.

But that instinct didn’t come out of nowhere.

I still remember how my dad used to blast David Bowie in the car with me and my brothers—especially the songs we hated. We’d groan. He’d grin, turn it up louder.

That was him.

He didn’t push his taste on people though. He just stood by it, loudly, confidently, with a smirk that said, “You’ll understand later.”

And over time, I’ve come to see my own instincts in a similar way.

Not just inherited, but earned.

Through years of writing and rewriting. Of hand-copying old sales letters until the rhythm stuck in my bones. Of obsessing over what makes people feel, not just click. Of podcast conversations where I’ve learned to ask better questions. Of working with companies helping them land on the message they’ve been trying to put into words for years.

So no—I don’t think great taste is something you’re born with. And it’s not something you copy from someone else’s swipe file either.

Great taste is something you earn.

Through the living. Through the messing up and then the learning. Through the practice of really seeing—what matters, what moves, what resonates.

That’s what my dad left me with. And this week, I’ve been reminded just how much of that shapes the work I do.

If something feels right in your work—before the data, before the feedback—don’t ignore it.

It might be your gut talking.

And it might be right.

RESONANCE

Oliver Burkeman, Meditations for Mortals

Have a great weekend!

Cheers,

Chris

Chris Silvestri Founder & conversion alchemist

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