Gregory Perrucci: The “Primitivo Anarchist” Who Learned to Think Ahead of Everyone Else
Written by Davide Gangi | Published in territory, wine 
To tell the story of Felline is inevitably to tell the story of Gregory Perrucci, because some companies end up bearing a striking resemblance to the people who conceived them. In his case, it would be difficult to separate the wine from the man, the family history from his curiosity, the Primitivo from music, Puglia from his travels, and even a certain degree of provocation from that freedom of thought that Gregory claims by calling himself—not without a touch of self-satisfaction—an “anarchist.”
A description that fits him perfectly. Not so much because of a desire to go against the grain, but rather because of an instinct not to accept a path simply because everyone else is following it. Gregory has always felt the need to understand, compare, travel, listen, and then make up his own mind. Perhaps this is precisely where we should look for one of the reasons why his name is linked to the modern revival of Primitivo di Manduria.
The story, however, begins long before he came along.
The first chapter is named after his grandfather, Gregorio Perrucci, the son of a family of farm laborers and a highly skilled grafting expert who, after World War II, became a leading figure in the planting of new Primitivo vineyards in the Manduria area. He knew the vineyards well and had learned to observe how Primitivo could vary depending on the soil in which its roots were planted: red soil, sand, black soil, white soil. This empirical knowledge would, many years later, prove surprisingly relevant in Felline’s work on the different expressions of Primitivo.
The second generation is that of Costantino Perrucci, Gregory’s father, a key figure in another era of Italian wine. A major exporter of bulk wine to France, he came to handle—according to family accounts—impressive quantities, up to one million hectoliters a year. It was a time when Apulian wine crossed borders in enormous volumes without the name “Apulia” necessarily traveling with it. The wine was on its way, but its identity was far from it.
Then came the third generation. Gregory joined the family business in 1989 and realized that something had to change. It was no longer enough to simply sell wine: it needed to be given a sense of origin, a name, and a story. Together with his brothers, he initially set aside a space dedicated to high-quality winemaking, and in 1992, the bottling facility was established. Felline entered the market in 1996 and began offering interpretations of Primitivo di Manduria that, for those times, represented a vision that was anything but conventional.
It is an almost symbolic shift. The wine that, for the previous generation, had crossed borders in large quantities is gradually returning to the vineyard, to the specific plot, to the bottle, and above all to the name of the land from which it comes.
Gregory travels a lot and looks far ahead. In California, he meets some of the leading Zinfandel producers and begins to wonder what the Americans had managed to build around that grape variety. He doesn’t want to turn Manduria into California—that would go against his very nature. Rather, he wants to understand why, on the other side of the ocean, a grape so closely linked to Primitivo had managed to forge its own international identity, while Puglia too often continued to sell its wine without successfully conveying the full value of its origin.
And this is precisely where one of the most interesting aspects of his vision comes to light: looking beyond Puglia to gain an even deeper understanding of Puglia.
In 1997, this curiosity evolved into an even more ambitious project: the Accademia dei Racemi. Gregory brought together winemakers, vineyards, and expertise with the goal of rediscovering, studying, and promoting native Apulian grape varieties, which at the time were far less well-known than they are today. Ottavianello, Susumaniello, Fiano Minutolo, Malvasia Nera, Negroamaro, Moscato Reale di Trani, and Uva di Troia became part of a journey that helped foster a new appreciation for the region’s ampelographic richness.
At the same time, an equally important project is taking shape focused on Primitivo, explored through the different soil types: red soil, white soil, black soil, and sand.
And this is probably one of his most interesting insights: the realization that there isn’t just one “Primitivo,” but as many ways of interpreting it as there are places where it can express itself. The grape variety remains the same; what changes is its voice.
Looking back after all these years, I think we can also give him credit for this: for helping to change the way Manduria viewed itself. Not just a land capable of producing Primitivo, but a region capable of interpreting it, distinguishing it, and telling its story. Today, this line of reasoning may seem natural; back then, it was far from it.
Felline’s wines continue to reflect this pursuit to this day.
Giravolta is made from 100% Primitivo grapes grown on what is known as “white earth,” formed by the weathering of exposed limestone banks. This tuff-rich, stony soil helps shape a unique expression of the grape variety. It is one of the wines that best illustrates the winery’s philosophy: not to treat Primitivo merely as a grape variety, but to interpret it through the lens of the land.
Then there’s Zinfandel, and here the wine inevitably becomes intertwined with Gregory’s life story.
Among his stories, there is one that seems tailor-made to describe his character. During one of his trips to the United States, he managed to obtain some scions from a historic vineyard linked to Ridge, one of the iconic names in California Zinfandel. He recounts having stashed them inside a golf bag and returning home, passing through the customs checks of the time without a hitch. Those were certainly different times, and today this story is worth reading above all for what it reveals about the man himself: his curiosity, his daring, and that almost irrepressible desire to personally experience what he had seen and learned on the other side of the ocean. Those cuttings became part of Felline’s history and today produce the wine that bears the very name Zinfandel. A bottle that represents more than just a label: it is an ideal bridge between Manduria and California, between departure and return, between what he had gone to discover in the world and what he had always had right before his eyes in his own homeland.
His research into the relationship between Primitivo and Zinfandel also led him to engage with American winemaking culture and participate in the international debate surrounding the origins and identity of the two grape varieties. This comparison further reinforced his conviction: Primitivo did not need to become something else; it needed someone to learn to fully recognize its value.
And then there’s Anarkos. The name itself almost feels like a personal statement. It’s a blend of Primitivo, Negroamaro, and Malvasia Nera, aged in stainless steel—a departure from the notion that wood is absolutely essential to creating a great Apulian red. A deliberately chosen pun, because in this case even words can afford a little anarchy: repeating themselves, challenging convention, and reinforcing the concept.
Anarkos inevitably reminds me of Gregory and his aversion to overly simplistic classifications. It’s probably the wine that, at least in name, most closely resembles him: free, provocative, and reluctant to be confined within a single definition.
This freedom of his also comes through when he talks about Puglia. One of the things he says is deliberately provocative: “People from Puglia have a bad attitude: they’re like the Chinese—they copy things and offer low-cost goods.”
It’s a strong statement, and if taken out of context, it would be easy to misunderstand it. I, however, interpret it as a provocation directed first and foremost at his own region. He knows the value of Puglia, and that is precisely why he refuses to accept that it should take the easy way out through imitation or a race to the bottom. His line of thinking raises a much more interesting question: Why copy someone else when we have enough history, grape varieties, terroirs, and culture to be recognized for who we are?
Having gotten to know him and having had the pleasure of engaging with him on several occasions, I’ve learned that behind many of his provocative remarks there’s never just a pointless desire to go against the grain. Rather, there is a desire to compel the listener to shift their perspective. When talking with him, you might start with Primitivo, move on to California, pause in front of a piano, and find yourself shortly afterward discussing the future of Puglia. This is, perhaps, one of the aspects of him that fascinates me the most.
You may or may not agree with him, but a conversation with him rarely leaves things exactly as they were before. He forces you to think things through. And perhaps that is exactly what someone capable of making an impact should do: not necessarily seek agreement, but spark thought.
Then there’s music. He’s a huge music lover and a pianist, and I believe this detail reveals much more than it might seem at first glance. Anyone who plays an instrument knows that freedom doesn’t come from the absence of rules, but from the ability to know them well enough to be able to step away from them. I find something similar in his approach to wine: structure and improvisation, memory and interpretation, rigor and instinct. Perhaps that “anarchist” he likes to call himself has something of the musician who, sitting at the keyboard, knows the score but at a certain point feels the need to add something of his own.
This fusion of wine, music, culture, and conviviality finds one of its most beautiful expressions today in Spazio Primitivo, the space he chose to create within the company. It is not merely an event hall, but a space where his vision of hospitality takes shape through gatherings in which music, wine, and fine cuisine come together in harmony.
And this is an important step, because Felline is not conceived merely as a place to produce wine. It becomes a cultural space where Primitivo can be enjoyed—naturally—but also discussed, explored, and paired with a dish, a piece of music, a person, or a story.
Alongside Gregory is his brother Fabrizio, the winery’s winemaker and a key figure in bringing this vision to life in the glass. While Gregory clearly embodies the visionary, cultural, and “provocative” aspects of the project, Fabrizio oversees its winemaking and production side. Two distinct personalities and roles that are part of the same family story.
For us at Vinoway, Felline also holds a special place. The winery has always been featured in the Vinoway Selection Guide, and this has allowed us to follow its wines through the years and vintages, building that tasting history that I consider essential when you truly want to understand a winery. A single bottle may excite or may be less convincing. A succession of vintages tells a much richer story: it reveals a direction, consistency, evolution, and, at times, even shifts in the thinking of the people who produce those wines.
Today, Felline is a winery that I consider iconic for Apulian winemaking and well-known on the national scene, but to simply celebrate its success would mean missing out on the most interesting part of its history.
We must return to Gregory. To that man who inherited an extraordinary knowledge of the wine trade from his father, Costantino, and decided to channel it all back into the vineyard. To the man from Puglia who crossed the ocean to understand what Americans had managed to do with Zinfandel and returned home even more convinced of the value of Primitivo. To the producer who, through the Accademia dei Racemi, helped draw attention to grape varieties and regions that deserved a different kind of recognition. To the man who began to distinguish Primitivo based on its terroir at a time when talking about zoning was far less common than it is today. To the pianist who seeks in music the same freedom he demands from his own thinking.
Giravolta, Zinfandel, and Anarkos can, after all, also be seen this way: three wines and three fragments of the same man. The land, the journey, freedom.
Perhaps Gregory Perrucci was a pioneer of Primitivo di Manduria precisely for this reason: He didn’t just believe in Primitivo when few others fully understood its potential. He tried to imagine what it could become.
Today, many of those insights seem almost self-evident. But that is the fate of ideas that work: after a few decades, they become so logical that we forget how difficult it was to come up with them when no one yet knew what the outcome would be.
Gregory—with his piano, his provocations, his travels, Felline, the Accademia dei Racemi, and that Spazio Primitivo where wine, music, and cuisine once again speak the same language—remains difficult to categorize. That probably suits him just fine. After all, for someone who likes to call himself an anarchist, being categorized would already be a small defeat.
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