The
Sounds of Music
August
is an indelible time in Calitri, as it most certainly
is throughout Italy. It marks the
beginning of bountiful harvests, and especially in the evenings when the day
has cooled, it’s a time of celebration.
At times like these, people appear on the streets and towns comes alive
long into the night. There are many
types of activities, some frankly bordering on a total lack of activity, as for
instance, as people relax outside a cafe or simply stand on the sidewalk or in the
roadways themselves, to converse with friends, relatives and even relative newcomers
like ourselves. We could never be quite
sure who we might meet or what we may come upon next, which only adds to the
fascination.
In
the States, with its general lack of town square
gathering places, the closest I can come to a similar cultural gathering place is
the front porch. This unassigned part of
the American home, that so helped define America, belonged to everyone and yet no
one in particular. Unfortunately, it appeared
long after de Tocqueville had a chance to include it in his characterization of
the fabric of American idealism. That
form of charming civility, however, is a rare find these days, having been
eroded by the advent of mobility, social forces and security worries far too
subtle to have anticipated when porches first made their architectural debut
and gained popularity in the 19th century.
The advent of air conditioning and America’s fascination with the
automobile may have played a role in the eventual disappearance of this iconic
gathering place. While air conditioning
got Americans inside, off their porches, the automobile made it possible to get
away from home entirely. Imagine if you
can an alien race in some distant, far-off corner of the sky observing our
every movement here on earth. From their
remote vantage point they could be easily convinced that the objects seen
moving around in mass numbers, our cars, many entering and exiting structures,
our garages, were the true inhabitants of our planet, while the much smaller
objects occasionally seen moving about, we humans, were simply an infestation
of sorts, mere insects. Alien musings aside,
rural Italy nevertheless remains untouched by such complex forces of modernity. Even a garage in Calitri is a rarity. While it still remains that way, the outdoor
living room charm of the town square promenade and its entertainments in the natural
cool of an evening can still be enjoyed.
It
is an emphasis on music, grounded in
tradition, that is so evident, especially here, this time of year. Though Calitri's population is rather small,
there is clearly an intense musical heritage about the town. I recall one evening when we attended a sort
of music recital in the basement of San Canio Church where people from experienced
adults to rookie beginners showcased their talents on a wide variety of
instruments ranging from the unwieldy tuba to diminutive piccolo. Per capita, I can only imagine the large number
of families with members involved in playing an instrument. This may have something to do with the status
attached to being a member of the Calitri Town Band. For young and old alike, it appears to be an
attractive form of social interaction in existence long before the advent of
Facebook and the ubiquitous "tweet".
The town band in their tailored blue uniforms
with flashy brass buttons, red cuffs and matching epaulettes performs concerts,
and by my count has a jazz element, marches in parades and at times accompanies
the Madonna on her religious processions through the Borgo. One summer evening, in response to fliers
posted about town, we drove to neighboring Bisaccia, along with friends, to attend
one such presentation.
The
audience arrayed itself all around the
bandstand. In anticipation, every space
had been taken. Many sat in formal rows
of white plastic lawn chairs, but the town had miscalculated the draw. Some stood or leaned against trees and filled
storefronts, while others like ourselves enjoyed an elevated vantage point from
the stone stairs of a nearby church. The
evening was made for the event. A clear
inky sky dappled with stars, a rising moon, and the pleasant temperature combined
to promote a convivial mood. Needless to
say, the atmosphere was charged in electric anticipation by the time the
conductor flicked his baton to begin.
More
than a regular concert on a late-summer moonlit
evening, however, this performance offered an operatic interlude. Beyond simply playing excerpts from
well-recognized classic works from Tosca,
La Bohème or Rigoletto, though by no means simple feats in and of themselves,
their Puccini and Verdi repertoire accompanied an operatic troupe. The ensemble consisted of five singers, three
women and two males. They were dressed
all in black with an occasional overlong white scarf or loopy boa for a distinctive
added flair. Their collective vocal registers
spanned a range that included subtle operatic distinctions I am still incapable
of naming or adequately discerning. Needless to say, there were deep basses and at
times high soaring crescendos of the kind that could easily threaten stemware.
But
through it all there was one particular
stand-out moment. It was during the
performance of Nessun Dorma, an aria from the final act of
Giacomo
Puccini's opera,
Turandot. The
name of this opera is not commonly overheard in today’s households. Unfortunately, it has been relegated to the trash-heap
of obscurity, at times resurfacing if need be, in an occasional trivia contest.
Just about everyone, however, is
familiar with its vocal centerpiece. It
was made popular in the 1990s by none other than Il Maestro himself, tenor Luciano Pavarotti. Everyone waits for love-struck Calaf
to utter its first words, “nessun dorma” (no one sleeps) only to hear
him repeat them once more. It is so well
recognized by these lyrics and opening notes that at this point in the
performance I was sure no one could sleep.
Its finish also held an added twist that sent a shiver, at least
through me, when the orchestra’s brass section stood, the blare of their horns
adding dramatically to its rousing conclusion. Talk above a climatic crescendo.
It was a week later that they performed
the same concert once again, this time in Calitri. There under the lights on a temporary stage
erected in the Post Office town square, it showcased a different tenor. I’d already been spoiled by then and knew the
Nessun Dorma I liked best - the first
tenor got my vote.
Not
all the sounds of music in Calitri are
planned and scripted with sheet music at the fore. Many an impromptu, unrehearsed flair-up
occurs. As an example, there was the
time we were sitting on the patio outside the home of our friends, Gerry and
Bernie, when down the stairs and around the corner a young man appeared with a
guitar slung across his back. For us it
was a "trick or treat" moment for this minstrel wasn't getting by
unless he'd afford us a tune. This he
did with the flip of his instrument to the ready and his rendition of Bob
Dylan’s Blowin’ in the Wind. How quickly he’d picked up on our use of the
King’s English! Luckily he obliged us
with this "treat" for we had no "trick" to come back with
in reserve. Later, we came upon this
same troubadour in the borgo, near our home.
Drawn by his music, a crowd had gathered around him as he preformed his
one man concert. He paused only
momentarily, offering a simple wink and nod in recognition of our presence, and
then he continued, completely skipping his Bob Dylan English impersonation,
preferring instead to croon entirely in his native Italian.
There
is also the tradition of a groom crooning
to his bride-to-be a night or so before the big event. Many a night, with our balcony doors open to
the night air, we’ve fallen asleep to such romantic crooners - hopefully their
betrothed stayed awake. Out for gelato
one night, we were attracted by a similar occurrence, though I confess not
exactly the same, for this groom had some help.
In fact, he didn’t even have to sing.
Instead, he had help from friends, many conveniently with guitars. We stumbled upon this pre-nuptial celebration
across the street from a popular Calitri pastry and ice cream shop, Zabbata’s Pasticceria. Bypassing
the Romeo and Juliet imagery altogether, we found the happy couple dancing on
the sidewalk below the bride’s apartment to the serenade of their talented friends. Everyone was in a festive mood especially as
others passed out plastic cups of chilled Prosecco and squares of pizza to all comers.
And finally, in the impromptu category, there was the time when our precocious granddaughter, five year
old Harper, decided to join in. After
all, music is music. From her limited
repertoire, as the lyrics recount, she stuck out her chin late one evening when
all five year olds should be asleep, though apparently not in Calitri, and sang
her favorite song, Tomorrow, from the
movie Annie to the delight of
everyone. I don’t recall how she got the
accordionist, who was playing at the time, to stop, but he obliged her. She soon commanded the stage, which in her
case were the uneven bricks on the island in the town hall square. Hers had been an acappella performance and in
appreciation some of the local women in attendance rewarded her with candy. Her mom and dad now have to convince her that
public singing in the subway or on the street is not their idea of a professional
career.
The
Roxy Bar strikes a more contemporary note when
it comes to music than our granddaughter’s focus on a Broadway hit. Owners Massimo and Vito have hosted some
well-organized evenings at Roxy Bar with music at their core. Some of their entertaining evenings occur
outside their door on Corso
Giuseppe Garibaldi. We
lucked upon one recently when we stopped by for Aperol Spritzers one evening. We never did make it inside and were lucky to
find a table, a table we soon discovered close to where two young guitarists
were setting up. A couple chairs, amps and
“test, test, test” later and they were underway. If I didn’t know I was in Calitri, I’d have
easily believed we were back in the States listening to oldies on the radio or were
attending some 70's to 90's rock concert.
They duplicated American originals perfectly, stopping only long enough for
one to flip the ash from his cigarette, the other to adjust a control. The younger of them was especially gifted and
expressed it in his vigorous assault on the strings of his instrument and his
vocal rendition of House of the Rising
Sun, Juke Box Hero and Eminence Front to name just a few.
Although
American music is widespread throughout Italy,
especially on the radio, it was on another outing, again back at the Roxy, that
we were entertained by a troupe of musicians but this time of a percussive
persuasion. That evening, three African drummers
dressed alike in colorful trousers arrived and played in the street beside Max and
Vito's version of a Paris sidewalk cabaret.
I love the sound of drums and their rhythms had soon attracted a
gathering. Two large drums set on the ground produced deep base notes when struck
with long handled sticks while two other performers, their drums tightly clamped
between their thighs and played like bongos, added tinny metallic notes to
their wild beat. Their chant, though
indecipherable in an unfamiliar African language, was nevertheless wonderful to
listen to there under the trees outside the Roxy.
An
additional musical phenomenon, this one with
Calitri’s particular brand of authenticity stamped all across it, is what has
become an annual event - the Sponz Fest.
It is during this two week period of
musical celebration that entertainers from many places across the globe perform. Venues vary with the last one we attended
kicking-off when a posse of men arrived not on horseback but aboard mules as was
common in olden times. Like a rare earth
magnet the Sponz Fest attracts thousands
of people, many of whom are descendants of longstanding Calitri families … the Cestones,
Cerretas,
DiMaios, Maffuccis, Toglias, and
on through the alphabet … who return to relish in their heritage by joining in
the festivities. The festival is themed for
a revivalist's kinship with history where old ways and traditions are given new
voice and revered, not denied or distained, for they represent the culture of
the enduring and resilient people.
For
me, a most enjoyable Sponz Fest musical
event came from a troupe of fiddlers and an attractive
tambourine player from Crete. All together there were four in their group. While an old gentleman with a scraggly beard
played what looked like a fiddle, a woman thumb-rolled a giant tambourine to
the accompaniment of two others strumming across the strings of acoustic
instruments, possibly mandolins, faster than my mom could grate cheese. Though she had initially caught my
attention, my eye was soon drawn, like a moth to the light, to the wizened old
man to her side and the unique sounds he produced,
both vocally and from his instrument. Everything about him was different. His instrument, surely, his appearance,
definitely, but most of all he possessed a distinct manner and sound. His voice has been referred to as "the
cry of gods" and it was thus the pagan voices of Zeus, Apollo and Poseidon
that I heard in his music.
I
soon learned the name of his stringed
instrument. He played a lyra, something at least
for me that held a biblical connotation, and today continues to
be the most dominant of Crete folk instruments. Though I’d not seen anyone play the lyra before, I felt
certain his style was distinctive, not at all conventional. He held
it vertically on one leg, positioned so its base, for the most part, resting
just back from his knee as he savaged at it with his bow ... back and forth in
wild sawing motions. His other leg, not satisfied
to remain still, pounded the pavement to the beat as though he was experiencing
some tic-like spasm. His bow flicked,
clicked and crisscrossed the strings. Unique
indeed, even his bow, unlike that of an ordinary violin, happened to be embellished
with jingle-bells. I soon learned his name. It
was Antonis
Xylouris, better known by his nickname, Psarantonis, today the
recognized voice of Cretan folk music.
Psarantonis
leads a renowned musical ensemble from Crete with
Antonis the last to still play traditional Cretan music with a lyra. His first performance, at a wedding, was at
age 13. By the time he'd reached 16 he
had evolved into one of the most recognized talents in Crete. Once a shepherd, it was in the still of the
mountains where he taught himself to play the lyra. Home to Greek gods, it may have been their
breezy whispers and thunderous growls that had a hand in his learning to
play. As I sat there on the pavement
with the crowd, as close as I could possibly get, I could see he was a restless
performer. With one mic close to his
instrument, another captured his song. Try
as I might to associate his unique verbal sounds, the closest I came was to the
raw, earthy, guttural sounds emitted by those proud, warlike Star Trek characters, the Klingons. But then I’m not used to hearing Greek, be it
spoken or sung, though maybe his was a Cretan Greek dialect. It didn’t matter though because I was mesmerized
by what I saw and heard. He
played with sheer energy, unlike his companions, with a range of emotion from charmingly
demure to wild and anguished. Often he'd
hesitate from his vibrant play for just a few moments. Quickly he'd place his instrument across his
lap as though he'd had a sudden thought he had to verbalize. Assailing the microphone with a outburst I
couldn't comprehend, though it didn't matter, he'd expunge the thought with a
few quick utterances only to snatch up his instrument once again and continue
his play. At other times, his bow and
folkish voice carried on this love affair together. His singing was also like no one else's,
ranging from breathy
murmurs and low sighs to
course cacophonous
bellowing and warbles. A
few flays of his bow later, his lips almost devouring the microphone, the
texture of his sound approached an incomprehensible, almost painful moan.
Clearly his is an acquired taste, but I caught
on fast. After a few
sets, I was hooked on the special timbre of his voice and the bold imagery of
his interpretation. As a child who, god
forbid, attempts to write with a pencil in their left hand is quickly
corrected, a spirit like Antonis' could have never survived something as
structured as a Juilliard School of Music.
And for this, it is we who should cry to the gods in thanks as
beneficiaries of his unconstrained, energetic odes to
life.
This
had been Italy in context, like a ride in a
convertible with its top down along the historic cultural crossroads where music
of east, west, north and south intersect.
For me these moments and experiences had been special, not simply the
everyday my pen might attempt to hype in hopes of connecting with readers with
something bordering on drama. No drama
here, simply a saga of musical traditions whether they be the lore from dusted-off American decades-old
45 RPM vinyl, the sleepless heights of Italian operatic excellence, random
impromptu sounds on the street or the centuries old sounds in
strange tongues from forgotten lands. Brought
together, they were seeds of pure fascination, the things that gave me joy,
rooted in global musical traditions worthy of remembrance. We need only open our hearts and listen to the
common language of music.
From
That Rogue Tourist
Paolo
For related photos, click here on
"Eyes on Italy". Look for and click on a photo album entitled
“Sounds of Music”.
