From an old diary ...
You cannot fully understand Italian opera without visiting Italy. At a music festival in a Tuscan village the village square is bedecked with identical flags - possibly the local Communist party flag - beneath which almost the entire local population sits in rows on benches. A crescent moon has risen, free wine flows into plastic cups from a hose-pipe, dogs sleep at the side of the street, children run to and fro, bemused tourists and visitors perch on the battlements above the square eyeing the proceedings like anthropologists in darkest Africa. The old women sit stiffly in a row behind the performers, a few old men squat on steps smoking their pipes, and, from a window high above, two younger women smoke cigarettes, exchanging jokes and pointing at the young men with their swept back hair and white vests who loll against the wall beneath them. As they stretch their necks for a better view their long black tresses hang down over the window ledge.
The music is supplied by a group of musicians - electric guitar, bass, mandolin - augmented by a drum machine. A selection of male singers, some from the surrounding villages, take it in turns to sing popular arias and folksongs. Some of the singing is frankly awful, but the crowd claps each performance enthusiastically.
Among the six or seven vocalists, there is one, a tall bald man of about sixty, strong and powerfully built, reminiscent of Tito Gobi, with a genuinely operatic voice and real charisma. Throwing his arms wide, bending to one knee, cupping the microphone lovingly in his hands, his every gesture is greeted with rapturous cheers. Whenever the big melody returns the audience bursts into spontaneous applause. ‘Oh Sole Mio’ is, naturally, his piece de resistance. This music could only really belong to this flag-bedecked Tuscan village perched high on a cliff-face, on a balmy summer night with the red wine flowing freely.
After his third encore the great tenor walks back through the crowd, smiling and acknowledging the applause. He stops to greet an old friend. Their handshake involves each gripping the other midway up their forearm. A comradely handshake.
You cannot fully understand Italian opera without visiting Italy. At a music festival in a Tuscan village the village square is bedecked with identical flags - possibly the local Communist party flag - beneath which almost the entire local population sits in rows on benches. A crescent moon has risen, free wine flows into plastic cups from a hose-pipe, dogs sleep at the side of the street, children run to and fro, bemused tourists and visitors perch on the battlements above the square eyeing the proceedings like anthropologists in darkest Africa. The old women sit stiffly in a row behind the performers, a few old men squat on steps smoking their pipes, and, from a window high above, two younger women smoke cigarettes, exchanging jokes and pointing at the young men with their swept back hair and white vests who loll against the wall beneath them. As they stretch their necks for a better view their long black tresses hang down over the window ledge.
The music is supplied by a group of musicians - electric guitar, bass, mandolin - augmented by a drum machine. A selection of male singers, some from the surrounding villages, take it in turns to sing popular arias and folksongs. Some of the singing is frankly awful, but the crowd claps each performance enthusiastically.
Among the six or seven vocalists, there is one, a tall bald man of about sixty, strong and powerfully built, reminiscent of Tito Gobi, with a genuinely operatic voice and real charisma. Throwing his arms wide, bending to one knee, cupping the microphone lovingly in his hands, his every gesture is greeted with rapturous cheers. Whenever the big melody returns the audience bursts into spontaneous applause. ‘Oh Sole Mio’ is, naturally, his piece de resistance. This music could only really belong to this flag-bedecked Tuscan village perched high on a cliff-face, on a balmy summer night with the red wine flowing freely.
After his third encore the great tenor walks back through the crowd, smiling and acknowledging the applause. He stops to greet an old friend. Their handshake involves each gripping the other midway up their forearm. A comradely handshake.
posted by alan at 30.10.03
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