The past three months have been a whirlwind, due to the shock-and-awe policies set forth (but not always implemented) by the new administration. Whether real or theoretical, the effects of those policies have already started to trickle down our system: positions have been cut, people fired, funds frozen, entire agencies and departments have been shut down or severely maimed in this ongoing process. There are way too many opinions flying around in our increasingly polarized media, and I do not intend to add my two cents to the pile; not yet, at least. It all feels like the grand overture from a futurist performance, full of ear-splitting noises and bound to break the willpower of even the most patient and well-meaning audience. What’s the first act going to bring? Time will tell. For now, the best we can do is take a closer look to those around us: our family members, our friends, our coworkers, the people we interact with in the course of our busy lives, and try to be more understanding, more patient, more kind to each other.    

I was at the Cleveland Museum of Art a month or so ago, and I saw this painting made by John Rogers Cox (1915-1990) in 1942, shortly after the US entered WWII. I am fortunate to have frequent conversations with two of the museum’s curators, who are trying to improve their Italian, and on that particular occasion one of them pointed out a detail in this famous landscape, something I had never noticed before. The line of telephone poles stretching to the horizon is untethered; due to the lack of cables, those lines serve no purpose; all communications have broken down. This purposeful omission makes the entire scene much more desolate, and those huge gray clouds feel even more threatening. One can almost feel the stillness in the air surrounding the waves of golden wheat, as yet undisturbed by the approaching storm that will soon ravage them. It is hard not to feel a similar sense of dread when we read about the armed conflicts and uprisings waging in so many countries; the hatred grows stronger, in spite of the seemingly endless communication opportunities our interconnected world allows. While that massive network still stands, because of a lack of mutual understanding, our voices are unable to break through the clouds.  

I read an interesting opinion piece written by Peter Gelb, general manager of the MET (Metropolitan Opera) in New York. Today, he claims, due to multiple factors (Covid-related closures, dwindling ticket sales, rising costs etc.) opera as an art form “faces its greatest existential challenge.” Nothing new under the sun, I thought after reading Gelb’s warning; as he admits in the article, opera ceased to be a form of mass entertainment in the mid-20th century. Gone are the days when opera theaters were at the center of social life, with the wealthy families proudly seating (or hosting guests) in their private boxes, the middle class on the orchestra level, and the working class (along with many starving artists) perched up in the balcony. Famous singers enjoyed a level of popularity that can be compared to today’s movie and TV stars, and the composers too were glorified (and occasionally vilified, if their latest work turned out to be a fiasco) on the public scene. When Giuseppe Verdi was on his deathbed, the city of Milan had the road under his bedroom windows covered in straw, so that the noise from the passing carriages wouldn’t disturb his rest. Gioacchino Rossini’s operas made him so wealthy that he was able to retire from the scenes at age 37. Puccini's “La fanciulla del West,” as Gelb recalls in his opening paragraph, was the Met's first world premiere in 1910; tickets quickly sold out, creating a market for scalpers. It all went downhill from those glorious days, no question, but why? 

Gelb lists a few reasons for the current struggle: the lack of musical education in our schools; increasing competition from streaming entertainment; also, the pandemic-related closures. These are all valid reasons, but Gelb also mentions a long-standing and more intrinsic issue: “With a few exceptions, the second half of the 20th century produced little truly popular opera; composers turned inward, with experimental, sometimes atonal compositions that didn't appeal to large audiences.” This comment warrants further explanation, and I apologize in advance for the inevitable oversimplifications that will occur as I try to summarize several decades of music history. 

“Composers turned inward” is a reference to the artistic movement known as Expressionism, which aimed to convey the artist's inner emotions rather than a passive representation of the real world. Munch's “The Scream” is an iconic example of expressionist art. In music, Expressionism is tied to the Second Viennese School, a group of composers based in Vienna that included Arnold Schoenberg, Alban Berg, and Anton Webern. Schoenberg's “Pierrot Lunaire” was composed only two years after Puccini's “La fanciulla” premiered in NYC, but those two works might as well have been written on two different planets. Schoenberg decided that tonality had become obsolete, and that it would soon be replaced entirely by a new system in which the 12 tones of the chromatic scale could be employed without the constraints of a predetermined “key” (C Major, D minor etc.). He called it “dodecaphony” or 12-tone serialism, from the “series,” or recurring pattern in which the 12 notes are presented. Since the notes only relate to each other and are not subject to a pre-existing hierarchy (like in the tonal system), the average listener’s expectations are promptly shattered and confusion invariably ensues.

Why? Because tonality has been around for centuries, and the intervals (an interval is the distance between two notes) on which the tonal system is based correspond to the “harmonics” (or overtones) that naturally occur when a string (or an air column) is set in motion. In other words, the tonal system is based on acoustic properties that can be easily observed in the real world (yes, there is the issue of “temperament,” but let's leave that for another post). That is probably why, contrarily to Schoenberg's expectations, the 12-tone system never replaced tonality. The changes Schoenberg and his contemporaries implemented in their compositions, however, paved the way for a radical restructuring (or de-structuring) of Western classical music, which in turn created a major rift between composers and audiences. 

Politics played an important role in promoting some of the most radical experimentation in both visual arts and music after WWII. The authoritarian regimes in Italy and Germany had strongly rejected Expressionism and other avant-garde currents as corrupt and devious; the USSR also persecuted and ostracized artists who did not conform to the party line; it only seemed natural for democratic governments to champion those same artists in a display of tolerance and openness to innovation. During the Cold War, the CIA covertly funded festivals, concerts, lectures, publications, and individual artists associated with various avant-garde movements. For example, by channeling funds through the Congress for Cultural Freedom (CCF), the CIA financially supported the Darmstadt Summer Courses, which were attended by a group of composers who were about to shape the international contemporary music landscape: Pierre Boulez, Karlheinz Stockhausen, Luigi Nono, Bruno Maderna, Luciano Berio and Oliver Messiaen. The CIA sponsorship can seem counterintuitive, since many of those artists identified themselves with the radical left and were certainly not keen to endorse any US policies. Still, this and other similar propaganda ops lasted over 20 years and spread across many European countries, including Italy, which at the time had the most powerful Communist party outside Russia.  

Despite government support, atonal music never became popular. It did gain a strong foothold in the academia, however, to the point where many students (myself included) felt belittled for trying to write anything that resembled tonal music. The cultural climate has changed since then, thankfully, but the musical landscape is so fragmented that today “anything goes” and there are no objective parameters for evaluating a piece of contemporary non-commercial music. Whenever I attend a performance of such music, people sit in silence and applaud at the end of the piece, but I wonder how much of that experience they are able to retain. Will they check more pieces by the same composer when they go home? Will they reflect on what the piece communicated whatever it was trying to communicate, and how? I hope I don’t sound too pessimistic when I say that in many cases the answer to those questions is a big “no way!”

From what I observed, most concertgoers (both young and old) seem quite lost when it comes to contemporary classical music. They just don’t have the critical skills to decode what they are hearing. That is why Gelb admits that a lot of new operas don’t resonate with their audience, and praises the “rich melodic scores” of the most recent works produced by the Met under his tenure. He seems to imply that we are close to a major breakthrough, because younger audiences are finally coming back to the opera; let us hope that he is right, but I would also like to suggest a different course of action, one that stems from opera’s long and multi-layered heritage. 

Opera has relied on powerful and wealthy patrons ever since a group of Italian humanists, poets and intellectuals (who became known as the Camerata fiorentina) decided to recreate Greek tragedy, at the end of the Renaissance. It was a spectacle meant for the elites, set in the comfortable seclusion of court theaters. The irony is that Greek tragedies were actually a form of mass entertainment rife with political commentary and performed in large outdoor amphitheaters. It is also important to note, however, that those first opera pioneers were reacting against what they perceived as excessive harmonic complexity; they were looking for the best way to convey those essential emotions (affetti) we all share as humans, and they did not think polyphony and counterpoint were the best conduit. They sought to recreate the magical qualities of Orpheus’ singing, emphasizing the melody and simplifying all instrumental parts (monodia). The basic structure of those early operas featured a clear subdivision between sections where the action develops and the characters sing in a speech-like style called recitativo, separated by moments of reflection, where the narrative flow is suspended and the leads have a chance to express their emotions (aria).  

It is important to remember that the first composers of opera did not “invent” monody: monodic songs had existed for centuries, and were performed and enjoyed by people of any social status. Public squares and taverns in towns big and small saw a constant flow of wandering troubadours (the early singer-songwriters) ready to perform in exchange for a few coins; religious processions were accompanied by monodic “laude” (songs of praise); most importantly, liturgical dramas were quite common both inside and outside churches and convents; they evolved from basic “call and response” (antiphonal) chants that were employed to enhance the liturgy and get the congregation involved, into fully-fledged productions that featured costumes, staging, dramatic action with dialogues, and a narrator to keep the story moving. Liturgical dramas were popular and often spontaneous forms of “edutainment” that involved clerics, children and regular folks with little or no artistic background. 

Opera as we know it today, therefore, developed from multiple sources and it cannot be reduced to an elitist form of entertainment. Since it encapsulates and conveys the multiplicity of human nature like no other art form, it is essential to remember that complexity when we try to imagine its future. Maybe it is not necessary to spend $2.5 million to produce an opera; maybe some of that money would be better spent trying to foster a renewed connection between opera and its intended audience (i.e., everyone). This is not something we should expect the likes of Peter Gelb to say, but maybe the future of opera has to unfold on the floor of malls, public parks, school auditoriums, parish halls, or wherever people happen to congregate during their everyday life. It might just be the time to free opera from big theaters like the Met, and return it to the streets. 

My ever-so-imaginative Facebook feed today presented me with the following picture, made by the famous Italian illustrator Roberto Innocenti for a 1988 edition of Carlo Collodi’s Pinocchio. 

After Pinocchio refuses to take his medicine because it is too bitter, la fata turchina (The Blue Fairy) at first tries to “sweeten the pill” by giving him a bit of sugar, but then - realizing that Pinocchio is too stubborn to be swayed - opts instead for a bit of tough love, and shows him what will happen if he doesn’t drink it; a funeral procession walks in the room, with four dark rabbits carrying a little (empty) casket meant for the recalcitrant and soon-to-be-dead puppet. After this rather graphic warning, Pinocchio immediately gulps the medicine down (and who wouldn’t!) In this picture, Innocenti decides to emphasize the grim nature of the scene by dressing the fairy in black, as if she was already in mourning for Pinocchio; he also shows her in the act of leaving the room (or pretending to leave, at least) to let the undertakers do their job. 

In Collodi’s time, death was a constant presence in the life of both children and adults. In a tiny, remote village like the one where Pinocchio’s father/maker lived, the doctor (if there was one) often doubled as a barber (cerusico) and drugs came in short supply, just like all other basic necessities. Water had to be drawn from a public basin that was sometimes very far from one’s home; food was scarce, especially in the winter, and did not always provide all the necessary nutrients; the only source of heat was a fireplace, which required great quantities of costly fuel (either coal or wood) and released toxic fumes when not properly vented. My great-grandfather lived in such a place, Bassiano, a little mountain village overlooking the Pontine marshes; he was educated and relatively well off, managed the post office and (later) the pharmacy, conducted the town’s band and played the organ in the main church. Still, his daughter in law (my grandmother) died giving birth to my aunt, the last of four children; he himself died of a botched surgery in Rome. Every family in Bassiano, rich or poor, has similar stories to tell. 

Those were the years of mass emigration, when rural communities lost thousands of members as they went looking for better fortune, often heading toward South or North America. They had to deal with racism and blatant discrimination, they were arrested, beaten, sometimes lynched. Through hard work they slowly gained respect and trust, and their newly-formed communities began to thrive. They sent money home, the word spread, and more people decided to leave Italy. Between 1880 and 1914, as many as 14 million people left Italy in search of a better life. It was the first wave of what is today known as the Italian Diaspora… But I digress. Let’s just say that life in post-unification Italy was hard, miserably hard, which is why so many decided to leave. It is against this backdrop of socio-economic collapse that some Italian writers chose to set their stories, and Collodi was one of them. Unlike the authors belonging to the literary current known as Verismo, however, Collodi used humor to make that harsh reality a bit more palatable, without hiding it completely. Pinocchio’s hunger is all too real and painful, but when he tries to fry an old egg (in water, for lack of butter and oil) a chick bursts out, thanks him politely, and flies out of the window; the hunger remains, but one cannot help but smile at such a comical outcome. 

In Pinocchio, The fantastic components are firmly anchored to harsh reality; it is not an escapist fantasy, because the readers (and the characters) are constantly reminded of their misery. Pinocchio himself is harshly punished when he tries to escape the societal constraints to join his friend Lucignolo in Toyland (Il paese dei balocchi): they are both turned into donkeys and forced to perform back-breaking tasks. Pinocchio is eventually able to get his freedom (and his quasi-human shape) back, but Lucignolo is literally worked to death, and later expires in Pinocchio’s arms. The brutality of child labor was another sad reality in Collodi’s world.  

Despite its heavily moralistic content, which was a common feature in children stories at the time, Pinocchio soared above the rest because of Collodi’s vivid imagination and sense of humor, conveyed in a narrative style that never feels derivative or pedantic. There are, of course, multiple references to other works and literary tropes, from the story of Jonah and the whale to the 18th-century “automaton” theme, but mostly Pinocchio is a coming-of-age novel, an allegory of the human condition in its development from pure instinct to knowledge and morals. For all its fantastic content, the story is also able to perfectly encapsulate the hardship of living in a tiny Italian village in the 19th century, with no money and no work, always at risk of starving, forced to come up with endless stratagems just to survive another day. 

Most American kids know Pinocchio’s adventures (and misadventures) from the animated version made by Walt Disney in 1940. The movie, however, is vastly different from the Italian original. One example is the portrayal of the “bad” puppeteer, Mangiafoco (which means “Fire Eater”), who is renamed “Stromboli” and charged with racist stereotypes. It is a shame, because the book character is much more nuanced and complex than its flattened representation on screen. Instead of being obsessed with money, Mangiafoco (despite his frightful appearance) turns out to be very generous and compassionate; in the end he frees Pinocchio and gives him five gold coins to bring to his father, Geppetto. Because of that money, Pinocchio is later conned by the Cat and the Fox (il gatto e la volpe), attacked and left for dead hanging from a tree. This, by the way, is how the author originally wanted his story to end! He published La storia di un burattino (The Story of a Puppet) in several episodes on the children section of a popular Italian newspaper, Il Fanfulla, apparently to pay for his gambling debts. His young readers wouldn’t accept such a grim ending, however, so he had to keep writing until “Pinocchio” had become a proper novel, published in 1883… And the rest is history. 

There were several attempts to turn Pinocchio into an opera, but none were truly successful. I remember fondly the soundtrack of the TV series “Le avventure di Pinocchio,” directed by Luigi Comencini and released (in six episodes) in 1972. The show was hugely successful, also thanks to a stellar cast that included Nino Manfredi and Gina Lollobrigida, and I strongly recommend it as a more authentic version of Collodi’s story compared to Disney’s watered-down treatment. Ciao!   

When I began studying music, I did it all by myself; while my parents loved listening to classical music, they never expected me to take music lessons, let alone pursue a career in music. All they did was buying a little “Bontempi” electric organ with a 2-octave keyboard for the right hand and a bunch of “chord” buttons to be played by the left hand (a bit like an accordion). It looked like this:  

I quickly picked up some easy tunes and I figured out how to decipher the basic “scores” that were included with the manual. I probably wouldn't have gone further if my dad hadn't gifted me a music tape with a recording of Bach's organ music played by Werner Jacob. The effect that music had on me is hard to overstate. Let's just say that I began drawing pipe organs on a notebook, pretending my pick-up sticks were pipes of a gigantic cathedral instrument (in multiple colors, no less!) played by one of my Playmobil figurines. I was hooked. 

I started practicing with renewed intensity, still by myself; I only learned the basics of music theory in middle school, and shortly later my parents decided that it was time for me to get some formal training. My father knew a church organist and he took me to him for a first assessment of my self-taught skills and to get some advice on where to go from there. For the first time I was put in front of a real pipe organ console (a 2-manual instrument built by Mascioni in the 1950s) and I had the chance to try some of the stops with the organist by my side. The tunes I knew seemed too pedestrian for that majestic instrument, so I started improvising. I let each stop inspire me, and I went along as my tutor added new ones to the mix. I can't say how well or how poorly I managed, but the organist was clearly pleased and emphatically stated that I had “the touch” (“il tocco”). 

I think what he meant to say was that I had already started to develop the unique playing techniques that separate organists from other keyboard players: shifting fingers on the same key to achieve better “legato” and instantly adapting to the acoustics of a large space, for example, using the naturally-occurring echo effect to your advantage. Other instrumentalists also have to worry about similar issues, especially when they play in a concert hall, but not as much as organists. What I really was doing, as I realized many years later, was simply imitating how other organists played Bach in the tapes I listened to over and over again; Bach was my real teacher. I still think that everything one needs to know about organ playing can be learned by listening and by studying Bach’s music. 

Bach’s influence was also reflected in the way I improvised. After learning one of his “little” preludes in C minor, for example, I realized that I could use the same harmonic progressions within different patterns to obtain different and ever-changing results; I learned how to build the typical “broken melody” effect that gave the illusion of polyphony when in fact there is only one voice playing; I listened to Bach’s elaborations on basic choral tunes, how he built ornate melodies that soared above the basic harmonic structure of Lutheran choral tunes. Bach was like a great “sponge” that had absorbed only the best features from an astonishing array of musical styles and traditions, and all that was now available to me (and to countless other performers and composers who were smart enough to study his craft).

No other composer has ever mastered an instrument like Bach did with the pipe organ. Beethoven and Chopin achieved similarly glorious results with the piano, but it is not quite the same thing. We must consider that the organ was the biggest and most complex piece of machinery ever built before the industrial revolution. Bach was fortunate to have such a prodigious instrument at his disposal, whereas Beethoven and Chopin were still dealing with instruments that were far less advanced in their engineering and components. Of course, the piano sported a dynamic keyboard and other nifty features like the “sustain” and the “soft” pedals; I do not mean to underestimate it. I am simply saying that, for Bach, the timing was impeccable, while both Beethoven and Chopin had to deal with notable shortcomings in the response of their respective instruments. Beethoven in particular was well known among builders for pushing the capabilities of his pianos to their limit and sometimes beyond - he was responsible for quite a few broken instruments. Chopin, too, struggled to find a piano that suited his way of playing; he finally found a match in Pleyel, but it is easy to notice the enormous difference that separates the best Pleyel piano from a modern concert grand, and we can only wonder what Chopin would have accomplished had he been gifted a Steinway, a Fazioli or a Bösendorfer from the future.   

It is an unfair comparison, I’ll admit. After all, the organ had been evolving for thousands of years since its first appearance as a glorified foghorn to entertain the circus-going crowds in the ancient world, while only a few decades separate Beethoven from the first piano prototypes built by Cristofori in Florence. Bach himself had the chance to try some of the first “pianoforti” and gladly acknowledged their potential; he even gave some technical advice to those early piano makers, but when it was time to play (and compose) he had many better-developed keyboard instruments right at his fingertips… No pun intended!

Some of those instruments did not pass the test of time, like the clavichord or the pedal harpsichord; it is a shame, but we must also understand that Bach never was too fixated with one particular instrument (well, maybe he did have a slight predilection for the organ): my dad used to say that Bach wrote “cosmic” music, i.e. music that transcends earthly means and shoots straight to the stars. After reading quite a bit about his life and works, I would say that Bach’s musical mind operated in a rather abstract framework, largely unencumbered by the idiomatic traits of any single instrument. For example: he was a choral director and had to deal with professional and semi-professional singers for most of his life, and yet he treats the voice just like any other instrument, with little concern for tiny details like the need to take a breath every now and then.

It is for similar reasons that I am not particularly taken by the historical performance movement. Granted, performers should know how music was performed in Bach’s time, and be aware of the main features (and flaws) of the various instruments that were available to him, but such knowledge should not turn into a limitation (the exclusion of the piano, for example), nor prevent experimentation. The Matthäus Passion conducted by Richter with a huge number of instrumentalists and choristers sounds AMAZING and it brings me to tears every time I hear that opening choir. Historically speaking, it is an absurdity, and the tempos Richter takes are surely too slow; but who cares? I think Bach would have loved it. 

Well, this post has ballooned way beyond my intentions and if you made it this far, I salute you. As a reward, here is a picture of the latest pipe organ I played just yesterday afternoon, at the Church of the Covenant in Cleveland’s University Circle. It is a cute “positive” organ built by Flentrop and it sports three ranks of pipes (8’, 4’, and 2’) that can be engaged by pulling levers positioned on the left side of the instrument (not visible in the photo). Tiny organs like this one are perfect for playing continuo or (like in this case) accompanying a singer: the fabulous Anna O’Connell. Interesting fact: the pipes you see in the front panels are purely decorative and do not produce sound: the real pipes are all inside! Ciao! 

I am often asked to share my opinion on contemporary piano music by “minimalist” or “new wave” Italian composer-performers like Ludovico Einaudi, Giovanni Allevi and (more recently) Luca D’Alberto. My short answer usually goes something like this: I find their music pleasing for about 1 minute, after which it gets boring. I understand why some people may find such an answer to be condescending or demeaning; they probably enjoy listening to those artists during their commute, their morning run, or as they go along any number of daily activities. They do not require any significant development or narrative flow in that listening context. The music provides a pleasant, easily predictable background to their routine activities. I listen to music in a very different way. If I want some ambient music, I usually turn on the radio and am perfectly content with the latest pop tracks, or a playlist of Italian singer-songwriters from the last 40 years. Classical music, however (and most of these artists call themselves classical composers), requires a different kind of engagement. It is supposed to transcend a specific time and age and aim for immortality. Big words, I know, but I stand by them. It is all about the quality of musical ideas + their development: ingenuity + labor. Repetition is not a new concept in music, and great composers have always been able to work with extremely simple ideas (remember Beethoven’s favorite fruit? “Ba-na-na-naaaa!”) Their greatness, however, did not come from simplicity and repetition alone. “Development” is a key concept in music, and it can make or break the “classical” aspirations of any creator. 

The rules behind the development of even the simplest tune are pretty straightforward; any counterpoint student could give plenty of examples and explain how themes are modified, broken down and recombined over time. It is harder to pinpoint the defining features of a masterwork, however, because a great composer is able to deploy the same old tricks with unexpected and sometimes shocking results. It is all about the turn of a phrase, the sequence in which certain elements are presented; the subtle shifting of tonal centers (modulations) and, maybe most importantly, the narrative arc of the piece. I still think that a great piece of music, like a great novel, needs an organic narrative flow in order to work properly. Even if it is a short piece, if it ends right where it started, without any significant encounters along the way, it just doesn’t make sense. If minimalism had a narrative arc, I could probably tolerate it. One does not even need a ton of content; Ravel’s Bolero evolves not by introducing new thematic material, but by changing texture and adding new instruments all throughout, building up to a grandiose and catastrophic ending (the process was nicely animated in Disney’s “Fantasia,” by the way). 

When the composer’s craft is lacking, the sound engineer comes in. That is another defining feature of modern “minimalist” music. There is a constant overuse of digital effects that serve the sole purpose of giving more depth and “ambience” to music that would otherwise sound pretty bland. By contrast, you can play Bach on literally any instrument (some people even try to play it with non-instruments, like glasses, marbles, and wooden slides); his genius will reach out to you no matter what. Bach was a great admirer of an Italian composer, Antonio Vivaldi: in many ways, Vivaldi’s music can be considered extremely simple (especially by Bach’s standards); in his collection of string concertos, “Il cimento dell’armonia e dell’invenzione” (The Contest Between Harmony and Invention), Vivaldi set forth a splendid example of how ingenuity (invenzione) and craft (armonia) could be combined in the most efficient way possible. Bach took the lesson to heart; his own music avoided the pedantic excesses that plagued many of his contemporaries by adopting the “Italian style” learned from Vivaldi, Marcello, Lotti and other Italians.

While there is no intrinsic evil in listening to minimalist piano music, I wish we would stop calling it “classical.” It is much closer to cinematic soundtracks, in a very general sense since it does not support any specific video content. Maybe it is an attempt to sooth our noisy, busy lives, in a “zen” sort of way. I also hope we can still preserve the attention span that is required to enjoy true classical music, contemporary or otherwise. You may start by listening to my solo piano music: try “Waves,” for example, available on all streaming platforms! :)

The feeling of “sweet sadness / longing,” called “saudade” in Portuguese, is a well-established concept in immigration studies, where it is usually linked to the colonial empires built by Spain and Portugal in the 16th century. When I first read about it I was still a student of Italian literature (with an emphasis on music, duh) at the “Sapienza” University of Rome; by the way, “Sapienza” means “Knowledge,” which always seemed a bit “on the nose” to me… I don’t know, like calling a bank “Money.” Anyway, at the time my head was filled with half-baked notions on the evils of colonization, and my peers were - for the most part - all too happy to rant against the USA, which they saw as the latest incarnation of that same Western power that for centuries had invaded, pillaged, subjugated and enslaved countless people all over the world. Outside class, of course, we listened to American music, watched American movies (poorly dubbed and with awful Italian titles, but that’s for another post), wore American clothes + shoes and ate fast food like there was no tomorrow. Like many other pseudo-intellectuals way older than us, we were blissfully unaware of our hypocrisy, or we just didn’t care.  

Once I moved to the States, things got more complicated. I saw a society full of contrasts, where one block (sometimes one street) could separate two different worlds: branded boutiques versus boarded storefronts, tiled walkways versus potholes, shiny Teslas versus rusty trucks with garbage bags taping the gaps left by broken windows. It shocked me that people called the “wrong” side of the road “ghetto”; what’s really shocking, in retrospective, is how certain loaded words can be used with such nonchalance, even by people who should know better. Wasn’t this the country that saved Europe from antisemitism? Why would you call a part of where you live “concentration camp”? Because that is what “ghetto” meant in Rome and Venice and all over Italy. I had never seen such a stark separation in Italian cities, although of course there are “bad” and “good” neighborhoods everywhere. At the same time, people were so nice to me; everyone seemed so interested in my experience, how I was doing in the US, and -above all- what I thought of “Italian” food (the quotation marks are mine) in Cleveland. I sensed a huge disconnect between what people saw - or didn’t see - and how they assessed their way of life.

I had also never seen people working so hard in my life. It is when I came to the States that I first learned the importance of keeping a daily planner. There were just so many appointments, so many things to do, so many “gigs” (another funny word for me to use, since I had only associated it with fast-paced dances - never with work). I remember thinking that, given the abundance of work opportunities, surely people were making a good living and there was no reason to be concerned. Yes, I was that naive, but isn’t that the “American dream” in a nutshell? Just look ahead, work hard, abide by the law, and things will turn out great. Of course, the very existence of this website is a testimony to the fact that - for me, at least - things did go well. I would not be honest, however, if I didn’t acknowledge the fact that I enjoyed the best of two worlds: I got my European education debt-free, and a few years after my arrival in the States I was already reaping the benefits of a flexible and prosperous job market. Schools were eager to enroll international students, and I was able to keep my tuition bills low by working as an accompanist while I was still studying. The “optional practical training” program was an amazing way of getting my feet wet in the “real” job market, and it gave my future employers a chance to know me from early on. Last but not least, as a student on one of Europe’s biggest campuses, I had been thoroughly trained in the art of finding things out by myself, with no help whatsoever from the administration. In my new surroundings, where help was everywhere, I felt pampered.    

It was a swift transition, and it wasn’t always that easy, but I was determined to make it work. I loved that there were so many international students in my school; bit by bit, in our broken English, we were able to share our experience as newcomers, whether good or bad, and we learned so much about our respective countries. My best friends at the time was a Ukrainian girl, Oksana, who - like me - was older than our peers in the collaborative piano studio, although she had “only” moved from Canada, which meant that her English was way better than mine. Oksana was the one who comforted me whenever I felt out of place, homesick or actually sick - I still think her borscht worked better than Advil - and we were able to laugh at things that no American would have found amusing, including our doomed-from-the-start romantic affairs and how quickly they unraveled. Oksana left us too soon and she deserves her own post, so I will leave it at that for now. There were other friends and groups of friends from all over the world: France, Germany, Japan, China, Taiwan, Iran, Easter Island... We were so different from each other, but what united us was stronger: it wasn’t “the dream” of making it in the US as much as the sense of longing - let’s call it Saudade - we all shared in different ways. We all had left behind a place we loved, the place where we grew up and where our friends and families still were, but the sadness was subtle and tempered by the sharing of our collective memories and new adventures. Different cultures and religions overlapped and sometimes combined in almost magical ways as we spoke, and drank, and laughed together. We would have never acknowledged it in such a meaningful way, of course, but it was a sort of unspoken pact, a bond that may last a few hours or the entire night, only to dissolve at the end of our gathering, when we would break that uneasy alliance to resume the pursuit of… Whatever it is that we were after.

One of my favorite composers, Gabriel Fauré, compared himself to a shipbuilder, whose loving and painstaking crafts eventually have to be set free, as they’re bound to a wandering existence. He wrote a beautiful song, “Les berceaux” (Op. 23 No. 1) in which that analogy extends to the cradles gently rocked by mothers, like the ships will be rocked by the waves. I always thought that this imagery perfectly captures the essence of Saudade; it conveys feelings of loss, abandonment and potential catastrophe, but also a sense of adventure and excitement for what is to come…

The Cradles (Les berceaux)

“Along the quay the great ships,
Listing silently with the surge,
Pay no heed to the cradles
Rocked by women’s hands.

But the day of parting will come,
For it is decreed that women shall weep,
And that men with questing spirits
Shall seek enticing horizons.

And on that day the great ships,
Leaving the dwindling harbour behind,
Shall feel their hulls held back
By the sould of the distant cradles.”

French lyrics by Sully Proudhomme 
English translation by Richard Stokes, from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000)   
 

Ciao! 

In these posts I wish to share some insights on music-related matters and life in general. Honestly, I don’t know what this blog will become, how often I will post, or if anyone will ever read what I post. I guess I am at that point in my life where I think I’ve got something to share; one might call it call it a mid-life crisis, but at least a blog is cheaper than a convertible and -probably- less harmful to the environment. To you it might prove useful or amusing or just plain boring, but here it goes.

If you took the time to read my biographical note, you already know that I was born in Rome, Italy, and that I moved to the States in 2004 to study at the Cleveland Institute of Music. I did not think I would, but I ended up staying here. Many factors contributed to this decision, first among them the abundance of work opportunities. If you are Italian, can read English, and wish to move to the USA to pursue a career in music, maybe you’ll find some useful information here. I am sure many things have changed since I’ve moved here 20 years ago; immigration policies can change rather quickly depending on who’s in charge, for example, and you should not assume that what worked for me will work for you. Some other things have not changed, however, like the fact that you cannot pack bed sheets that were sold in Italy and expect them to fit US beds: they just won’t, and I learned this the hard way.

If you already live here and don’t need traveling tips, you may still enjoy some of my reflections on music and/or living in the States as a naturalized citizen. I know that some of my most interesting conversations happen when I am talking to people who moved here from other countries, for whatever reason. I am not saying that US-born people are bad conversationists; they often ask interesting questions and seem genuinely curious about my experience in Italy and here in the States. I just think that people who move away from their native country to start over somewhere else gain a new perspective on life, an “exile mindset,” to paraphrase Edward Said, which tends to increase empathy and makes them more grounded, if slightly melancholic; they lost a home, but gained a precious understanding that “home” can be anywhere… 

On October 16 and 17, 2024, at John Carroll University, where I have been teaching Italian language classes for around 6 years, 155 people, most of them students, were treated to a free performance of art songs and operatic excerpts written in four different languages: Italian, German, French, and Spanish. Four of my talented colleagues sang, I played piano. Many of those who showed up, I am sure, were there for the extra credit; and yet, their curiosity and attentiveness were palpable as the program unfolded.

The piano I played was beaten up (why Steinway can’t make nice upright pianos is still a mystery to me), and the floor carpeting ate much of the sound, and still the concerts were successful, because the music was powerful enough to overcome all resistance; its century-old message reached the audience.

As many other native speakers turned language teachers, I tend to spend too much time and effort trying to teach rules that are in many cases arbitrary and inconsistent, and not enough time sharing what my native culture has to offer, apart from verb conjugations. Sure, I try to make learning interactive and “fun,” I use “authentic” materials whenever possible, I gamify the tedious process of absorbing and retaining those conjugations, etc. BUT…

For my students language learning is a requirement, and most of them will quickly forget what they learned, unless what they learn MEANS something to them (besides passing their finals). The lucky ones will have a trip planned for the following spring, or summer, and with that comes a sense of purpose; still, the “meaning” I am talking about goes beyond the annual vacation or study abroad experience, which most students will never be able to afford anyway. It begins with exposure to cultural artifacts that were made for the express purpose of breaking barriers to reach those feelings / values / perspectives we humans all seem to share.

Music is not a universal language, but it is a universal behavior that can be observed among all cultures in every corner of the world. I like to think that it appeared before any kind of structured language, as a tool of expression imbued with deep symbolical  meaning. The first musical instruments were made out of hollowed-out trunks and reeds, horns, bones, dried skins, seashells, and other vessels that previously belonged to other living creatures; producing sound by hitting, shaking or brushing those remains was the closest thing to reanimating the creatures themselves. The action of playing, for those first performers, was a liminal experience that placed them at the threshold between life and death.

When language first appeared, it must have been an imitation of sounds: maybe the waves, maybe the thunder or the wind rustling among the trees. Those imitations signaled a massive cognitive shift into a new symbolic order, which in turn enabled other means of reproduction: drawing, painting, and eventually writing. The desire to capture what until then had seemed indescribable must have entailed endless negotiations: how to best represent something in a way that everybody can refer back to it? A sign must be utterly efficient in reducing the properties of its referent to the essential, without wandering too far into the abstract realm for fear of losing all meaning.

While aesthetic trends rise and fall over the years, the very existence of a canon tells us that some artworks do achieve permanent status. The reason for that is somewhat of a mystery, but I’d like to suggest that it has something to do with MEANING, in the sense that I tried to articulate in the preceding paragraphs. A canonic (i.e. “classic”) work of art is a successful negotiation between immanent tools and universal properties. It is not so much that great art ‘has’ meaning, but rather that great art ‘is’ meaning: it is the perfect sign in an idiom that transcends time and space.

The songs we performed shared that remarkable quality; in different ways, they achieved transcendence, and that is why they were able to reach a contemporary audience mostly made of kids who would have never otherwise been exposed to them.

As a teacher/performer, I often wonder why we cannot have more of these events, and I strive to make them happen. Given how much the interdisciplinary approach has been glorified and emphasized in academic conferences over the last 20 years, it would seem only natural to include art songs and opera in our curriculum. It would also be a way to rejuvenate academic departments by creating connections with performing arts professionals who can offer fresh insights on their craft.