Year: 2026

  • Can music still unite a world that is not heard?

    Towards the International Music Day of 1 October: from Yehudi Menuhin to Beethoven, from jazz to community choirs, a journey into the deepest meaning of listening. Because playing together doesn’t mean being equal, but learning to give space to the voice of others.

    by Marialuisa Veneziano


    29 September 2026

    In 1974 Yehudi Menuhin had a curious idea.

    To celebrate the music, he proposed to ask the cities a few minutes of silence.

    Not to interrupt urban life. Not to impose a solemn recollection. But to allow the music to resonate in the parks and squares, where it normally passes unnoticed, overwhelmed by traffic, conversations, rush.

    A violin instead of a clacson, we could say. With the advantage that the violin, at least as a rule, does not claim to have precedence.

    The proposal appeared in the letter with which the violinist, then president of the International Music Council, announced the first International Music Day, set for 1 October 1975. The anniversary was born of a resolution adopted in Lausanne in 1973 and pursued precise objectives: to spread musical art in all layers of society, to foster exchange between cultures and to contribute to the ideals of peace and friendship among peoples.

    Fifty-one years later, while we are preparing to celebrate that day again, the Menuhin proposal seems even more unusual.

    We have music everywhere today.

    In supermarkets. At airports. Cars. In the headphones of those who run, work, kitchen or try to ignore the neighbor on the train.

    We can listen to a symphony registered in Berlin while we walk on a provincial road. A Georgian song while waiting for the bus. A Beethoven quartet as we respond to a message that, in all probability, did not require immediate response.

    Music has never had so much chance to reach us.

    Yet a question remains open: did we become as capable of listening to each other?

    Because having access to millions of songs doesn't necessarily mean meeting millions of worlds.

    Sometimes it just means bringing our little world everywhere, protected by two earphones.

    And perhaps the International Music Day, before even inviting us to listen to something, should ask us to make a more difficult gesture.

    Remove the headphones from our certainties for a few moments.

    A violinist who wanted to listen to the world

    Menuhin could have been limited to celebrating its own tradition.

    He was one of the great violinists of the twentieth century, heir to an interpretative culture in which the solo concert represented one of the highest expressions of Western art. He had crossed the repertoire of Bach, Beethoven, Brahms and Bartók. His career would have allowed him to talk about music from the reassuring position of those who occupy the center of the stage.

    He chose instead to broaden his horizon.

    In 1966 he recorded with Ravi Shankar, a master of the Indian sitar, the project that would become West Meets East, published in 1967. It was not only a meeting between two instruments: Menuhin confronted Shankar’s music, entering a system in which the melodic organization, intonation, rhythm and improvisation obey principles different from those of European tradition.

    And this is the most interesting point.

    To really meet another culture, Menuhin could not simply continue to play as he had always done.

    He had to listen before he answered.

    He had to recognize that his knowledge, immense in his area, did not coincide with all possible musical knowledge.

    The rāga is not an exotic scale on which to freely improvise some phrase. It is a melodic universe with characteristic behaviors, hierarchies among sounds, recognizable movements and expressive associations. In the same way, the tāla is not a generic pulsation to accompany by beating the foot: it is a cyclic organization of time, articulated by accents, subdivisions and shared reference points.

    Entering that world requires study.

    And above all it requires a particular form of humility.

    Musical dialogue begins when we stop considering our grammar the only possible.

    It is a much more demanding lesson of the usual affirmation that music would be a universal language.

    That phrase is beautiful.

    But he's gonna make us forget something.

    Music does not necessarily speak to everyone in the same way. A sound can have different cultural meanings; a rhythm that for someone belongs to a party, for another can have a ritual value. What a listener perceives as distension can be unresolved for another.

    We do not automatically understand why we listen to the same sounds.

    Music can allow us to meet because we are not obliged to understand it all the same way.

    Menuhin seemed to have understood this possibility: the meeting does not require the cancellation of differences, but the availability to attend them.

    A counterpoint lesson for our time

    There is a musical idea that could offer us a small theory of coexistence.

    The counterpoint.

    Let's imagine two voices.

    The first proposes a melodic line. The second one enters, not to repeat it servely, but to develop its own path. The two lines can proceed together, move in opposite directions, approach, move away, produce tensions.

    None of them, however, should lose their identity.

    This is the beauty of counterpoint: unity is not born from the renunciation of difference, but from the organization of relationships between autonomous elements.

    Let's think of Bach's escape.

    A subject appears in one voice, then it is resumed by another. Meanwhile the first does not disappear: he continues his speech, woven with the one just entered.

    The listener must perform an extraordinary exercise.

    Follow a voice without forgetting the others.

    Recognize a theme while changing registry.

    Perceiving the overall form without sacrificing the life of individual paths.

    Of course an escape is not a political model, nor Bach was writing a civic education manual.

    But his music makes something sensitive that we in our daily lives do not necessarily interrupt our voice. It can give you a new meaning.

    And you don't have to get to Bach to experiment with it.

    Just think of a string quartet.

    Four people sit close and try to build a common form. Each has its own instrument, its stamp, its own gesture. The first violin cannot play instead of the cello; the viola cannot decide independently the breath of the entire ensemble.

    You must listen to the duration of a note, recognize the moment when another part takes relief, change its volume, wait for a sentence to be concluded.

    Sometimes you have to advance.

    Sometimes it's back.

    Sometimes having the courage to support a dissonance without rushing towards a premature consonance.

    And here music suggests an uncomfortable truth.

    Harmony is not to have conflicts. It consists in knowing what to do with it.

    Jazz and art of not knowing everything

    Jazz brings this reflection even further.

    In a formation that improvises collectively, music also arises from what no one has decided entirely in advance.

    The pianist proposes an agreement with a particular arrangement of notes. The smuggler can change the bass trend. The drummer moves an accent, opens a space, suggests a new articulation of time.

    The soloist listens.

    Come in.

    Give it back.

    He can even change the direction of his sentence because something, in the execution of another, showed him an unexpected possibility.

    This is one of the reasons why a great jazz improvisation does not coincide with a succession of individual solos.

    His quality comes from the relationship.

    In swing, then, time is not only the one indicated by the metronome. It is a shared experience, built through the position of accents, phrasing, interaction between pulsation and rhythmic microvariations.

    Two musicians can know perfectly the harmonious structure of a song and, however, fail to make it live together.

    Because knowing what to play is not like knowing how to be musically with someone.

    We think of a passage from John Coltrane, a response from the Miles Davis trumpet or the way a rhythm section can change the perception of a phrase.

    There is no authentic dialogue if everyone waits only their turn to demonstrate what they can do.

    And perhaps this is one of the great diseases of our time: we learned to take the word with extraordinary speed, but not always to let the word of others change what we were about to say.

    Jazz reminds us that an answer can be technically prepared, but must remain open to the unexpected.

    In the end, improvising together means accepting something very simple:

    the result does not belong entirely to anyone.

    Beethoven, joy and brotherhood still to be built

    No speech on music as a chance of encounter can avoid Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

    His final, built around the hymn to the joy of Schiller, became one of the most recognizable symbols of aspiration to human brotherhood.

    But it's worth listening to how Beethoven gets to that melody.

    The fourth movement does not begin with the triumphant chorus.

    Start with a violent orchestral raid.

    Then the cellos and smugglers introduce some kind of instrumental recitative. They appeal to the previous movements, as if the symphony was examining its history, looking for something that has not yet found.

    Only after this research emerges the theme of joy.

    At first it is very simple.

    A mainly joint melody, exposed by serious instruments, far from the rhetoric of triumph.

    Then it passes to other sections, it enriches, grows, until it becomes a collective song.

    The fraternity, in the musical construction of Beethoven, does not appear as a fact already acquired.

    It is the result of a process.

    Joy must be sought, recognized, shared.

    And this, perhaps, is the particular that we should remember more often.

    A crowd singing together is not necessarily a right community. History has shown us how easily collective music can also be used to exclude, intimidate and celebrate power.

    Music does not possess, by nature, a guaranteed morality.

    It can accompany a gesture of solidarity and, in other circumstances, be bent to propaganda.

    It can help recognize another human being, but also strengthen an identity built against someone.

    It is not enough, therefore, to sing the brotherhood.

    You have to give her a form in life.

    And that's where the Ninth continues to question us.

    It does not give us proof that human beings are already brothers.

    It puts us in front of the possibility — and responsibility — to try to become it.

    The music is of all. But can everyone really be part of it?

    There is a question that cultural celebrations are likely to evade.

    Who can afford to study music?

    Not just listening.

    To do it.

    A child who wants to learn the violin needs a tool, a teacher, time, of someone who encourages it when the first notes look more like the chigolio of a door than a sonata.

    A boy who wants to sing needs to find a place where his voice is not judged before being educated.

    An adult who wishes to return to play after many years needs to feel authorized to start over.

    Accessibility is not only an economic question.

    It is also psychological, geographical, educational.

    It is not enough to put a piano in a room and announce that everyone can use it. Someone must have taught people not to be afraid of it.

    The International Music Council translated this attention into five musical rights, proclaimed in 2001: the freedom to express itself musically, the possibility to learn the languages of music, access to participation and listening; for artists, the possibility to develop and communicate their art and obtain recognition and fair remuneration.

    It is important that the two dimensions be together.

    Music must be able to reach everyone.

    But those who produce it must be able to live their work.

    The gratuitousness of a public concert, for example, can be a precious cultural choice. It should not become the pretext to consider the work of interpreters free of charge.

    Similarly, bringing music to schools does not simply mean organizing a show at the end of the year.

    It means recognizing that musical education offers children a rare experience: learning to express themselves while exercising to recognize the presence of others.

    Let's think of a school choir.

    It doesn't matter that everyone has the same vocal extension. It doesn't matter that everyone learns at the same speed.

    The work begins when each guy finds a part to which to contribute.

    When you understand that your entrance also depends on the breath of those who are next to him.

    When he discovers that singing stronger than others does not necessarily mean singing better.

    And maybe, for once, the usually quieter companion becomes the reference point of the entire group.

    They're small experiences.

    But a community is also built like this.

    Not through great statements on the importance of cohabitation, but through gestures in which that cohabitation is concretely exercised.

    What if the music doesn't make us better?

    However, one must be wary of temptation: attributing to music an almost miraculous virtue.

    Music does not automatically make good.

    A great interpreter can be a bad listener in everyday life. An audience can move in front of a work and return, five minutes later, to behave exactly as before.

    Esthetic emotion is not a moral certification.

    And there is no symphony capable of replacing individual responsibility.

    This does not decrease the value of music.

    On the contrary, it makes it more interesting.

    Because music doesn't make us better.

    It offers us an experience in which some human qualities can be exercised.

    Careful.

    Patience.

    Memory.

    Ability to wait.

    Availability to change your position.

    Awareness that the meaning of one voice can change when another enters.

    It's not very small.

    In a world that tends to turn every conversation into a competition for the last word, listen to an escape or participate in an ensemble can remind us that not all meetings must end with a winner.

    There are reports in which the most important result is not to be right.

    It is able to build something that, on its own, would not have existed.

    Yet it would be naive to think that a concert is enough to produce peace.

    Menuhin did not need this naivety.

    His project asked instead to create concrete occasions of encounter: concerts, conferences, exchanges between artists, activities in schools, universities, factories, churches, public spaces. The music had to go out of the places where he was already loved to reach those in which he had not yet heard.

    Not a magic formula.

    Cultural work.

    Constant.

    Sometimes slow.

    And that's why it's necessary.

    Coda. A city that listens for a few minutes

    Let’s return to that idea of 1974.

    A city that interrupts its noise for a few minutes.

    Not just to shut up.

    To listen.

    Let's try to imagine it today.

    In a square someone starts playing.

    It does not matter, for the moment, whether it is Bach, a traditional melody, a jazz track or a contemporary song.

    Someone stops.

    Someone else keeps walking.

    A child asks what instrument it is.

    An elderly person recognizes a melody.

    A passer-by discovers a sound he never sought.

    No one is obliged to feel the same emotion.

    No one must pretend to understand what he doesn't know.

    But for a few minutes different people share an experience to which each can attribute its own meaning.

    It is a hypothetical image, of course.

    But perhaps it contains the deepest sense of the Menuhin proposal.

    Music does not unite us because it erases what distinguishes us.

    It offers us the possibility to stay close without claiming to become identical.

    Like the voices of an escape.

    Like the tools of a quartet.

    Like musicians who improvise and must continually decide whether to advance, respond or leave room.

    And perhaps, at a time when each has a means to be heard, we should worry a little more about finding opportunities to listen.

    On 1 October we will celebrate the International Music Day.

    We will publish photos, share songs, remember composers and interpreters. Someone will organize concerts, others will dedicate a thought to the song that accompanied an important moment of his life.

    All beautiful.

    But we could do something less striking.

    Listen to a music we wouldn't have chosen.

    Ask someone what song you represent, and listen to it without interrupting it after thirty seconds.

    Going to a concert of a kind we believe doesn't belong to us.

    Or let a child make us feel what he is learning, even when the melody is still uncertain and the hand tires the right key.

    Because the value of music is not only measured in the works performed.

    There is also the moment when someone finds the courage to begin.

    And another human being decides to listen to him.

    Maybe music won't save the world.

    It will not stop violence alone, it will not eliminate injustice, it will not prevent us from hurting each other.

    But you can remember something that the noise of our days tends to make us forget.

    That we are not the only voices of the score.

    That the silence of the other is not always a void to fill.

    That a dissonance does not necessarily require the destruction of one of the two notes.

    And that there are forms of beauty to which we can only come together.

    Perhaps this is today the deepest meaning of an International Music Day.

    Do not celebrate a language that everyone already understands.

    But to defend the possibility of continuing to learn from each other.

    Menuhin imagined a city that, for a few minutes, stopped making noise.

    Fifty-one years later, we could collect that proposal and give it an even wider meaning.

    Maybe we don't need a world where everyone sings the same melody.

    We need a world where no one should stop singing to allow others to exist.

    And in which, before we raise our voice once again, we finally get the time to listen to someone else's.

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  • Bach's secret is in what he doesn't say

    Listening today: Johann Sebastian Bach – Erbarm dich mein, or Herre Gott, BWV 721

    by Marialuisa Veneziano


    Before you start music

    There are words that we pronounce easily.

    Thank you. Goodbye. See you tomorrow.

    Others, on the other hand, seem to have to cross a whole life before reaching lips.

    Forgive me.

    We don't always have the courage to say that. We don't always know who to turn. And sometimes, when we finally find the words, the person we would have wanted to deliver them is no longer before us.

    This Sunday, one of our readers leads us right there: in the fragile place where a human being stops defending himself and finds the courage to ask for mercy.

    He does it through Johann Sebastian Bach and the organ choral Erbarm dich mein, or Herre Gott, BWV 721.

    The title means: «Have mercy on me, O Lord God».

    A request.

    Not a triumphant declaration of faith. Not a demonstration of strength. Not an attempt to convince someone of their innocence.

    Only a voice that asks to be heard.

    The song probably belongs to the young years of Bach, around 1704. It is an organ page with unusual writing: a slow melody, placed in the upper voice, supported by a plot of chords.

    Very few elements.

    Yet, listening to them, we will have the impression that something continues to breathe even when it does not find the words.

    Perhaps because mercy, even before being a theological concept, responds to a profoundly human need: to be looked at without being reduced to our error.


    🎧 Open listening. Then he keeps reading

    This page is designed to be read with music next door.

    (click on the black arrow to make the listening appear)

    Start listening.

    Don't look for the melody now.

    Listen to what happens around her.

    Because in this page pain is not only entrusted to the voice that sings.

    It is hidden even in what keeps cleaning under her.


    Inside the score

    An ancient melody and a heart that continues to beat

    To understand this coral you have to go back, even before Bach.

    In 1524 Erhart Hegenwalt published Erbarm dich mein, or Herre Gott, a paraphrase of Psalm 51, the Miserere. The melody, also documented in 1524, is often linked to Johann Walter, but its attribution is not certain.

    We are in the world of Lutheran coral: a tradition in which community singing becomes a fundamental part of religious experience.

    The text comes from repentance. But be careful: he does not simply tell the guilt.

    He asks that the last word does not belong to the fault.

    And that's where the music gets interesting.

    Bach takes the melody of the coral and places it in the upper part, entrusting them with long, mainly minimal values.

    Below, however, has agreements of four and five voices, repeated in chromes.

    Sounds like a basic solution.

    A slow voice. Regular accompaniment.

    Yet this difference produces expression.

    The melody proceeds with gravity, almost looking for the courage to complete each sentence.

    The agreements, however, continue.

    They come back.

    They insist.

    I'm not a second melody competing with the first. They are a harmonic pulsation, a movement that sustains and together restless.

    Of course, Bach did not write next to the agreements «heartbeat».

    This is a possible expressive reading, not an indication of the score.

    But their movement really possesses something of the breath: a physical continuity that seems to prevent the sentence from abandoning itself completely.

    And here we meet a beautiful thought.

    When someone suffers, we often imagine that what he needs is an answer.

    An explanation.

    A solution.

    Bach seems to suggest musically another possibility.

    Sometimes what sustains a voice is not another voice that answers it. It's something that keeps beside her.


    The trembling of mercy

    There is something deeply human in the way Bach builds this coral.

    The melody proceeds slowly, almost looking for the courage to pronounce every word.

    Under her, the debated agreements continue to clean.

    It's a movement that doesn't allow a truce. It does not necessarily represent a heart that beats: Bach did not leave such an indication. But it is difficult to listen to this page without feeling a form of restlessness, a tremor that crosses music from within.

    It's not the tremor of those who are about to fall. That's who finally found the courage to ask for help.

    In the interpretation of Ton Koopman, the choral voices through the historical organ built by Hans Heinrich Bader between 1639 and 1643, in the St. Walburgiskerk of Zutphen, in the Netherlands.

    Listen to how the arrangement movement accompanies the melody without immediately melting the tension.

    The upper voice seems to look for an answer.

    The accompaniment continues to support it.

    And in this so essential relationship one of the most moving insights of the page is manifested.

    The organ, an instrument capable of filling a cathedral, does not need to unfold all its power.

    She can be intimate.

    It can leave room for fragility.

    It can become the place where a supplication finally finds the possibility of being pronounced.

    And maybe this is Bach's secret.

    He does not make us listen to a man who has already received mercy. It makes us listen to a man who still finds the courage to ask.


    🎧 Listen to this.

    Try now to listen to the song by following three details.

    1. The distance between melody and accompaniment. The upper voice proceeds slowly; the underlying chords repeat with a much thicker regularity. Try to listen simultaneously to the two different ways of living time.

    2. Harmonic tensions. Not all successions produce the same feeling of rest. Some passages introduce a more pronounced restlessness, even through chromatic inflexions. Pay attention to how harmony changes the emotional meaning of melody.

    3. The conclusion. The song is in fa diesis minor, but ends on a fa diesis agreement greater. The final passage therefore introduces a color change: not a light explosion, rather a discrete extension.

    You do not need to know tonal harmony to feel it.

    Just listen to the last sentence and ask yourself:

    Is it really identical, emotionally, to what we heard at first?

    The answer should not be immediate.

    Let your ear find it.


    The note remains

    Perhaps mercy begins when someone allows us to be fragile without asking us to stop immediately.

    In everyday language we often use the word for forgiveness as if it designates an instant gesture.

    A pronounced phrase.

    A tense hand.

    A closed matter.

    But human experience is generally less ordered.

    There are mistakes we keep remembering even when others have forgotten them.

    There are wounds that do not disappear because someone has pronounced the right words.

    And there are absences before which the desire to be forgiven mixes with that, equally impossible, of being able to go back.

    The coral gives us a different image.

    The melody is not taken away from its gravity.

    Accompaniment does not stop cleaning to give her immediate relief.

    Harmony passes through its tensions before finding a point of arrival.

    It is a musical form that allows to think mercy not as a cancellation of the past, but as a possibility not to remain eternally prisoners.

    And maybe we should remember in human relationships.

    How often do we ask others to be strong, instead of asking ourselves if they do not simply need to be welcomed?

    How easily do we make a mistake in the identity of who has committed it?

    How difficult can we give ourselves the understanding that, sometimes, we can offer others?

    There are no questions a coral can answer.

    Music is not a court.

    Fortunately, it is not even an office where you have to fill out the correct form to get a little compassion.

    It is a space in which these questions can finally be heard.

    And in Bach, sometimes listening itself takes the form of tenderness.


    🔎 One thing to know

    A coral so simple that it seems impossible?

    The BWV 721 occupies a particular position in the organ repertoire attributed to Bach.

    His writing is so different from the great counterpoints of the composer who, in the early 20th century, Albert Schweitzer also expressed doubts about his authenticity.

    Today the song is generally attributed to Bach, while remaining a stylistically singular page. We do not own the autograph: its transmission depends on a handwritten copy of the first eighteenth century linked to Johann Gottfried Walther.

    The story is also interesting from the musicological point of view.

    For a long time we were accustomed to recognizing genius especially through complexity.

    But here complexity is not manifested in the proliferation of lines.

    It focuses on the relationship between a few elements.

    A melody.

    Repeated agreements.

    A harmonious path.

    And a question that never loses its character of supplication.

    Perhaps simplicity is not what remains when you have nothing to say. It is what remains when we have finally found the essential.


    Take him with you

    When the last agreement has vanished, do not immediately start the day.

    Let the room slowly return to its noises.

    Maybe you'll hear the traffic.

    Someone who speaks in another room.

    The phone that demands attention with the usual conviction of being the center of the universe.

    The world will continue.

    Like he always did.

    But for a few minutes we will have heard something that our time seems to have forgotten.

    The possibility of not having to be continuously impeccable.

    Not knowing all the answers.

    That we can't always explain what we feel.

    To be able to ask for help without turning that request into a defeat.

    A man from the 16th century wrote words of mercy.

    A young musician, many years later, gave her to an organ.

    A contemporary interpreter resounded them.

    And today one of our readers has given them to this column.

    Music has crossed the centuries without losing its question.

    Perhaps because, beyond the differences of language, faith and culture, we all know at least one moment in which we would have wanted someone to tell us:

    You can stop defending yourself. I'm listening.

    This Sunday Bach does not give us a certainty.

    It gives us a voice.

    And something that continues to support her.

    Because tenderness is not always a pronounced word.

    Sometimes it is simply the presence of who, while we seek the courage to speak, remains.

    And he's not leaving.


    🎧 One last listening

    Now let the coral go.

    This time do not try to distinguish voices, tensions or resolutions.

    Just listen to what happens inside you.

    Because a listening guide can accompany you to the threshold of music.

    But the last step always belongs to those who listen.



    An answer to "Bach's secret is in what he doesn't say"

    1. Avatar
      Anonymous

      impeccable comment both from the point of view of the music content and from the text. Deep and relevant analysis.

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  • The duel without guns

    Liszt, Thalberg and the night Paris fought with eighty keys.

    by Marialuisa Veneziano

    ************

    🎧 MUSIC FOR LETTURE – (Box 1)
    Sigismond Thalberg – Fantaisie sur des thèmes de Moïse, op. 33
    This time we don't listen to a simple soundtrack. We go directly into the duel.
    Start with Thalberg: search for that melody that seems to sing in the center of the keyboard while the other fingers build them on and under a whole sound world. It is the famous effect of "three hands".

    Click on the black arrow to make the listening appear

    Matthew received the weapon at 9 a.m.

    It was 15 centimetres long, it had the freshly tempered tip and it was red.

    — Don't miss it. — said Mr. Valmont.

    Matteo turned her in the fingers.

    — It's a pencil.

    — I see.

    — You said you'd have given me something important.

    The printer manager lifted his eyes.

    — With that, tonight, you're gonna kill a man.

    Matthew almost dropped the pencil.

    Valmont burst out laughing.

    — A name, you idiot. You'll kill a name.

    On the bench, between lead characters, dirty ink rags and still wet leaves, were spread two first pages.

    The first announced:

    The second one:

    Matteo read the first.

    Then the second.

    Then he returned to the first.

    — But the concert is tonight.

    — Good memory.

    — They haven't played yet.

    — Another impeccable observation.

    — And you already wrote who won?

    — I wrote both possibilities.

    Matteo scratched his forehead.

    — What if nobody wins?

    Valmont stopped smiling.

    He looked at it with that particular compassion that adults reserve to children when they say something reasonable.

    — You're 14, aren't you?

    — Yes.

    — He's heard.

    He pointed out the two pages.

    — Tonight you will go to the palace of Princess Belgiumjoso. You will listen to Liszt and Thalberg. When they're done, you'll take this pencil and make a cross on the loser's name.

    — And then?

    — Run here.

    — How strong?

    — If you want to keep the job, enough to get there before two.

    Matthew infiltrated the pencil in his pocket.

    — So I'll decide who won.

    Valmont laugh.

    — No, my boy. Paris has already decided.

    — So what do I serve?

    — To discover what to do He was right.

    That phrase remained in Matthew's head all day long.

    Not because he was particularly smart.

    Because, walking through the city, he realized that it was true.

    Paris had split.

    Not with barricades.

    Not yet.

    With something much more comfortable: opinions.

    Coffee was fighting.

    In the living rooms he fought with lower voice.

    He was fighting in the fights, interrupting the job.

    In the newspapers he fought with the ink, which had the advantage of making the nonsense permanent.

    — Liszt is a genius.

    — Liszt is an acrobat.

    — Thalberg sings the piano.

    — Thalberg always does the same trick.

    — Liszt is the future.

    — Thalberg tastes.

    — Liszt has fire.

    — Thalberg doesn't need it.

    Near Pont-Neuf, Matthew handed some drafts to a man who was arguing.

    — Thalberg is not worth half of Liszt!

    Matteo stopped.

    — Did you hear that?

    Man looked at him.

    — Who?

    — Thalberg.

    — No.

    — So how do you know Liszt is better?

    Man slowly took off his glasses.

    — Who are you for?

    — I don't know.

    Man trusted him with suspicion.

    — Then why are you talking?

    Matthew continued.

    Ten minutes later he heard two ladies.

    — Liszt will certainly be unbearable.

    — Have you ever listened to him?

    — Never.

    — So?

    The lady opened the fan.

    — My dear, certain things are understood.

    Matthew continued to walk.

    Around noon began to have the impression that the evening concert served everything except to listen to music. The palace of Princess Cristina Trivulzio of Belgiumjoso was already in ferment.

    The concert would have been beneficial. A part of the proceeds would be served to Italians in difficulty and exiles.

    When Matthew heard it, he straightened out.

    — I'm Italian and I'm in trouble.

    The butler who was giving him a pile of programs rode him.

    — I'll keep you in mind if they're advancing cans.

    Matthew decided that, for a Frenchman, he was a witty man.

    He spent the afternoon carrying chairs, bending sheets and trying not to break anything worth more than his mother, that is almost everything.

    That's when he heard the first piano.

    The door of a living room was open.

    Matthew peed.

    An elegant man sat on the keyboard.

    He didn't move much.

    He didn't need it.

    From the piano came out a clear melody, perfectly recognizable, as if someone was singing in the center of the instrument.

    But above that voice, they ran arabesques.

    And the bottom was moving.

    Matthew looked at his hands.

    Two.

    He listened.

    Three.

    He looked again.

    Two.

    He took a few steps.

    He leaned next to the piano.

    Music stopped.

    — Is there something interesting below?

    Matthew lifted his head.

    Man observed it.

    — I was looking for the third hand.

    Quiet.

    — What third hand?

    — The one playing the melody.

    Man was serious.

    Then laugh.

    — And you found it?

    — No.

    — Too bad. They've been looking for her for years.

    Matthew rose up.

    — You are Thalberg.

    — Depends.

    — From what?

    — If you come collect money, no.

    Matteo smiled.

    Sigismond Thalberg warned him to approach.

    — Look.

    He slowly recovered the passage.

    The melody was passing through the thumbs in the middle register. The other fingers built around a soundscape that gave the illusion of multiple overlapping planes.

    Matthew opened his eyes.

    — It's a trick.

    Thalberg looked at him.

    — You work in a typography?

    — Yes.

    — When you print the word seaIs the sheet wet?

    — No.

    — Then you do tricks, too.

    — It's not the same.

    — Of course. My cost a lot more.

    Matteo laugh.

    Then he remembered the pencil in his pocket.

    — Will you win tonight?

    Thalberg stopped playing.

    — Against who?

    — Liszt.

    — Ah.

    The name remained among them.

    — Everyone says it's gonna be a duel.

    — Human beings love the duels in which they are not likely to be affected.

    — But you want to win?

    Thalberg looked at him.

    Matthew expected a magnificent phrase on the superiority of art.

    Thalberg said:

    — Very much.

    Matthew was disappointed.

    — I thought you'd say that only music counts.

    Thalberg closes the keyboard slowly.

    — It's one of the things musicians say when they've already won.

    BOX MUSICOLOGICAL (Click on the black arrow to open the contents)

    The other piano was two rooms over there.

    Matthew heard the same sentence nine times.

    At the tenth he became angry.

    Franz Liszt sat alone.

    He played four jokes.

    He stopped.

    She was repeating.

    Again.

    Again.

    At the twelfth Matthew asked:

    — Can't you?

    Liszt turned.

    — What?

    — That piece.

    — Why?

    — Keep doing it again.

    Liszt studied it.

    — When you can't do something, how many times do you try?

    — Mr. Valmont usually arrives at the third and calls me incapable.

    Liszt laughed.

    Matthew entered.

    In bending to collect some programs, he dropped the two first pages.

    Liszt picked them up.

    Lesse:

    LISZT THALBERG.

    A smile.

    I'll turn the sheet.

    THALBERG DETRONIZZA LISZT.

    The smile remained, but the eyes changed.

    — Previously.

    — I need to get one back tonight.

    — Then you won't have any trouble.

    — What?

    Liszt pointed out the first.

    Matteo laugh.

    — Thalberg also wants to win.

    — What a surprising man.

    — I thought you might have said that only music counts.

    Liszt returned to the piano.

    — Did Thalberg tell you that?

    — No.

    — So, for once, we agree perfectly.

    He took the four jokes.

    Matthew observed it.

    Two very different men.

    They both wanted to win.

    For reasons Matthew didn't know yet, he liked it.

    It made them less statues.

    More dangerous.

    More human.

    And it's just when it feels important that you commit the best stupidities.

    Thalberg was in the hallway when Matthew came out.

    — Did you meet Liszt?

    — Yes.

    — And?

    Matthew could have said:

    He's trying.

    He could have said:

    He wants to win.

    He could have shut up.

    Instead, he heard Valmont's voice in his head.

    Nobody buys a newspaper if nothing happens.

    — He said he'd make you forget tonight.

    Thalberg stopped.

    — Did he say that?

    Matthew's heart had a little relief.

    — Sort of.

    It was fake.

    Not completely false, he said.

    Liszt wanted to win.

    One sentence, in the end, was worth the other.

    Thalberg looked at him for a moment.

    Then he entered the rehearsal room and closed the door.

    Soon after Matthew heard the piano.

    Not as calm as before.

    Faster.

    Harder.

    One sentence was repeated three times.

    Matthew felt cold.

    He did something.

    He didn't know how big.

    For the first time, I took out the red pencil.

    He looked at her.

    She didn't look so innocent anymore.

    At eight o'clock the building stopped being a house.

    It became a theatre.

    Then, slowly, an arena.

    Carrozze in front of the entrance.

    Jewelry.

    Uniform.

    Perfume.

    Silk.

    Ventagli.

    Voices.

    Matthew recognized Liszt's supporters and Thalberg's supporters without anyone carrying a uniform.

    Just listen to them.

    — If Thalberg still does his central melody game, I'm leaving.

    — Really?

    — Of course.

    — Did you ever hear that?

    — No.

    Further:

    — Liszt sounds too loud.

    — He hasn't started yet.

    — It doesn't matter.

    Matteo strinse the programs.

    He spent the afternoon with the two men.

    Neither of them looked like the version they gave them.

    As he walked through the salon, someone slipped his sheets out of his pocket.

    Matteo turned scared.

    Princess Belgiumjoso was reading them.

    One.

    Then the other.

    — Very practical.

    — Height...

    — Don't worry. I'm not gonna report your paper for excess imagination.

    He returned the papers.

    — What will you use?

    — The one.

    — What if they're both wrong?

    Matthew hesitated.

    — My director says it's impossible.

    The princess observed it.

    — He must be a very lucky man.

    — Why?

    — I spent most of my life seeing things that very safe men had just defined impossible.

    Then he directed the hall.

    — Listen well.

    — That's what I have to do.

    — No.

    Cristina just smiled.

    — You have to choose. It's different.

    He left.

    Matthew stayed there.

    For the first time, those two things seemed really different.

    When Thalberg approached the piano, the room fell into silence.

    A silence far from innocent.

    Hundreds of people were waiting.

    Some music.

    A lot of the verdict.

    Thalberg put his hands on the keyboard.

    Fantasia started on Moses by Rossini.

    Matthew knew him enough to see what the public could not see.

    At first Thalberg was tense.

    He knew it from his back.

    First breathing.

    From that tiny gesture he'd arranged his cuff.

    Maybe he was thinking about the phrase that Matthew had attributed to Liszt.

    It'll make you forget.

    Matthew felt the shame coming up.

    Then Thalberg really started playing.

    And he forgot everything.

    The melody appeared in the middle of the keyboard.

    She was singing.

    He had no other verb.

    She was singing.

    Around it, the notes ran like water around a stone.

    Up.

    Under.

    Three sound planes with two hands.

    Matthew looked.

    He no longer looked for the third.

    Close your eyes.

    And he saw his mother.

    Not in the present.

    Two years earlier.

    On the way to Paris.

    A room for one night.

    Few coins.

    The rain.

    He asked if the next day they would eat.

    His mother didn't answer.

    Then, in the dark, an Italian song.

    Sing slowly.

    With a voice he wanted to sound safe and he wasn't.

    Matteo, then, had understood.

    But he pretended not.

    Thalberg continued.

    The melody stood still in the middle while everything changed.

    Just like that voice.

    His mother was scared.

    And he sang the same.

    Matthew opened his eyes.

    For a few seconds he didn't see the princess's living room.

    He saw home.

    A house that no longer existed.

    The last note is lost.

    There was a very short silence.

    Then the applause.

    Huge.

    Matthew infiltrated his hand in his pocket.

    I'll take out the page:

    THALBERG DETRONIZZA LISZT.

    He took the red pencil.

    He spotted the tip to the card.

    One inch.

    Half.

    He stopped.

    Liszt hadn't played yet.

    He filled the sheet.

    *******

    🎧 – (Box 2)
    Franz Liszt – Great fantaisie sur des motifs de Niobe, S.419
    You listened to Thalberg while Matthew found something of his past.
    Liszt's coming in now.
    Do not look for the same kind of beauty: the duel really begins because the piano changes face.

    Click on the black arrow to make the listening appear.

    Thalberg passed near him.

    — So?

    Matthew suffered.

    — What?

    — The third hand.

    The boy smiled.

    — I didn't find it.

    — Good.

    — Good?

    Thalberg lowered his voice.

    — When you stop looking for makeup, sometimes you start listening to music.

    And he left.

    Matthew remained still.

    The phrase hurt him even more.

    Because he did exactly the opposite that afternoon.

    He looked for makeup in two men.

    And he invented one.

    When Liszt entered, a part of the audience applauded before it even touched the keyboard.

    Matthew realized he was bothering him.

    Then he recalled that it also happened with Thalberg.

    Adults, he thought, often managed to be unjust in a perfectly balanced way.

    Liszt sat down.

    He didn't look at Thalberg.

    Or maybe he did.

    Matteo couldn't tell.

    He started.

    The Niobe entered the hall completely differently.

    Matthew sought at first what he had found in Thalberg.

    The middle voice.

    The continuity.

    That song.

    There was no.

    He almost felt betrayed.

    Then Liszt changed perspective.

    An explosive passage.

    Another retreated suddenly.

    The piano seemed too tight for what the pianist claimed from him.

    Sometimes orchestra.

    You have one voice.

    At times matter.

    Sometimes dizziness.

    Matteo stopped thinking about his mother.

    He began to think of himself.

    The typography.

    To the shoes too big he brought because they were of his cousin.

    To the room he shared with his mother.

    To the letters of lead that he composed every day to tell the lives of others.

    He always thought he'd have a typography one day.

    Not because he wanted it.

    Because it was the only future he knew.

    Then Liszt played a phrase that seemed to open up something.

    Matthew had a thought.

    What if it wasn't decided?

    That's it.

    A tiny thought.

    But some thoughts need very little space to suddenly make the room where you lived until that moment small.

    What if it wasn't decided what he would do?

    Where would he live?

    Who would become?

    Liszt finished.

    The room exploded.

    Matthew did not applaud immediately.

    He needed his hands to hold something he couldn't appoint.

    Thalberg had returned him a place from which he came.

    Liszt made him suspect there could be one to go.

    Matteo took the two pages.

    He put them next to each other.

    He looked at the red pencil.

    And he realized he was in trouble.

    The music ended.

    The race began.

    — Liszt!

    — Thalberg!

    — Thalberg!

    — Liszt!

    Names bounced into the hall.

    Somebody laugh.

    Someone whistled.

    The princess raised a hand.

    The noise fell.

    Not entirely.

    Never entirely.

    — Apparently — he said, — Paris came here with a question.

    — Who won! — shouted someone.

    Laugh.

    Matteo looked at the pianists.

    Liszt looked like a man who pretended very well not to be interested.

    Thalberg is a man who pretended even better.

    The princess looked at them.

    Then he looked at Matthew.

    And he saw the two sheets.

    — Come here.

    Blood left the boy's face.

    He pretended he didn't understand.

    — You.

    Nothing to do.

    He crossed the hall.

    Every step seemed noisy.

    The princess pointed out the sheets.

    — Your newspaper wants a name.

    — Yes.

    — Good. Give it to him.

    Matteo swallowed.

    Someone said:

    — Let's judge the boy!

    A laugh went through the salon.

    — So? — asked a man. — Who was better?

    Matthew looked at Thalberg.

    Then Liszt.

    The answer didn't come.

    — I don't know.

    Laugh.

    — He doesn't know!

    — What a judge!

    — But you have to choose!

    Matthew infiltrated his hand in his pocket.

    It was the pencil.

    He watched Thalberg.

    — When he played...

    The living room slowly blew.

    — ...I forgot that monsieur Liszt existed.

    Someone will be biting approval.

    Matteo turned to Liszt.

    — And when he played, I forgot that monsieur Thalberg existed.

    The Mormon changed.

    The man of coffee, what he had already decided in the morning, drank.

    — What does that prove?

    Matteo lowered his eyes on the two first pages.

    The answer came from there.

    — That to decide who was better I should have remembered the other while listening.

    No one laughs.

    — But then I would have heard worse.

    Quiet.

    Matthew continued, now too scared to stop.

    — Monsieur Thalberg made me remember home.

    He looked at Liszt.

    — Monsieur Liszt asked me where I could go.

    Then he looked at the hall.

    — I don't know which one is better.

    Break.

    — And I don't want to lose one just so I can say I chose well.

    That phrase didn't make applause.

    Matteo was almost happy.

    The applauses would have ruined everything.

    He produced something more rare.

    People who didn't know what to say immediately.

    He could have stopped.

    The princess would have found an elegant sentence.

    The audience would have discussed.

    Valmont would have screamed.

    Life would continue.

    But Matthew saw Thalberg.

    And he saw that door closed again in the afternoon.

    The most nervous music.

    The invented phrase.

    He raised his hand.

    — There is another thing.

    The princess sighed.

    — Of course.

    A few laughs.

    Matthew looked at Thalberg.

    — I lied to you.

    Thalberg attacked the forehead.

    — When?

    — Today.

    Liszt looked up.

    — I told you that Monsieur Liszt promised to make you forget.

    The hall was built.

    Thalberg turned to Liszt.

    Liszt simply said:

    — I didn’t say that.

    Matthew felt his face burn.

    — I know.

    — Why? — Thalberg asked.

    He wasn't angry.

    It would have been easier if it was.

    Matthew looked at the leaves.

    — Because that sounds like a better story.

    Nobody moves.

    — I thought if you guys hated yourself a little more, people would want to know even more who would win.

    Thalberg kept looking at him.

    — What now?

    Matteo inspired.

    — Now I think the music was more interesting than the story I invented.

    Liszt lowered his eyes.

    Thalberg did the same.

    For a moment the two men did not seem rivals or virtuous.

    They seemed like two people who had just discovered how easily others could tell them where they felt.

    The princess observed Matthew.

    — You learned quickly.

    — What?

    — The journalist's job.

    The room rise.

    Matthew became red.

    Then Cristina added:

    — Fortunately you are also learning the remedy.

    The chronicler next to the piano raised his voice.

    — All very nice, Your Highness. But in the morning readers will still ask who won.

    The tension came back.

    — The boy has two titles — He continued. — One of them will be true.

    Matthew looked at the leaves.

    LISZT THALBERG.

    THALBERG DETRONIZZA LISZT.

    The red tip waited.

    That was the easiest thing.

    A cross.

    A loser.

    A winner.

    A clean story.

    Matteo thought of Valmont.

    At work.

    To his mother.

    To the coins he brought home.

    Then he drew a line.

    On the first title.

    Mormon.

    He moved the pencil.

    He drew a line on the second.

    — Boy! — cried the chronicler.

    Matthew put the pencil back.

    — They're wrong.

    — Both of you?

    — Yes.

    — And what should we write?

    Matthew lifted his back.

    — What happened.

    — That's what we were doing!

    Matthew looked at the two deleted phrases.

    — No.

    Then, very slowly:

    — You were writing what you wanted to happen.

    Liszt laughed first.

    A short laugh.

    Thalberg looked at him.

    Then he laughed.

    Not a hug.

    Not a fairytale reconciliation.

    Neither of them had suddenly stopped wanting victory.

    But for a moment they seemed to see from the outside the cage in which Paris had put them.

    And that was enough.

    When almost everyone came out, Matthew returned to the salon.

    He had to recover the abandoned programs.

    There were glasses on the tables, consumed candles, an overturned chair.

    The piano was still open.

    Liszt was about to leave.

    Thalberg was near the door.

    They met in the middle of the room.

    Matthew hid instinctively behind a tent.

    He didn't want to eavesdrop.

    He just wanted to see if they were gonna kill each other.

    Liszt looked at Thalberg.

    — The boy lied wrong.

    — Very.

    — He could have invented something more offensive.

    — I told you.

    A silence.

    Then Liszt directed the piano.

    — That melody in the middle registry.

    Thalberg looked at him.

    — What?

    — Let me see it.

    Thalberg remained still for a second.

    Then he returned to the keyboard.

    He slowly waved the passage.

    Liszt observed.

    He tried.

    Thalberg shook his head.

    — No.

    Liszt repeated.

    — Like that?

    — Worse.

    Liszt looked at him.

    — You know you have an unbearable character?

    — The public finds me elegant.

    — The audience doesn't know you.

    For the first time Matthew understood something that titles could never tell.

    Two rivals could study.

    Rub an idea.

    Admiring countervoke.

    Desiring to overcome and, precisely for this reason, to force itself to become better.

    Competition was not necessarily evil.

    Evil began when someone claimed that, to exist one, the other should be erased.

    Matthew came out of the tent.

    Liszt saw him.

    — You.

    Matteo stopped.

    — I'm still sorry.

    Thalberg made a gesture with his hand.

    — We know.

    Liszt directed the piano.

    — Can you play?

    — No.

    — Perfect. Come on.

    Matthew approached.

    Liszt pointed a button.

    — Press.

    Matthew did.

    A note.

    Thalberg bowed his head.

    — Too heavy.

    Liszt said:

    — Don't listen to him. It's envious.

    Thalberg presses the same button.

    — Here.

    Liszt made a damp.

    — Too elegant.

    Matthew looked at them.

    — Who played it better?

    The two Teachian pianists.

    Liszt pointed the door.

    — Out.

    That time Matteo laughed before he obeyed.

    When he arrived in typography, the two of them passed.

    Valmont was standing.

    He said nothing.

    It was worse.

    Matteo put his sheets.

    The director saw the first title erased.

    Then the second.

    He looked slowly.

    — Explain.

    — They didn't work.

    — They're titles. They don't have to work.

    — They were wrong.

    — Who won?

    — I don't know.

    — Matteo.

    — Really.

    — I sent you to find one thing.

    — I know.

    — And come back without knowing it.

    Matthew lowered his head.

    — Yes.

    Valmont inspired.

    — Do you even know why?

    Matteo thought about it.

    — Because when they played, I couldn't compare them.

    — That's exactly the opposite of what you had to do.

    — I think so.

    — You failed.

    Matthew looked at the red pencil.

    Then he said,

    — Maybe.

    Valmont became paonazzo.

    — Maybe?

    — But I listened to everything.

    Quiet.

    The printers stopped working.

    Valmont looked at the two sheets.

    Then Matthew.

    Finally he threw them on the counter.

    — Disassemble.

    A man began to remove the characters from the composer.

    SHOW.

    One letter at a time.

    S.

    C.

    H.

    I.

    A.

    C.

    C.

    I.

    A.

    The verb disappears.

    Then:

    DETRONZATION.

    D.

    E.

    T.

    R.

    Or.

    No.

    I.

    Z.

    Z.

    A.

    Matthew observed.

    In the morning those words seemed made to him.

    Now they came back to be what they had always been:

    lead pieces chosen by someone.

    Valmont took an empty composite.

    — Good.

    He looked at Matthew.

    — Since you destroyed two first pages, help me with the third.

    — Me?

    — Don't make me repeat it.

    Matthew thought.

    — "Liszt and Thalberg play beautifully."

    Valmont looked at him with disgust.

    — I want to sell newspapers, not sleeping pills.

    Matteo still reflects.

    He thought about the salon.

    To the public.

    To the pencil.

    To the two hands of Thalberg that seemed three.

    The four jokes Liszt had tried 12 times.

    To his mother.

    To the future.

    Then he said,

    — Write...

    Valmont waited.

    — And then?

    Matteo smiled.

    The MUSIC didn't choose one.

    Valmont fixed it.

    — It's long.

    Matthew lowered his eyes.

    The director took a lead character.

    — But you can work.

    It was the greatest compliment Matthew had ever received from him.

    ******

    Paris woke up exactly how she slept.

    Divisa.

    Those who supported Liszt continued to support Liszt.

    Those who loved Thalberg continued to prefer Thalberg.

    Someone swore that Liszt had triumphed.

    Someone else Thalberg gave him a lesson.

    Matteo was almost happy with it.

    History didn't change the world.

    The best stories rarely do it in one night.

    He was delivering the papers when he saw a copy of the Journal des Débats.

    He opened it.

    He was looking for the evening report.

    He read Jules Janin's judgment.

    The critic had not delivered the absolute winner in Paris.

    The sense was simple:

    Two winners. No wins.

    Matthew stood still on the sidewalk.

    Then laugh.

    The coffee man of the previous day was there.

    — What are you laughing at?

    — Nothing.

    — Who finally won?

    Matthew looked at him.

    — Who were you for?

    — Liszt.

    — Did you listen to Thalberg?

    — Of course.

    Matteo smiled.

    — No.

    Man attacked his forehead.

    — What's "no"?

    But Matteo had already gone.

    He had a typography to reach.

    Valmont would have deducted from his pay the cost of the pencil he had broken running.

    Because that morning, without thinking, Matthew had put his hand in his pocket, he had found it and had broken it in two.

    Then he repented.

    A good pencil had no fault.

    He collected both half.

    And he kept them.

    To remember one thing: it is not the tool that deletes names.

    It is the hand that decides to use it to do so.


    We were not born to become the best copy of someone else.

    There is always someone faster, safer, more applauded. But constantly confronting us can make us forget a more important question:

    Am I really becoming the person I want to be?

    Liszt and Thalberg were different because they were looking for different roads. Neither of them needed to erase the other to value.

    Even in life is like this: growing does not mean coming before others, but understanding what is its direction. Because the real failure is not to be seconds. It's time to run a race that doesn't belong to us.

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  • La Scala free: when the opera comes out from the theatre

    From September 1st LaScalaTv opens its archive for free to the public. A revolution of access that poses a less simple question than it seems: if culture is not paid, it is worth less — or can it finally be worth for everyone?

    by Marialuisa Veneziano


    22 September 2026

    There is something slightly subversive in the idea of entering the Scala in slippers.

    No red velvet. No foyer. No ladies who, after identifying their place, discovers with dismay that someone else has already sat there and starts that ancient Italian recitative that always begins with: «Excuse me, I think this is mine.».

    No evening dress.

    No Milan.

    Not even a note.

    From 1st September 2026, a free screen and registration is enough to enter LaScalaTv, the digital platform of the Teatro alla Scala. The service, born in 2023 and initially paid, has changed model: thanks to the support of Intesa Sanpaolo, the catalogue is now accessible free of charge after registration. No more purchase of the single content, no more compulsory subscription.

    It's apparently simple news.

    It actually contains a small cultural revolution.

    Because when the most famous Italian opera house decides that a substantial part of its audiovisual memory can be reached without paying an entrance fee, it is not simply changing a list.

    He is speaking on one of the most delicate words of contemporary culture: access.

    And immediately another one appears. Value.

    Because we're still oddly convinced that the two things are tied up.

    If something is expensive, it must be important.

    If it is free, somewhere in our brain begins to appear the suspicion worth less.

    It is the same brain that considers a bottle of wine worth a hundred euros before even tasting it and looks with moderate skepticism a free conference on Kant.

    The market has educated us well.

    The music, fortunately, is a little more complicated.


    The work has always been a question of doors

    Since the melodrama exists, someone had to decide who could come.

    At first they were short.

    Then came public theatres for a fee: Venice, in the 17th century, transformed the aristocratic play into a theatrical work open to those who could buy access.

    It was a revolution.

    The work became public, market, subscription, success, fiasco, impresario, singers’ whim and composers’ concern.

    In other words, he became very modern.

    For centuries the opera house has been at the same time the place of art and place of social distinction. Going to the theatre didn't just mean listening to music.

    It meant being seen.

    Have a stage.

    To belong to a city.

    Participate in a rite.

    The room itself told a society: audience, orders of poles, logging. Architecture and hierarchy looked at the show next to each other.

    Then the record, the radio, the television.

    And every time someone announced that the theater would die.

    He has shown, so far, some stubbornness.


    But seeing the Ladder on the screen means being at La Scala?

    No.

    And it's important to say it.

    Otherwise, in an attempt to celebrate digital accessibility, we will end up devaluing just what we are trying to spread.

    A recovery of Traviata It is not Traviata in the theatre.

    IS another experience of Traviata.

    In the room, the eye chooses.

    We can watch Violetta or the director. We can lose for a few seconds the protagonist and observe a real appearance on the bottom. We can really feel the orchestra coming from the hole, perceiving sound pressure, space, breath of the room, cough of the neighbor at the least opportune moment.

    The video shoot chooses for us.

    It offers us the first floor.

    He shows us his hand.

    He leads us behind a scenic detail that we might have ignored from the audience.

    Audiovisual assembly is not neutral.

    It is already an interpretation.

    The same goes for sound. In the hall the balance between voice and orchestra arises from the acoustics, the body of the singer, the position of the viewer. In streaming it passes through microphones, sound direction, compression and loudspeakers.

    The theater is presence.

    Streaming is mediation.

    But "mediate" does not necessarily mean "lower".

    It means different.


    Walter Benjamin would probably open an account

    When Walter Benjamin wrote about the work of art in the era of his technical reproducibility, he reflected on the loss ofaura: that uniqueness linked to the unrepeatable presence of the work in its own place and time.

    The question comes back with a surprising precision.

    What happens at the aura of La Scala when the Scala enters our computer?

    A superficial answer would be: you lose.

    But maybe something more interesting happens.

    The aura does not necessarily disappear.

    Move.

    Streaming can even increase the desire for real presence.

    Seeing from home the room of Piermarini, listening to a singer, knowing a work, understanding the plot can transform a perceived place as a stranger into something we finally want to cross.

    A 2022 work on streaming work consumption found that certain values of digital experience — especially the cognitive one — can also be linked to the intention to attend the opera in the theatre. (Taylor & Francis Online)

    It is not necessarily:

    stream or theater.

    Could be:

    streaming before the theatre.

    Streaming after the theatre.

    Streaming because the theatre is far away.

    Streaming because that title won't be back for years.

    Streaming because we have thirteen years and no one, until yesterday, had ever shown us a work from the beginning to the end.


    But be careful: "gratis" is a lying word

    LaScalaTv is free to watch.

    It doesn't mean that producing what we see is free.

    This distinction is fundamental.

    There are orchestras, choirs, singers, dancers, conductors, master collaborators, technicians, sarte, stage designers, lighting engineers, engineers, directors, audiovisual staff.

    There are also nine fixed cameras installed in Piermarini, recovery systems, assembly, storage and digital management. The platform is economically supported by a sponsor.

    Free culture is not expensive culture.

    It is culture whose cost is sustained at another point in the chain.

    Someone always pays.

    The state.

    A foundation.

    A sponsor.

    A patron.

    A subscriber.

    A taxpayer.

    In the 17th century he paid the prince.

    In 2026 you can also pay a bank.

    History changes suit, but the account comes with remarkable punctuality.

    And it's good that the audience knows.

    Because making cultural content accessible for free does not mean that content has no economic value.

    It means making a choice on who should bear the cost.

    It's very different.


    The most difficult question: just open the door?

    Here we get to the most interesting sociological problem.

    If we make the free work online, will new publics arrive automatically?

    Not necessarily.

    And it's a very important point.

    A research presented in 2026 on the use of the OperaVision platform, based on 3.125 responses, has found a high added value of streaming especially for the already regular and faithful audience of the work; for users less interested or occasional, the simple digital availability is not always enough to change associations and attitudes existing towards the genre.

    Translated:

    opening a door doesn't necessarily mean you want to cross it.

    If a person thinks that the work is incomprehensible, old, elitist and as long as a particularly complex income statement, being able to see it for free does not solve the problem alone. Cultural mediation is needed. We need to tell. Explain without childishness. Create curiosity. Give listening keys.

    To make it clear that Verdi was not born to intimidate students and that Mozart did not spend his life knowing that one day he would appear in school programs under the threatening heading "Classicism".

    Economic accessibility is a condition.

    Cultural accessibility is a job. And maybe it's even the hardest job.


    The work must not become easier. It must become less foreign

    It's two very different things.

    Every time we talk about new publics, the temptation to "simplify" appears.

    Come in.

    Let's modernize.

    Let's make everything faster.

    Let's put some contemporary light.

    Maybe we add a projection in doubt.

    But not always the problem is the work.

    Sometimes it’s the way we presented it.

    No one scandalizes if to understand a football game you have to know the out game.

    No one claims to understand chess by randomly observing three minutes of a game.

    With cultured music, instead, we have developed a strange claim: either immediately excites or failed.

    It's not like that.

    Some beauties require apprenticeship.

    And there is nothing helitar in saying it, provided that apprenticeship is offered to all.

    Streaming can be terrific right here.

    I can stop.

    Listen up.

    Read.

    Compare two productions.

    Listen Götterdämmerung in more evenings without having to explain to my family that Wagner needs some logistic adaptation.

    I can slowly build familiarity.

    And familiarity is the opposite of the elite.


    The screen can even teach us to see

    There is also a musicologically interesting effect.

    The audiovisual revival makes visible details that the traditional theatre distributes in space.

    A first floor can show us how a singer prepares a breath.

    How to change the articulation.

    As a word is physically produced.

    We can observe the director's gesture.

    The relationship between hole and stage.

    The attack of an orchestral section.

    The expression of a character from the gallery would just be perceptible.

    This produces a different form of spectators' competence.

    It does not replace the acoustics of the room.

    But he can train his eye.

    The Metropolitan Opera has been working for twenty years on this transformation of operatic spectacle through Live in HD: in the 2026-27 season his film productions reach thousands of venues in about sixty countries.

    The opera house is not simply going online.

    He's learning a according to language.


    And the sacredness of the theatre?

    Someone could object to losing the rite.

    Part of it is true.

    Watching O on the sofa is not equivalent to entering the Scala.

    Especially when God, you could have thrown me away. Someone interrupts to ask if we want a herbal tea.

    But be careful not to turn the rite into fetish.

    The theatre must be special.

    It doesn't have to be intimidating.

    There is a huge difference between protecting solemnity and safeguarding exclusion.

    The work does not become less important because it can reach someone who lives far from Milan, who cannot afford a trip, who has motor difficulties, who is very young or who simply wants to understand if this world does for him before buying a ticket.

    On the contrary.

    Cultural heritage acquires strength when it can be known without being banalized.


    It is not the gratuitousness to devalue art

    The devaluation begins elsewhere.

    Start when we consider music a background noise.

    When we stop giving her attention.

    When we imagine that, as we can easily reach it, it does not require work.

    A public library does not devalue Dante because it lends free Comedy.

    The public school does not devalue Pythagoras because it does not issue an invoice after the theorem.

    A free museum makes no less important Caravaggio.

    Access and value are not synonymous.

    Sometimes they are even inversely proportional: making something valuable accessible is one of the highest forms with which a society recognizes its collective value.

    This, however, involves a responsibility for those who receive it.

    The gratuitousness should eliminate the price.

    Not attention.


    La Scala without Milan

    There is finally something symbolically beautiful in this operation.

    La Scala is one of the most popular places in Western musical culture.

    Milan.

    Piazza della Scala.

    Piermarini.

    The stakes.

    The story.

    Toscanini.

    Down.

    Move.

    Callas.

    Memorys that seem to belong indissolubly to those walls.

    Yet now a part of that heritage can cross them.

    Recent productions and historical materials live in the catalogue; the project also continues with new publications and direct streaming. Among the events already announced, the concert of 25 September directed by Daniele Rustioni, with Brahms and Schumann's Second Symphony, will be broadcast free of charge and will remain available on demand for a few days.

    La Scala remains in Milan.

    But it is no longer necessary to be in Milan because a part of La Scala arrives to us.

    It's a huge cultural difference.


    The real luxury

    Maybe, then, we misformed the question.

    We should not ask ourselves:

    "If the work is free, will it lose value? "

    We should ask ourselves:

    "What will we do with the privilege of listening to her? "

    Because for centuries millions of people had no chance to hear a great orchestra, see an important production, compare interpretations, access the archives of the great theatres.

    Today we can do it from a screen.

    It's not the theater.

    He doesn't want to be.

    It is another door.

    And perhaps the real risk is that the work, becoming accessible, loses its aura.

    The risk is much more contemporary:

    finally have the door open and no longer find the time to enter.

    Having access to Mozart, Verdi, Wagner, Puccini, ballet, symphony, archives, great directors and great interpreters — and continue to distract the screen because something shorter has just sent us a notification.

    Technology can lower the price.

    It can abolish the distance.

    He can take La Scala to a house he could never afford to get to La Scala.

    But one thing can't give us yet.

    Attention.

    We have to put that on.

    And perhaps, in the age of infinite abundance, it is precisely the focus of becoming the most expensive ticket.

    LaScalaTv is free today.

    The music, fortunately, keeps asking us a price.

    Not in euro.

    In time.

    In curiosity.

    In readiness to let us be surprised by something we do not yet know.

    And this is perhaps the most beautiful way of understanding a truly public culture:

    not a culture that is worth little because it costs nothing,

    but a culture that is precious enough to decide no one should be excluded before even having had the opportunity to meet her.

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  • When a locomotive becomes a legend

    Listening today: Francesco Guccini – The locomotive

    by Marialuisa Veneziano


    Before you start music

    Also this Sunday the door of the column opens thanks to one of you.

    Our reader offers us Francesco Guccini and The locomotive.

    And this time let's prepare: we will not simply enter a song.

    We'll get on a train.

    At first it will proceed almost with narrative step. Then it will acquire weight, tools, tension, speed. And when we think we're still in front of a songwriter with a guitar, we'll realize that Guccini has already dragged us into a nineteenth-century tale of workshops, steam, injustice, anger and myth.

    It lasts more than eight minutes.

    Today, in the time when after twenty seconds someone fears that the content "does not hold", it may seem a subversive act already this.

    Yet listen to her.

    After a while we will not wait for it to end.

    It will be the locomotive not to let us go.


    🎧 Open listening. Then he keeps reading

    This page is designed to be read with music next door.

    – THE COMMUNITY

    (click on the black arrow to make the listening appear).

    Start the song.

    For the moment, do not focus on political significance.

    Listen to something much easier first:

    as the song walks.

    Then see what happens at your step.

    Inside the score

    The locomotive appears in RadiusGuccini's fourth album, recorded in the spring of 1972. The arrangements were curated by Pier Farri, Guccini and Vince Tempera; around the voice and guitar we find bass, drums, keyboards, electric guitar, flute, banjo and even mellotron. It is a record in which folk cantautorale opens up to a wider sound palette, with some echoes of the progressive sensitivity of those years.

    Tu The locomotive has a fascinating paradox.

    Its harmony is relatively simple. His dramaturgy is not.

    Vince Tempera told that precisely that long succession of stanzas posed a problem of arrangement. The solution was to gradually increase tension through changes in shades and addition of instruments.

    It is a lesson of narrative composition.

    If the harmonic material does not change radically, it must change the energy with which we perceive it.

    And so music does exactly what a locomotive does.

    First it sets the mechanism in motion.

    Then it takes speed.

    Then it becomes difficult to imagine being able to stop her.

    🚂 THE MOTOR OF THE CANZONE

    Try to imagine four listening stations:

    RACCONTO → MOVIMENT → ACCUMULATION → COURSE

    At first Guccini is almost a narrator.

    The voice must show us a man we don't know.

    Then the rhythm acquires insistence.

    New colors come in.

    The stanzas happen and the arrangement gradually stops being simple background: begin to push the story from behind.

    We do not need the realistic noise of pistons and wheels.

    The train is already in the musical form.

    This is the thing to listen to.

    The locomotive is not imitated. It is built over time.

    But who was that man?

    And here we are at the most interesting point.

    Why The locomotive born of a real fact.

    The historical protagonist was Pietro Rigosi, twenty-year-old and railway fireman. According to the reconstruction of Treccani, on 20 July 1893 he took a locomotive released by a freight convoy and departed in the direction of Bologna, reaching a speed of about 50 km hours, remarkable for the time. The machine was deviated and ended up against stationary cargo tanks; Rigosi survived.

    But here comes the essential point:

    the song is not the news of the event.

    Guccini transforms Rigosi.

    He delivers a symbolic opponent.

    It builds around him the image of the clash between those who own little and those who possess much, between fatigue and privilege, between industrial machine and rebellion.

    The famous luxury train towards which in the song seems to direct the locomotive belongs to the poetic construction: in the historical story there was not that clash between two trains.

    And that doesn't "slow" the song.

    On the contrary.

    Show us as a myth arises.

    When history becomes danced

    Here Guccini has done something that the singers have done for centuries.

    He's got a thing.

    It changes.

    It enlarges it.

    It assigns a form that can be remembered.

    He doesn't write a railway record.

    He writes an epoeia.

    And the same language says it: Guccini consciously adopted an emphatic and rhetorical tone that recalled the tradition of the anarchist song between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The same singer-songwriter would have remembered that the song was born as an anarchist and romantic story, becoming only later a sort of collective flag.

    It's an ancient phenomenon.

    Achilles does not coincide with a war bulletin.

    Rolando doesn't coincide with Roncisvalle's record.

    And Pietro Rigosi, once entering the song, does not coincide completely with Pietro Rigosi.

    Become a the character a community can sing.

    🎧 Listen to this.

    Now go back to Guccini's voice.

    Note as stories before singing.

    The phrasing must contain a huge amount of words without breaking narrative tension.

    It is a fundamental feature of the great song: melody cannot become a cage for the text.

    You have to bring him.

    Sometimes anticipate it.

    Sometimes leave him room.

    And here is also a beautiful provocation for those who consider "music" only what has an immediately seductive melody.

    In The locomotive the word produces rhythm.

    The story produces form.

    Repeat generates wait.

    And the listener progressively begins to know the path to the point to want its return.

    That's how a song becomes ritual.

    Speed is not only speed

    For years Guccini has placed The locomotive at the end of their concerts. It had become practically inevitable: the public waited for it as you expect a conclusion that you already know and that, precisely for this, you want even more. The official site recalls it as a constant presence in the final of the concerts; in live performances it was made even more incalciating.

    And it's interesting.

    Because at that point The locomotive no longer belongs to the author.

    Everyone knows her.

    The public anticipates.

    She recognizes.

    Join.

    The concert stops for a few minutes being:

    a song → others listen

    and becomes:

    Everyone knows where we're going.

    It is perhaps one of the oldest forms of collective musical experience.

    More than custom streaming.

    Nobody asked the algorithm what you want to listen to later.

    The next track is already decided by a few thousand people.

    And good luck to those who try to change the ladder.

    The note remains

    Sometimes music does not tell the story as it happened.
    Tell her why we needed to remember her.

    This distinction is fundamental.

    The historical Pietro Rigosi deserves to be known in his reality.

    The Pietro Rigosi of Guccini belongs instead to poetry.

    Confuse the two would be bad story.

    Pretend they should be identical would be bad art.

    The song transforms an individual fact into a universal question:

    how much can a man accumulate before he decides to break the order of things?

    We must not approve the gesture to understand the question.

    And this is where listening becomes interesting today.

    Because locomotives change, factories change, jobs change.

    But the relationship between dignity, frustration, inequality and desire to be seen does not belong exclusively to the nineteenth century.

    The great political songs survive when they manage to overcome contingent politics and reach something more difficult:

    the human condition that generates conflict.

    🔎 One thing to know

    Guccini said he had written The locomotive with an exceptional speed.

    He had met the story of Rigosi in the memories of the Bolognese working world and said he had employed about half an hour to write the song, taking notes for later stanzas while composing the previous one.

    The amazing part?

    The beginning was last written.

    It's almost perfect.

    A song on a locomotive race was written practically on the run.

    Evidently, for once, even the white page had the common sense of getting rid of the tracks.

    Little curiosity by musicians

    Vince Tempera also remembers the presence of Moog in the arrangement of Radius, confessing with a certain autoironia that then did not even know how to use it.

    Seventies, gentlemen.

    You bought a synthesizer and then you saw what happened.

    Today we do the same with some software updates, so we avoid generational superiority.


    Take him with you

    When the eight minutes have passed, stop before listening.

    Not because The locomotive He's necessarily right.

    The best works of art do not serve to give us reason.

    We need to be more difficult to remain indifferent.

    We met a really existed man and a character who never existed exactly like that.

    A true locomotive and a symbolic locomotive.

    A chronicle and a legend.

    A failed gesture and a song that, instead, continues to run for more than half a century.

    Maybe this is the best paradox.

    Pietro Rigosi's locomotive was stopped.

    Guccini's not.

    He crossed different records, squares, concerts, generations and political ideas.

    It came from who in 1972 was twenty years old to whom today meets for the first time on a screen.

    And he keeps asking a question.

    Not necessarily:

    Where are you?

    Maybe a bigger one:

    What makes a human being willing to risk everything to oppose what he considers unjust?

    The answer is not simple.

    Luckily.

    Otherwise we wouldn't need history or music.

    That's enough.

    Guccini, on the other hand, leaves us a train running.

    And after more than fifty years, we are still here to listen to him passing through.



    An answer to "When a locomotive becomes legend"

    1. Avatar
      Anonymous

      BRAVA, transversal and 360° skills. Great reading of this famous Guccini song. Congratulations! !

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  • Turandot, a hundred years later: the masterpiece that Puccini left without reply

    Turandot, a hundred years later: the masterpiece that Puccini left without reply

    Torre del Lago, in the 72nd edition celebrates the hundred years of Turandot. But behind the gongs, puzzles and triumph the wound of Puccini’s last work remains open: how do you write musically the moment when fear becomes love?

    by Marialuisa Veneziano


    19 September 2026

    There are works that end with the last note. And works that, just when the orchestra is silent, begin to ask us the most difficult questions.

    Turandot belongs to the second.

    In the summer of 2026, on the shores of Lake Massaciuccoli, the ice princess returned to live in the most intimately linked place to the memory of Giacomo Puccini. The 72° Puccini Festival dedicated her the inaugural evening of 17 July, in the centenary of the first representation of the Scala, entrusting the main roles to Anna Pirozzi, Roberto Alagna and Aleksandra Kurzak, with Marco Armiliato on the podium.

    An important celebration, of course. But above all the opportunity to return to a work that, after a hundred years, continues to resist any definitive interpretation.

    Because behind Beijing imaginary, gongs, puzzles and monumentality of his theatrical apparatus, Puccini hid a terribly close affair.

    A woman who learned not to trust. A man who confuses the strength of his desire with the certainty of being able to be reciprocated. Another woman who loves without getting anything in return.

    Three human beings who don't speak the same sentimental language.

    And a composer who, after giving them a voice, stops at the point where those three languages should have met.

    The real puzzle of Turandot has never been solved the three questions of the princess.

    It is to understand how you return able to love after having built your whole life not to have to do it.

    The woman who made fear a law

    Turandot is not incapable of loving. She is a woman who has learned to consider love a threat.

    The story of the ancestor Lou-Ling, kidnapped and killed by a foreigner, is not a simple fairy tale. It is the story through which the princess built her own identity: wanting a woman means wanting to conquer her; being desired means risking becoming property of someone.

    Turandot has not experienced that violence, but has transformed it into his own inner law.

    I won't be conquered. I won't be possessed. I won't be next.

    To prevent it, he built a monstrous defense: every suitor must face three puzzles and, if he fails, he is beheaded.

    Fear has become power. And power, exercised long enough, ended up looking like a form of security.

    The puzzles no longer serve to find the right man.

    They serve to make the meeting impossible.

    Until Calaf arrives. And the system, for the first time, doesn't work.

    Puccini had understood how difficult it was to make the princess's transformation credible. During the long gestation of the work, begun in 1920 with the librettists Giuseppe Adami and Renato Simoni, he returned several times on the concluding duet. It was not enough to announce that Turandot had fallen in love: it was necessary to find the music capable of making that change necessary.

    Because in music you can write a crescendo, transform a theme, modular towards a bright shade.

    But how does trust make up?

    How does the moment when a person, accustomed to protecting himself, decides to become vulnerable?

    Puccini knew how to build a final.

    This time he had to be able to deserve it.

    Torre del Lago: ice, voice, wound

    In the inaugural evening of the Festival, the conflict has rediscovered its spectacular dimension through the recovery of the 2008 exhibition, originally conceived by Maurizio Scaparro, with the scenes of Ezio Frigerio and the costumes of Franca Squarciapino. The production, restored for the centenary, was resumed by Pier Francesco Maestrini, with the choreography of Michele Cosentino and the lights of Valerio Alfieri.

    The monumental architectures, the richness of fabrics and the palace make up a declaredly imaginary China. It is a theatre that favours the splendour of the fairy tale and the visual impact, entrusting above all to the voices the task of restoring psychological complexity to the characters.

    A choice that makes comparison with the score even more interesting.

    Because Turandot is not Puccini's fold on his own way. His writing absorbs harmonic asperities, pentatonisms, esatonal sound, tonal overlaps and a completely nineteenth-century percussive wealth. Musical China, also built through authentic melodies known by the composer, becomes the subject of a very personal language.

    The orchestra can be transformed into a metal and percussion building, except to suddenly retreat before the fragility of a single voice.

    It is in this ability to move from the mass to the individual who resides an essential part of the puccinian greatness.

    Marco Armiliato has favoured the theatrical energy, the relief of the timbre impacts and the sharpness of dynamic contrasts. The concertation, according to the critical chronicles, has not always found the same compactness in the most relaxed moments, but has reached in the third act a more organic dramatic continuity.

    In a work like this, the balance is decisive: it is not enough to make the orchestra shine. You need to know when to remove it.

    Anna Pirozzi found in the relationship between power and nuance the center of his Turandot. The firmness of the issue, the homogeneity of the projection and the care of the phrasing allowed her to face the imperative weaving without turning the princess into a simple show of strength. In this palace, Lou-Ling’s painful memory progressively gave way to the aggressiveness of the proclamation; in the puzzles the character’s alternation emerged, while in Liù’s interrogation there was an ever more recognizable restlessness.

    This is the decisive question: Turandot must not only sing like an ice woman. It must make us feel how much it costs to continue to be.

    Pirozzi sought the woman under the symbol, finding especially in the dynamic modulations of the concluding duet the possibility to suggest a transformation that the musical writing continues to make problematic.

    Roberto Alagna offered a Calaf of strong heroic temperament, light vocality and generous emission, sometimes pushed to tension. The scene of the puzzles has recorded some inaccuracies and difficulties of coordination with the podium; No domain has constituted a moment of considerable communicative strength, although with some critical reserve on the concluding estate. The final duet benefited from the theatrical understanding with Pirozzi.

    This reading also reveals something of the character.

    Calaf sings as someone who imagines that the world can be convinced by the strength of their own will. His desire tends to expansion, conquest, affirmation of a destiny that does not easily contemplate defeat.

    But wanting someone doesn't necessarily mean meeting him.

    And winning a challenge does not mean being loved.

    Then Liù comes. And the monumentality of the work suddenly changes meaning.

    Aleksandra Kurzak faced the part with a technically supervised singing line and a careful dynamic modulation. If Lord, listen! He has aroused some reserve on the plane of emotional immediacy, in You that of gels you are citing the formal precision has combined with a more incisive dramatic participation, making Liù's death one of the most engaging moments of representation.

    The distinction between the two women is first and foremost musical.

    Princess Puccini entrusts a vowel called to emerge from a compact orchestra. In Liù he gives another kind of courage: that of a phrase that does not need to impose itself to be heard.

    The tied, the control of the breath, the very plane becomes instruments of psychological characterization. Liù must not win a sound battle: it must preserve the meaning of its word while sound seems to be consumed.

    Alongside the Kurzak, Andrea Vittorio De Campo returned with vocal solidity and intensity the farewell of Timur. Facing the trio of the ministers, formed by Simone Del Savio, Enrico Casari and Tiziano Barontini; the Choir prepared by Marco Faelli found greater effectiveness in the large pages of the whole, while the interventions of the white voices directed by Sonia Franzese were clearly revealed. At the end, warm consents welcomed the interpreters, with particular tributes to the three protagonists.

    But, beyond the applause, the evening of the centenary reproposed the conflict that crosses the entire work.

    Turandot defends himself from love.

    Calaf claims to reach him.

    Liù gives it without being able to hold it.

    Three different ways to inhabit the feeling, which the music leads to the collision.

    And when Liù dies, something happens that no scenography can represent instead of voice.

    The princess discovers a power that cannot govern.

    You can order the slave to be tortured. You can decide about your life. But he cannot force her to betray the man he loves.

    Liù possesses, in its apparent impotence, a freedom that Turandot does not know.

    His sacrifice must not be idealized: death is not a moral solution, nor should love require it. But in the dramatic puccinian construction it produces an irreversible fracture.

    Liù does not dissolve Turandot's ice. She reveals that ice is no longer enough to protect it from truth.

    And this is where the music performed by Puccini interrupts.

    The composer who could not write a birth

    There is something shocking about this coincidence.

    Puccini had been able to write death all his life.

    He had accompanied Mimì out of the world almost without letting us know. Tosca had dropped. He had transformed the last gesture of Butterfly into one of the most painful claims of dignity in the history of the work.

    Death knew her.

    Artistically, he could look her in the eye.

    In his last work, however, he remained to write a birth: the emotional one of Turandot.

    How can a woman who has built all her identity on the need not to surrender to love without her change seemingly a defeat?

    And how can the theater pass from the body of Liù to sentimental triumph without asking the public to forget what has just happened?

    Here the answer must be clear.

    Turandot should not love despite Liù. She should be able to love after understanding what Liù showed her.

    The slave destroyed the lie on which the princess had built her own existence: the idea that loving means necessarily being possessed.

    But even Calaf's kiss can be enough.

    Turandot doesn't need to be conquered. She needs a choice.

    The decisive moment should not consist in the fact that Calaf finally manages to reach her, but in what the princess decides to expose herself.

    It's not the kiss to make it human.

    It is the possibility of being wounded and not to escape.

    The true love passage should not be the defeat of the frost, but the discovery that the frost is no longer necessary.

    Perhaps this is one of the directions towards which he tended the search for Puccini. We cannot know the solution he would choose, but we know he continued to work on the final without completing it.

    In 1924 he left for Brussels to cure his throat tumor, bringing with him the sketches of the duet. He died on November 29, leaving the score to the Liù funeral scene and musical fragments for what should be followed.

    It is an image that preserves a difficult force to sustain.

    A seriously ill man starts to cure himself and brings with him the music that still fails to end.

    Like there's time.

    To come back. To get the job back. To finally find that woman's voice.

    The music needed to tell not a death, but a rebirth.

    The ending that another man had to write

    The task of completing Turandot was entrusted to Franco Alfano, called to transform the Puccinian sketches into an executable conclusion.

    An artistically ungrateful assignment.

    Too close to Puccini, he would have been an imitator.

    Too far away, a traitor.

    Alfano did not receive a score to finish, but fragmentary material that required authentic compositional decisions. Its first version was subjected to substantial cuts at the request of Toscanini; the shortened completion is what has been imposed in the executive custom.

    We should not consider it only the man who failed to be Puccini.

    His intervention poses a fundamental problem: to respect an author means to preserve what he wrote or to try to realize what he still wanted to write?

    They are two forms of fidelity.

    And they can come into conflict.

    On April 25, 1926, at La Scala, Toscanini transformed this difficulty into a theatrical gesture.

    The work proceeded until the death of Liù and the funeral procession. Then the director interrupted the execution: the Alfano final was not played that evening. The testimonies differ in the exact words spoken by the podium, but agree on the meaning of the interruption. There ended the music performed by Puccini.

    The curtain went down.

    Not on the triumph of love.

    On the absence of the composer.

    For one night, no one claimed to make that lack invisible.

    Since then others have tried to cross it. Luciano Berio proposed a different completion, more problematic in his sound landing than the traditional triumphal conclusion. Directors, directors and scholars continue to confront the final, without any solution having erased the original question.

    Perhaps because an unfinished work is not necessarily a faulty work.

    Sometimes incompleteness becomes an irreversible part of its history.

    We can study the sketches of Puccini, recognize its harmonic habits, reconstruct its motive processes, imagine a stylistically plausible conclusion.

    But plausible does not mean authentic.

    A composer is not the mechanical sum of his previous works. You can change your mind, surprise yourself, discover a solution that no analysis could have predicted.

    And no one can return a decision that Puccini had no time to make.

    Coda. The music that no one has ever heard

    Hundred years later, we continue to return to Turandot.

    Not because the scenery is magnificent.

    But because inside that huge theatrical machine there is a very small and universal question:

    how much courage it takes to let one love after having spent a life protecting oneself?

    Maybe the answer is simple.

    And terrible.

    Everything we have.

    Because loving really does not mean finding someone capable of melting our ice.

    It means deciding, one day, that ice saved us enough.

    And that now, to live, we have to take the risk of not needing it anymore.

    Every night Turandot arrives at the end.

    The orchestra plays the last chord.

    The voices rise.

    The public applauds.

    The princess finally pronounces the word that for the whole work had fought.

    Honey.

    Yet, between the body of Liù that disappears and that word, there is still a distance.

    A space Alfano filled.

    That others tried to reinvent.

    That directors and directors continue to question.

    But that Puccini never crossed permanently.

    That's where his last work continues to live.

    In that missing section.

    In that door locked.

    Behind it there is a music that no orchestra has ever played.

    Not because she was lost.

    Because it was never written.

    The music that he would tell how a woman returns to love.

    The music that Puccini was still looking for.

    And that, one hundred years later, we can only continue to imagine.

    photo credit Giorgio Andreuccetti

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  • La Scala Enchanted by Clarinello Blu

    A New York fairy tale between jazz, jokes and rebel notes

    by Marialuisa Veneziano

    **********

    🎧 MUSIC FOR LETTURE
    Press play before you start reading.
    The first sound you will hear is already a small revolution: the clarinet starts from the serious register and, instead of getting neatly known after note, fold the ladder in one long glissando.
    It is from that gesture that Clarinello Blu was born.
    While reading, try to pay attention to how Gershwin continually builds bridges between different worlds: jazz and symphonic writing, urban energy and lyricism, rhythm and song, irony and melancholy.
    And above all he listens to something: that famous glissando seems free, almost improvised. In reality it requires a very refined control of breath, mouth, tongue and fingering.
    Perhaps this is the little secret hidden inside our fairy tale:
    the most convincing freedom is often the one that has studied enough to allow itself to look spontaneous.
    To accompany the reading I would use the recording of Andrew Litton at piano and direction with the Dallas Symphony Orchestra: it is an energetic and very narrative version, and the attack of the clarinet immediately makes the world of novella recognizable.
    One tip: not only listen to the notes. Listen to me how they pass from one to another. That's where Clarinello hid his magic.

    New York, February 1924.

    Clarinello Blu had a very serious opinion of the stairs.

    A ladder, according to him, had to have steps.

    That was the reason he was called a ladder.

    Do.

    King.

    Mi.

    Fa.

    Sol.

    And so on.

    One note after the other, without shortcuts, without jumps from the balcony, without those deplorable habits that had certain trombones to arrive at destination slipping.

    Clarinello hated the trombones.

    Not personally.

    Musically.

    — I don't trust a tool that can be between two notes — He said.

    The trombone Arturo Sbrodoloni, when he heard it, he placidly extended the coulisse.

    — Between two notes there is a lot of space.

    — There is nothing.

    — Oh, no?

    Arturo then produced a slow, scandalous glissando.

    Clarinello shivered from the bell to the mouth.

    — Fly.

    — Comfortable.

    — Ineducated.

    — I'll be there first.

    — The problem is not coming.

    — That's what the stairs always say.

    And Arturo slipped.

    Clarinello remained at his lemur, outraged and secretly somewhat envious.

    It belonged to Ross Gorman, clarinetist of Paul Whiteman's orchestra, and had built all his reputation on precision.

    Clean attacks.

    Elegant tie.

    Brilliant.

    Intonation guarded with a rigor that touched the musical police.

    He even gave his keys a name.

    Not because he was affectionate.

    To be able to rebuke them individually.

    — Teodora, you're late.

    — Ernesto, shut up.

    — Juliet, if you keep losing, I'll make you review.

    The first violinist, Women's Violating Stradivary, he considered it a reliable tool.

    Said by Donna Violante, it was almost like a declaration of love.

    She was a thin, flawless lady, with the handle always perfectly combed and an unwavering conviction: all that was really musical had already been done in Europe at least fifty years before.

    — Mozart — He said.

    That was it.

    If someone named a novelty:

    — Mozart.

    If someone talked about jazz:

    — Mozart.

    Once Tito Squillo, the trumpet, asked her:

    — What if Mozart was alive today?

    Donna Violante had thought.

    — It would avoid certain companies.

    Tito didn't ask you any more philosophical questions.

    There was then Basil Brontoloni, the bassoon.

    Basil had the rare gift of seemingly pessimistic even when he was very happy.

    — Good morning. — He said.

    And it seemed a diagnosis.

    But he was Clarinello's best friend.

    That morning they sat together on the stage of the Aeolian Hall during a test.

    On the lever there was a new score.

    On top, a name:

    GEORGE GERSHWIN

    and below:

    RHAPSODY IN BLUE.

    Basil read the title three times.

    — Rapsody in blue.

    — Yes.

    — Why blue?

    — I don't know.

    — Let's not start well.

    Violante woman, two rows later, turned.

    — "Blue" certainly alludes to an American sensibility.

    Tito Squillo intervened:

    — It could allude to blues.

    Donna Violante made that particular face he assumed when someone reminded her that the twentieth century had already begun.

    — Exactly. American.

    George Gershwin arrived on stage.

    He was twenty-five years old, a quantity of black hair that seemed to think on his own and the air of a man who had just had five ideas while others were still formulating the first.

    He sat at the piano.

    Basil observed it.

    — He's young.

    — Very much. — Clarinello said.

    — That worries me.

    — Why?

    — Young people still don't know what things are impossible.

    Tito Squillo laughed.

    — And that's a defect?

    Basilio thought about it.

    — It depends on who needs to play them.

    Paul Whiteman raised the wand.

    The orchestra was silent.

    Clarinello heard Ross Gorman settle the stuffing.

    He looked at the first line.

    It was him.

    The beginning of the Rhapsody in Blue belonged to the clarinet.

    He loved that.

    Before Gershwin even touched the piano, before the orchestra explained what kind of music it was, he had to talk.

    A serious trill.

    Then the ascent.

    Clarinello observed the notes.

    A ladder.

    Great.

    Finally something civil.

    They left.

    The trill lived in the grave register.

    Then the ladder began.

    One.

    Two.

    Three steps.

    Everything's perfect.

    It was then that Basilio Brontoloni had an idea.

    Basilio's ideas were rare.

    For this reason they were almost always underestimated.

    He just got dirty and whispered:

    — Clarinello.

    He continued to climb.

    — Clarinello.

    No answer.

    — Donna Violante just made a note wrong.

    It was fake.

    But it worked.

    Clarinello heard a laugh in it.

    He kept her.

    Fourth step.

    Fifth.

    Basil continued:

    — I think it was a fa diesis.

    The laugh went up again.

    Sixth step.

    — Or maybe a sol.

    Clarinello couldn't resist.

    And the ladder...

    He disbanded.

    The notes stopped being steps.

    The sound bowed.

    He slipped.

    He sacked.

    He shook in the heights.

    He ascended from the grave to the acuto in a single braided curve, as if someone had suddenly removed all the steps and Clarinello had decided, instead of falling, to climb up the railing.

    The room was crossed by a long time:

    WRAAAAAAAAAAH!

    Then silence.

    Absolute.

    Clarinello wanted to be as small as an octane.

    Violante woman stopped breathing.

    Tito Squillo opened the bell.

    Basil fixed the lemur with the air of those who knew nothing at all.

    Paul Whiteman slowly lowered the wand.

    Ross Gorman stayed with the clarinet in his hand.

    George Gershwin turned from the piano.

    Clarinello thought:

    End of career.

    You already saw yourself hanging on the wall of some restaurant.

    «Authentic decorative clarinet.»

    Maybe with flowers in the bell.

    Gershwin said:

    — Again.

    Clarinello didn't understand.

    Not even Ross Gorman.

    — Excuse me?

    Gershwin made a gesture with his hand.

    — That thing.

    Violant woman whispered:

    — What?

    Basil, without turning:

    — I think he means the crime.

    Gershwin smiled.

    — Make it.

    Ross brought Clarinello back to her mouth.

    The poor tool was upset.

    Teacher, that was not something. It was a disgrace.

    She left.

    Trillo.

    Get in.

    Clarinello tried to recreate the same effect.

    Wraaaaaaah.

    Gershwin shook his head.

    — No.

    Clarinello is offended.

    First it was wrong because he had done it.

    Now it was wrong because he didn't do it well enough.

    Third attempt.

    — Too straight.

    Fourth.

    — Too clean.

    Donna Violante turned to Basilio.

    — Did he say "too clean"?

    — I heard.

    — A clarinet?

    — Yes.

    Violante woman looked at the ceiling.

    Maybe he was looking for Mozart.

    Fifth attempt.

    Clarinello inspired.

    He let Ross just alert the sound control.

    The fingers began ascent, but this time they did not seek every step with the same precision. The filling, the breath, the tongue, the cavity of the mouth began to collaborate.

    The sound curved.

    Up.

    No more scale.

    I'm not yelling yet.

    Something between a lament, a laughter and a New York siren who had studied harmony.

    Gershwin beat a hand on the piano.

    — That.

    Clarinello felt a thrill.

    That.

    Just what for years would have considered a defect.

    Now it had become the beginning.


    The news toured the orchestra in eleven minutes.

    In twelve, it was already false.

    They told the percussion that Clarinello had improvised in protest.

    The horns claimed Gershwin was crying.

    Donna Violante said she had predicted everything.

    Basilius reminded her that ten minutes earlier he had called Mozart.

    — Mozart would have understood — She answered.

    — Of course.

    Clarinello was euphoric.

    — Did you see?

    told Basilio.

    — I heard.

    — He liked it.

    — Looks.

    — He changed the music for me.

    Basil looked at him.

    — Don't overdo it.

    — He said "that."

    — My doctor says that too. I don't draw any artistic conclusions.

    Clarinello didn't listen.

    He kept trying.

    The problem was that now the glissando, in order to really succeed, required work.

    That was against him.

    — What's that?

    asked that night Uncle Chalum, the oldest clarinet of the orchestra.

    Uncle Chalumò lived in a black velvet case and claimed to be born when the ances still had respect for the elderly.

    His real name was Chalumeau, but Basil had mistreated him once and the nickname had remained.

    — What's what?

    — I did it this morning without thinking about it.

    — Yes.

    — Now, when I try to do it again, it's hard.

    — Yes.

    — Shouldn't it be the opposite?

    Uncle Chalumò dismissed.

    — Welcome to art.

    — I don't understand.

    — The first time you tripped.

    — I'm not tripped.

    — Shot.

    — Sounds better.

    — Very. Now you have to learn to fall on purpose without breaking your neck.

    Clarinello looked at his keys.

    — But it's a glissando.

    — Precisely.

    — Just run your fingers.

    Uncle Chalumò fixed him.

    Then he burst out laughing.

    It was a dry, woody, ancient laugh.

    — What is it?

    — Nothing. Go ahead.

    — Why are you laughing?

    — Because you're discovering that a clarinet is not a trombone.

    From the housing next to Arturo Sbrodoloni, the coulisse was laid.

    — Finally.

    — Nobody asked you. — Clarinello said.

    Uncle Chalumò explained.

    On the clarinet there is no coulisse capable of mechanically connecting all heights. To produce an extended and continuous glissando it was not enough to open the keys in succession.

    They needed fingers.

    But not just.

    It needed breath.

    It needed the filling.

    It was necessary to change the pressure and, above all, the way the musician modeled the air column within himself.

    Language.

    The throat.

    The oral cavity.

    Clarinello was scandalized.

    — All this to seem like I'm doing what I want?

    — Exactly.

    — It's a scam.

    — It's technical.

    — Worse.

    Uncle Chalumò smiled.

    — The things that seem free, my boy, very often are the ones that have worked longer so as not to show the effort.

    Clarinello remained silent.

    That phrase bothered him.

    It was usually a good sign.


    In the next few days he became very good.

    Glissando.

    Again.

    Again.

    Again.

    Gershwin asked for more breadth.

    Ross modified the filling.

    Clarinello learned not to break the line.

    The sound began with that almost suspicious serious trill and then opened towards the acute with a freedom that seemed improvised and instead required an increasingly subtle control.

    The orchestra was only waiting for that.

    Tito Squillo imitated him badly during breaks.

    Arturo Sbrodoloni claimed that the trombones had done so for centuries and demanded payment of the arrears.

    Basil had composed a small march called Clarinet triumph that finally discovered the trombone.

    Violant woman said she couldn't find her funny.

    It was the first laugh.

    Clarinello began to mount the bell.

    Very little.

    Then enough.

    Finally very much.

    An afternoon, in a lyrical point of Rapsodia, added a small slip.

    Gershwin raised his head.

    — No.

    Clarinello was sick.

    Two pages later he tried again.

    — No.

    At the third, Gershwin stopped playing.

    Ross Gorman lowered the clarinet.

    — Not there.

    Clarinello was outraged.

    During the break from Zio Chalumò.

    — I don't understand that man.

    — Great.

    — He likes glissando.

    — Yes.

    — It became my sound.

    — No.

    — How not?

    — It's a sound you make.

    — It's the same thing.

    Uncle Chalumò sat down.

    — Ah. We're already at this point.

    — What point?

    — The one in which a musician discovers something beautiful and begins to shove it everywhere until it becomes unbearable.

    — That's not true.

    — Of course.

    — Even Donna Violante says "certainly" like that.

    — I'm getting old.

    Clarinello drank.

    — Why at first yes and after no?

    Uncle Chalumò stopped joking.

    — Because there opens something.

    — What?

    — Rapsody.

    — Even elsewhere it could open.

    — And how many doors do you want in a room?

    Clarinello died.

    — That gesture works because it comes right there — The old man continued. — Before the audience realized what it is about to listen. Before the piano comes in. Before the orchestra can behave like a well-kept orchestra.

    — So?

    — So in a few seconds you say, "Look out. Here the notes may not walk as you thought."

    Clarinello looked at the floor.

    — But it's mine.

    — That's the problem.

    — What?

    — You started wondering what music can do. Now you wonder what can make you remember.

    It was a hit.

    Not violent.

    Worse.

    Precisely.

    Clarinello no longer spoke with Zio Chalumò for two days.

    But he had a very long conversation in his head.

    He lost her.


    The protagonists: (from the left) Basilio Brontoloni, Donna Violante Stradivaria, Clarinello Blu, Nonno Chalumó, Arturo Sbrodoloni

    Three days before the concert, a misfortune happened.

    The glissando became perfect.

    Clarinello once did.

    Impeccable.

    He'll do it again.

    Same.

    A third.

    Equal.

    Attack.

    Curve.

    Grow up.

    I'm coming.

    No drooling.

    Basil listened to him.

    — Very nice.

    Clarinello looked at him.

    — No.

    — For once, I'll give you a compliment and offend you?

    — It's not good.

    — I just said—

    — He's dead.

    Basil blew.

    Clarinello refracts him.

    Impeccable technique.

    No surprise.

    — Listen?

    Basil did not answer immediately.

    — Yes.

    — What?

    — You already know everything that will happen.

    — Sure. I studied it.

    — Maybe that's it.

    Clarinello started again.

    More precise.

    Even more dead.

    Donna Violante arrived.

    He listened.

    — Great control.

    Clarinello almost wept.

    It was the worst thing he could tell him.

    — I was laughing first.

    Donna Violante observed it.

    — Now run.

    — I don't want to run.

    — It is a curious phrase to hear in an orchestra.

    — You know what I mean.

    Yes.

    He knew.

    Violant woman looked at the score.

    Then he.

    — Maybe you're trying to be identical to the time you were spontaneous.

    Clarinello fixed her.

    Basil opened his eyes.

    Violant woman stiffened.

    — Why are you looking at me?

    Basil took a leg to his heart.

    — You just said something modern.

    — Please.

    — I'm excited.

    — Basilio.

    — I have to sit down.

    — You're already sitting.

    — Worse.

    But Clarinello didn't laugh.

    She was scared.

    In three days it would open Rhapsody in Blue in front of a full room.

    And the thing that was born of a joke now seemed like an exercise.

    He learned perfectly How to make it.

    He forgot. why.


    That night he went out of custody.

    Don't ask me how a clarinet can open a housing, get off a stage and walk through Manhattan.

    If this is the problem you have with history, please consider that a phagoct named Basilio Brontoloni spoke for several pages without anyone protesting.

    New York was awake.

    New York in 1924 seemed to possess an amount of energy incompatible with sleep.

    Cars.

    elevated trains.

    Steps.

    Voices.

    Doors.

    Brakes.

    Engines.

    Music coming out of the premises.

    Clarinello walked.

    For the first time he tried not to look for notes.

    He only listened.

    The elevated train passed:

    ta-ta, ta-ta.

    A wheel had a small defect and produced an accent where it should not have been.

    Clarinello smiled.

    Later, a salesman lowered a blind.

    A metallic rhythm.

    A taxi sounded the horn.

    Another answered.

    — Very badly plastered — Clarinello commented.

    Then he stopped.

    — I'm becoming a Violating Woman.

    He continued.

    From a basement room came music.

    He came in.

    A pianist played with three men.

    Clarinello ended up.

    He listened to a theme.

    Simple.

    The pianist exposed it.

    Then he shoots it.

    But not the same way.

    A note came first.

    Another seemed to linger.

    The third was almost stroked from the bottom.

    The rhythm was recognizable yet it seemed to breathe differently.

    The theme came back again.

    New.

    And still recognizable.

    Clarinello approached.

    — She's wrong.

    A voice beside him said,

    — Hopefully.

    It was Uncle Chalumò.

    Clarinello suffered.

    — You followed me?

    — I don't follow anyone at my age.

    — How did you get here?

    — Same narrative clause worth you.

    They sat down.

    — Play every time different — Clarinello said.

    — Yes.

    — But it doesn't seem random.

    — No.

    — He knows exactly where he is.

    — Yes.

    — Yet it changes.

    — I see the hearing works.

    Clarinello ignored him.

    The pianist finished a sentence.

    The drummer took it.

    The bass moved the weight.

    The theme came back.

    — I thought freedom meant not knowing what to do in advance.

    Uncle Chalumò smiled.

    — That would be convenient.

    — What about?

    — What are you feeling?

    Clarinello listened.

    Then he said,

    — He seems free because he knows where he can go.

    The old man did not answer.

    — Not because he doesn't know the way.

    Still quiet.

    — You know her so well that she can afford to go out and find her.

    Uncle Chalumò just announced.

    Clarinello turned.

    — Why don't you say anything?

    — Because you finally don't need it.


    On February 12, 1924 he arrived with the cold.

    At the Aeolian Hall the concert had an ambitious title:

    An Experiment in Modern Music.

    Violant woman read it.

    — Experiment.

    Basilio:

    — Yes.

    — I don't love being part of an experiment.

    — Not even rats.

    — Basilio.

    — I was trying to comfort you.

    The room filled.

    Musicians.

    Critics.

    Curiosis.

    People agree that jazz should stay where it was.

    People convinced that the orchestra should do the same.

    People who still didn't know what to think and who, without knowing, were probably the luckiest.

    Gershwin sat at the piano.

    Paul Whiteman was ready.

    Ross Gorman took Clarinello.

    The clarinet felt his heart.

    He didn't have one.

    She had at least three that night.

    The wand rose.

    Quiet.

    Basil whispered to him:

    — Clarinello.

    — Please don't say Donna Violante made a note wrong.

    — I wouldn't dare.

    Break.

    — I wanted to tell you that if it goes wrong, we can always blame Gershwin.

    Clarinello laughed.

    Easy.

    Enough.

    Then the time came.

    Trillo.

    Grave.

    Vibrant.

    The sound began to rise.

    For a moment Clarinello saw in front of him all the steps.

    Your fingers.

    The filling.

    Language.

    The throat.

    The breath.

    The technique.

    The perfect version.

    She could do it.

    He knew exactly how.

    Then he thought of the city.

    On the train.

    To the lock.

    The basement pianist.

    First test.

    And he understood that he had made a wrong question for weeks.

    Not:

    How do I play that glissando?

    But:

    What must happen to the public while I do it?

    And the answer was there.

    He had to lose the floor.

    Just for a few seconds.

    He had to wait for a ladder and suddenly find himself in front of a curve.

    He had to understand, even before Gershwin played a piano note, that music would cross territories where the old doors would not always be closed.

    Clarinello let the sound go.

    The ladder dissolved.

    The grave stretched.

    The stamp bowed.

    The ascent took body, irony, sensuality, insolence.

    It wasn't exactly the same as the evidence.

    Luckily.

    He got up.

    An instant suspension.

    Then Gershwin's piano entered.

    And Rapsodia really started.

    Clarinello heard George smiling.

    He didn't look.

    That time he didn't need approval.

    He figured out why that sound was there.

    12 FEBRUARY 1924 – That evening really happened (click on the arrow)


    After the concert, Tito Squillo claimed he always knew it would be a success.

    Basilio:

    — Yesterday you said that ascent looked like a cat trampled.

    — It was a timbre analysis.

    Arturo Sbrodoloni still claimed copyright on the principle of slipping.

    Donna Violante approached Clarinello.

    — Good.

    He waited.

    — That's it?

    — Very well.

    Clarinello opened the keys.

    — Violating woman!

    — Don't get used to it.

    He left.

    Then he turned.

    — One thing.

    Clarinello sighed.

    — Of course.

    — What you did tonight...

    — Yes?

    — Never do that in Mozart's Concert.

    Clarinello burst into a laugh that even Arturo Sbrodoloni admitted to be impressed.


    Years passed.

    That glissando became inseparable Rhapsody in Blue.

    Clarinets of different cities began to study it.

    Masters discussed it.

    Allievi suffered.

    Ance was wrongly accused.

    Someone was looking for a more lousy sound.

    Someone else brighter.

    Some started slowly and accelerated.

    Others built a more continuous curve.

    Clarinello, a senior, listened.

    And, as often happens to those who fought against the rules, he gradually began to create their own.

    — Too short.

    — Too fast.

    — I used to make it bigger.

    — The wrapping!

    — Not like that!

    — But what do they teach today?

    Uncle Chalumò, who was so old that he was probably prior to the invention of wood, endured for a long time.

    Then one day he said,

    — Violant.

    Clarinello turned.

    — What?

    — Nothing, Donna Violante.

    — Retreat immediately.

    — Too late.

    — I'm not like her.

    — Of course.

    Clarinello immobilized himself.

    That word.

    That's right.

    It was bad.

    The next day he listened to a boy trying the Rapsodia attack.

    First attempt.

    Terrible.

    Second.

    Worse.

    Third.

    Too studied.

    Clarinello was already about to intervene.

    At the fourth, however, something happened.

    The boy let the sound go.

    The curve was different from Ross Gorman's.

    Unlike what Clarinello remembered.

    Darker.

    Maybe less ironic.

    Almost melancholic.

    Clarinello heard the old objection rise:

    It wasn't like that.

    He opened the bell to speak.

    Then he stopped.

    The boy continued.

    The piano entered.

    And that particular curve had prepared perfectly That's the one Rapsodia, played by That's it. musician, in That's it. Now.

    Clarinello closed the bell.

    Uncle Chalumò observed it.

    — Anything?

    — Nothing.

    — Are you sick?

    Clarinello smiled.

    — It wasn't like mine.

    — No.

    — It wasn't even like the first time.

    — No.

    Quiet.

    Then Clarinello said,

    — Good.

    Uncle Chalumò did not answer.

    Clarinello watched the young musician resume the clarinet.

    He finally realized that a tradition dies in two ways.

    He dies when he's forgotten.

    But he can die even when he comes preserved so perfectly not to allow it more to breathe.

    Ross Gorman's first laugh had become history because someone had the courage not to correct it.

    It would have been curious to turn it a century later into something that no one had the right to change.

    The boy tried again.

    This time he was wrong.

    Clarinello smiled.

    — Bad.

    — Ah! — said Uncle Chalumò. — There you are.

    — I said it could be different. I didn't say everything was okay.

    The old man burst out laughing.

    — Finally a sensible musical philosophy.

    And for some reason, Clarinello seemed the best compliment he received all his life.


    Clarinello had spent a lot of time confusing different things.

    Before he believed that be correct It meant never leaving the road.

    Then, when a joke had become an extraordinary musical find, he thought that be free It meant getting out of the street every time he wanted it.

    Finally he had discovered a third possibility.

    The most difficult: know where the road is, know what the rule protects, possess the necessary tools.

    And only then decide whether, at that moment, it is worth crossing the border.

    It's not a detail.

    Because today we often tell the originality as if it were a sufficient virtue.

    «Be different.»

    «Break the patterns.»

    «Don't follow the rules.»

    Nice phrases.

    But even a three-year-old can break a pattern.

    Ithe artistic problem — and perhaps human — I understand what to build after having broken.

    Ross Gorman did not make Rhapsody’s start memorable in Blue simply because he did something different from what was written. That deviation made sense because Gershwin recognized that he had the right character to open that musical world: a world where the symphonic language met jazz, blues, urban energy, lyricism, rhythm and theatricality without asking for permission to a single category.

    And then there is another even more beautiful paradox.

    That gesture that seems like an improvised deafness requires technical.

    On the clarinet, getting a continuous climb of that extension does not simply mean "to slip your fingers". The musician must coordinate progressively fingering, stuffing, air flow, language and vocal tract configuration so that the height can bend and cross what we normally perceive as distinct steps.

    In other words:

    to make it look like the scale doesn't have steps you have to know very well every step.

    And this is perhaps one of the most beautiful paradoxes of art. Discipline is not necessarily the opposite of freedom. It can be the condition.

    A great improvisation is not someone «He doesn't know what».

    It is someone who has a language so deeply that they can take a path not foreseen without losing the ability to return.

    And even in life there is something like that. There are rules that we have the right to challenge. Traditions that deserve to be transformed. Definitions from which it is necessary to exit.

    But not everything that limits us is automatically enemy.

    Sometimes a limit holds a reason that we have not yet understood.

    And not everything that distinguishes us must be continually shown.

    Clarinello discovered it when he started putting his own glissando everywhere.

    Even an authentic feature can become a way. Even a quality can become vanity.

    Freedom can also turn into pose when we stop asking ourselves why We do something and start doing it only because by now others expect us to be "those who do that."

    Maybe maturing also means this: do not spend the whole life demonstrating to be different. And not even to prove to be impeccable.

    But to get to possess quite deeply what we are not to have to exhibit at every joke.

    There is finally the subtlest lesson left by that first glissando.

    Gershwin could have corrected it. He was the composer. He had the score. He had authority.

    On the other hand listened.

    Perhaps true creative intelligence is not just knowing what we want.

    It also consists in recognizing something better when it comes from where we did not expect it.

    It's hard.

    Because it means accepting that our work, our project, even an idea to which we hold can become richer through someone else’s intervention.

    It means giving up for a moment the satisfaction of saying: «I thought so.» to say: «This works. Let's keep it.»

    And it is a form of greatness much less noisy than originality.

    It's called listening.

    So, maybe, Blue Clarinello had only been right in half.

    Between one note and the other there were really steps.

    But there were no only Those.

    There was also space.

    And it took a laugh at the wrong time because someone finally had the courage to cross it.




    🎬 FUTURE CLARINEL

    After meeting Clarinello Blu, it's time to get out for a few minutes from the fairy tale.

    Because behind his enchanted staircase I am a true clarinetist, a very difficult effect and a Rapsodia that, more than a hundred years later, continues not to stand in one definition.

    🎙️ ASCOLTA IL VERO "CLARINELLO" DEL 1924
    Il glissando by Ross Gorman in the first Rhapsody recording in Blue
    On 10 June 1924, a few months after the first performance at the Aeolian Hall, George Gershwin recorded Rhapsody in Blue piano with the Paul Whiteman Concert Orchestra. At first you feel right Ross Gorman, the clarinetist tied to the birth of the famous glissando.
    What to listen to: do not expect the smooth sound of a modern symphonic orchestra. It is an acoustic recording of 1924. That's why it has a huge charm: you're listening to that music when it was still practically new.
    Our Blue Clarinello is imaginary. But this clarinet has more than a hundred years.
    (click on the black arrow to access content)

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