Tags: music listening

  • Biennale Musica 2026: what if to listen to the future we should return children?

    From 10 to 24 October Venice hosts "A Child of Sound", the 70th Music Biennial directed by Caterina Barbieri. Not an invitation to naivety, but to something much more difficult: to free your ear for a few moments from what you already think you know.

    by Marialuisa Veneziano


    6 October 2026

    A child doesn't ask if what he's listening to is tonal.

    It does not ask whether it belongs to cultured music, electronics, noise, techno or avant-garde.

    If you hear a ticking door, try to make her claw again.

    If a pot produces an interesting sound, it affects it again.

    If he discovers that his voice changes inside an empty room, he can continue to shout the same syllable until an adult, less interested in acoustics and more to domestic survival, does not intervene.

    Before learning what music is, the child Listen to me.

    And perhaps this is precisely what, growing, we lose.

    We learn names.

    The eras.

    Forms.

    The hierarchy.

    We learn that Beethoven is important, that a symphony possesses movements, that after a dominant we expect a toned, that a violin should produce certain sounds and that, if it starts producing others, someone in the room might think that the time has come to worry.

    We build skills.

    And that's right.

    But together with skills we also build expectations.

    And one day it can happen that instead of listening to what a music is doing, we begin to listen what we think should do.

    It is from this crack that starts the Biennale Musica 2026.

    From 10 to 24 October Venice will host the 70th edition of the International Festival of Contemporary Music, directed by Caterina Barbieri. The title is A Child of Sound: 130 artists, over forty appointments, twenty-three new works, eighteen of which in the first absolute, in a program that openly declares to want to cross epochs, geographies and genres without considering its invaluable boundaries.

    But the title is more interesting than the numbers.

    A child of sound.

    What does that mean?

    And above all, what should an adult listener do with it?


    The adult ear has a problem: he knows too many things

    Caterina Barbieri defines music «the childhood of the spirit» and builds the project of the Biennale around the idea of an original listening: open, not judging, still able to marvel at the sound before classifying it. In his curatorial statement he also recalls Stockhausen, which linked experimentation to the childish ability to play with the sound material.

    Be careful, though.

    We must not transform the child into a mystical creature endowed with a pure hearing that adulthood would inevitably corrupt.

    That's not the point.

    A child also has expectations, memories, preferences. Growing up, learning a musical grammar means acquiring magnificent instruments: recognizing a modulation, perceiving a structure, following a Bach escape or understanding Wagner's harmonic tension greatly expands the experience of listening.

    The problem arises when knowledge stops being a lens and becomes a gate.

    When we say:

    «This is not music.»

    «There is no melody.»

    «I don't know where you want to go.»

    «It's just noise.»

    They are very interesting phrases, because they say much less about the object we are listening to than they say on our system of expectations.

    For centuries Western music has educated the ear to recognize certain relationships: tension and resolution, consonance and dissonance, tonal hierarchies, rhythmic periodicity, thematic development.

    Then the twentieth century began to do something seemingly irritating.

    You asked:

    and if the sound could be organized in other ways?

    If the stamp becomes as important as height?

    If the duration counts more than the melody?

    If a noise had a compositional dignity?

    If the space we listen to was part of the work?

    If the musician doesn't always do something completely established?

    If silence was not a break between two events, but an event itself?

    Contemporary music did not abolish grammar.

    He multiplied the grammars.

    And that is perhaps why it sometimes puts us in trouble.

    We do not yet know which dictionary to use.


    Venice, perfect city to get lost even with ears

    There is then something particularly suitable for all this to happen in Venice.

    Venice is a city that obliges the eye to continually lose the straight line.

    Turn around.

    Go away.

    You cross a bridge convinced to go on one side and you discover, with great dignity, that you were going elsewhere.

    Perhaps even the contemporary ear needs something similar.

    To stop, at least for a while, to claim to know the destination in advance.

    The Biennale has built its own program not as a succession of "newness" opposed to "tradition", but as a network of genealogies.

    And this is one of the most intelligent ideas of the edition.

    On 17 October, in St Mark's Basilica, the Tallis Scholars directed by Peter Phillips will go through almost a millennium of singing: Hildegard von Bingen, Gregorio Allegri, Arvo Pärt and a new commission in Kara-Lis Coverdale. Not four epochs placed politely in four different shelves, but different ways of questioning the relationship between voice, spirituality, memory and acoustic space.

    Let's think.

    Hildegard was born in the 12th century.

    Pärt belongs to our time.

    Coverdale writes today.

    Yet, in St Mark's Basilica, the question can be surprisingly similar:

    what happens to the human voice when it tries to overcome the individual who produces it?

    This is contemporary.

    Not necessarily what was composed yesterday.

    But what can still ask a question today.


    Bach meets Morricone. And neither one needs to ask permission

    One of the most fascinating programs of the Biennale puts in the same space Johann Sebastian Bach, Anton Webern, Ennio Morricone and Sarah Davachi.

    The Park of Contemporary Music Ensemble will propose the Ricercar to six voices of theMusical offer in the famous orchestration of Webern, pages of the Passion according to Matthew, the first public execution Music for an end by Morricone — work for choir and orchestra built around a recording of Pier Paolo Pasolini's voice — and Chanters, new commission of Sarah Davachi for orchestra, chamber choir and organ.

    Looks like a program built by someone who forgot to respect the store departments.

    And that's exactly what makes it interesting.

    Because Webern, when orchestrating Bach, does not "modernize" Bach.

    It does something much thinner.

    It distributes the lines of counterpoint between different stamps, making a structure born from the relationship between the voices also become a structure of colors.

    The melody passes from one instrument to another.

    The counterpoint becomes almost visible.

    Bach remains Bach.

    But the orchestration changes the way our ear enters its architecture.

    It is a perfect example of what a Biennale dedicated to listening should do: not just tell us what to hear, but show us that a same structure can become new when changing the point from which we observe it.

    And next to Bach comes Morricone.

    Not that of the cinematographic melodies now entered the collective imagination, but a Morricone less immediately known, linked to compositional research and to the relationship with Pasolini.

    Then Sarah Davachi.

    His music often works with extended durations, tuning, minimal timbre transformations, psychoacoustic phenomena. This year, the Biennale awarded her the Silver Lion by recognizing a path in which electronics, acoustic instruments, organology and perception coexist.

    Here the "sound child" begins to become understandable.

    We are not asked to forget Bach to be contemporary.

    We are asked to forget, for a moment, the way we're used to listening to him.


    Does the noise have the right to citizenship?

    The Golden Lion for the Career goes to Keiji Haino, a Japanese composer and performer who for over fifty years has crossed noise, free jazz, rock, improvisation, blues, drone and electronics, refusing a stable stylistic position. The Biennale significantly defines it as a «poet of noise».

    Here comes one of the oldest and most entertaining questions of contemporary music:

    When does a noise become music?

    The simplest answer would be: when a composer decides to use it.

    That's not enough.

    Noise becomes musical material when it comes into a relationship.

    When it lasts.

    Intensity.

    Position.

    Stamp.

    Repeat.

    Contrast.

    Memory.

    When what seemed bad is heard as an event.

    It's an extraordinary passage.

    The world doesn't change.

    Change our attention.

    This is what happens when we suddenly realize the rhythm of a train, the intermittent frequency of a siren, the sound of a fan, the resonance of an underpass.

    The child often does this spontaneously.

    The adult immediately asks if all this «Come on.».

    Perhaps because the adult spent many years learning that the value of things must be explained possibly within the end of the meeting.

    Art has the bad vice of not cooperating.


    The sound we can't see

    Also KMRU, Kenyan musician among the central figures of field recording research and electronic composition, will lead to the Biennale ♪, project realized with Nick Verstand and Mareike Bode. The work also uses electromagnetic sounds and builds a multisensory environment in which sound, light and olfactory components participate in a single perceptive experience.

    It is an excellent example of how much the concept itself of "concert" is becoming insufficient to describe some contemporary practices.

    The traditional concert includes something very precise.

    Someone produces music.

    Someone else, sitting, listening.

    The stage indicates where to look.

    The audience indicates where to stay.

    The beginning and the end are recognizable.

    Applauding among the movements of a symphony instead requires a tactical evaluation that still test entire generations of spectators.

    In many contemporary experiences this pact changes.

    The public walks.

    The sound comes from several directions.

    A work can depend on the space in which it is realized.

    Light enters the composition.

    Even the smell can be involved.

    It does not mean that the traditional concert has become obsolete.

    It means listening is not obliged to always possess the same posture.

    The body also listens.

    We've known that forever, actually.

    Just think about the organ in a cathedral.

    A serious note is not only heard.

    You feel physically in space.

    Maybe some avant-gardes just remind us of something that music already knew much before becoming "contemporaneous".


    And then techno comes

    And this is where the program becomes even more interesting.

    In addition to electroacoustic composition, organ, choral music, noise and improvisation, the Biennale also hosts DJ sets and scenes from global dance: from techno to experiences related to the Portuguese label Príncipe to the Singeli di Dar es Salaam. The same inaugural evening of October 10 will pass from Laraaji to the first solos of Kara-Lis Coverdale and Keiji Haino, to conclude with a DJ set of Livwutang.

    Someone might ask:

    but still Biennale Contemporary music?

    The question is legitimate.

    The answer, however, depends on what we mean by contemporary.

    If we mean a clearly defined stylistic category — specialized ensemble, complex scores, institutional electroacoustics — then the program actually seems to widen the fence a lot.

    But if "contemporaneous" means questioning the forms through which today we organize the sound, the picture changes.

    The club culture has developed its own sophisticated concept of duration.

    Techno works on microvariation within the repetition.

    The ambient music changes the relationship between the first floor and the background.

    The drone dilates the perception of time.

    The noise brings density and saturation to the foreground.

    The electronics allows you to directly compose the stamp, instead of considering it only a property of the instrument.

    They're not interchangeable genres.

    And you don't need to pretend they are.

    But they can live in a festival if what connects them is not a supposed sound similarity, but a common question about how we listen.

    This is the biennial bet.

    And it is a much more radical bet than a simple contamination.


    Hildegard next to a DJ: provocation?

    No.

    Or at least, not necessarily.

    The provocation would be to put them together only to get a curious photograph.

    Here the point is another.

    We're thinking about Hildegard von Bingen.

    A medieval monody is born in a world where the modern distinction between author, interpreter, rite and acoustic space does not work exactly as it works today.

    That music lives in a context.

    In a community.

    In an architecture.

    In a conception of time.

    A DJ set also lives in a relationship between sound, space, duration, body and community.

    The analogies end quickly, and it is good that they end.

    But both experiences remind us that music is not necessarily just an object to be observed frontally.

    It can be a situation in which to enter.

    And this is perhaps one of the most challenging aspects of A Child of Sound: forcing us to question not only what we call music, but the way we believe we should stand in front of her.


    «I don't understand contemporary music»

    Perhaps it is the most important phrase of all this article.

    Because it is often pronounced with some kind of embarrassment.

    As if you do not immediately understand a work was a fault of the listener.

    Or, on the contrary, as if it were automatically a composer's fault.

    We could free both sides of this process.

    Do not understand immediately can be a perfectly legitimate experience.

    In front of a music that does not possess the grammar to which we are accustomed, the ear seeks reference points.

    Where does the sentence begin?

    What is the pulse?

    What do I remember?

    What is important?

    It is the same disorientation that we try to enter an unknown city.

    At first everything seems to be equivalent.

    After a few days we distinguish the streets.

    After a few weeks we recognize a square from a detail.

    Listening also works through familiarity.

    For this reason perhaps we should stop demanding from contemporary music something that we do not ask almost any other complex form of knowledge:

    be understood entirely at the first meeting.

    No one opens a philosophy treaty, reads three pages and concludes that philosophy failed because it did not provide enough emotion.

    No one looks at a game of sport that ignores the rules and claims to immediately understand all the strategy.

    With music, instead, we are convinced that emotion should be instantaneous.

    Sometimes it is.

    And it's wonderful.

    Sometimes you have to attend a language.

    Allow him to slowly build within us his own cardinal points.


    Returning children does not mean becoming ignorant

    This is perhaps the greatest risk of the metaphor chosen by the Biennale.

    We could think that listening as children means giving up competence.

    It's not like that.

    The ideal listener is not the one who knows nothing.

    He is perhaps the one who succeeds in know very much without obliging what he hears to confirm what he already knows.

    It's a very difficult condition.

    The musicologist recognizes.

    The musician analyzes.

    The interpreter anticipates.

    But sometimes the rarest experience is to be able to say:

    I still don't know what it is.

    I'm waiting.

    This aspect is a very serious intellectual act.

    It means suspending judgment long enough to allow the object to reveal its own logic.

    A child can listen to the noise of water without immediately asking what its formal function is.

    A composer like Stockhausen can take that same attitude and transform it, through a gigantic technique, into research.

    Authentic artistic innocence is not lack of knowledge.

    IS the ability not to become prisoners of his knowledge.


    Can music heal?

    Caterina Barbieri also attributes a cathartic function to the sound, describing music as a possibility of transformation and reconnection, and connects this idea both to childhood and to Hildegard von Bingen.

    It's a delicate soil.

    Music is not a medicine in the clinical sense of the term.

    A symphony does not replace therapy.

    A concert does not automatically solve pain.

    And it would be unfair to charge the art of a saving task that no work could guarantee.

    But there is another form of transformation.

    Music can give shape to what was first just confusion.

    It can allow a pain to become shareable experience.

    You can stop the automatism of the day for a few minutes.

    It can change the quality of our attention.

    And sometimes this is a lot.

    It doesn't eliminate what hurts us.

    But it can prevent pain from being completely devoid of language.

    Maybe this is the most credible catarsis.

    Don't be saved from sound.

    Being, for some time, accompanied within it.


    A Golden Lion to Noise, a Silver Lion to Slowness

    The two main awards seem to tell this philosophy well.

    Keiji Haino, Golden Lion, represents the radicality of the gesture, improvisation, the crossing of genres, the sound matter brought to the limit.

    Sarah Davachi, Leone d’Argento, works on durability, stamp, almost imperceptible transformations, tuning and resonance.

    Two seemingly opposite ways.

    Noise and waiting.

    The saturation and concentration.

    The explosion and slowness.

    Yet both ask the same thing to the listener:

    presence.

    Haino can force us not to escape the power of sound.

    Davachi can force us to perceive such a slow transformation that, if we stop paying attention, we no longer know when it happened.

    It is interesting that a Biennale dedicated to the "bambino di suono" awards two artists so different.

    Because a child does not necessarily seek noise.

    It can also be fascinated by something very small.

    A vibration.

    An echo.

    A sound that slowly disappears.

    No wonder depends on the volume.

    It depends on the ability to notice.


    Perhaps the problem is not contemporary music

    Then we come to the most uncomfortable question.

    What if the problem of contemporary music was not just the difficulty of its languages?

    And if it were the speed of our listening?

    We live in a system that we get used to deciding quickly.

    I like it.

    I don't like it.

    Jump.

    Come on.

    Again.

    A song must convince us before the thumb reaches the screen.

    A video is judged in the first seconds.

    Even musical listening has often become a succession of micro-decisions.

    Search music can behave very badly in this system.

    It can take ten minutes before something happens.

    It can make it happen very much without that we immediately know where to look.

    It can build its own form through transformations that require memory.

    He can even refuse to offer us a climax.

    In algorithmic terms, a disaster.

    In human terms, perhaps an opportunity.

    Because it forces us to exercise a faculty that is likely to become rare:

    Stay.

    Not because everything that is difficult is necessarily beautiful.

    It's not.

    There is extraordinary contemporary music and forgetable contemporary music, just as there are nineteenth century sublimation symphonies and others that history had good reasons to attend less.

    Opening does not mean abolishing judgment.

    It means to postpone it enough to be able to base it on experience instead of prejudice.

    And it's a huge difference.


    A Child of Sound

    Perhaps this is the most beautiful provocation of the Biennale Musica 2026.

    Don't ask us to love everything.

    It would be impossible and also terribly boring.

    Don't ask us to pretend to understand.

    Do not turn the avant-garde into a new orthodoxy in which people who do not appreciate enough a forty-minute drone should be expelled from the consession of culturally presentable beings.

    Much more simply:

    try to listen before you decide.

    From 10 to 24 October Venice will put in the same sound landscape Hildegard and techno, Bach and electronics, Morricone and Pasolini, radical improvisation, organs, field recordings, club cultures, renaissance voices, first absolutes and old music of centuries.

    Not because everything is the same.

    On the contrary.

    Because everything is different.

    And listening precisely means learning to distinguish without immediately turning the difference into a hierarchy.

    Maybe growing musically is not just about accumulating repertoire.

    Know more composers.

    Recognize more forms.

    Have more records.

    Knowing finally explaining to friends because that cadence is not exactly what they believe.

    Maybe there's a second kind of maturity.

    Harder.

    What comes when, after learning a lot, we are still able to amaze us.

    When we can get into a hall and don't know in advance what we have to try.

    When a noise can still turn our heads around.

    When a well-maintained note long enough ceases to seem motionless and we begin to hear all the little things that are changing within it.

    When in front of an incomprehensible music we do not immediately say:

    «It's not for me.»

    But:

    «Wait. Let me hear again.»

    Maybe this is the sound child.

    Not someone who doesn't know the world yet.

    Someone who, despite knowing him, did not stop giving him the chance to surprise him.

    And maybe that's what a Biennale should do.

    Don't tell us where the music is going.

    Nobody knows.

    But put us for a few days in the most fertile condition possible:

    in front of something we have not yet learned to call by name.

    And have the courage to listen to him before the name comes.

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  • 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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  • 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 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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  • Master Metròn and the forbidden break

    In Beethoven's Vienna, a small metronome discovers that time can be measured, but music is not.

    by Marialuisa Veneziano

    ***********

    🎧 MUSIC FOR LETTURE
    To accompany Master Metròn and the forbidden break, we recommend listening toAllegretto of the Symphony No. 7 in the major, op. 92 by Ludwig van Beethoven, in direct execution by Nikolaus Harnoncourt. About eight minutes built over a regular and inexorable pulsation, almost the tic tac of a large invisible metronome; and yet, above that beat, Beethoven lets music breathe, grow, change intensity and become deeply human. It is precisely the heart of our fairy tale: time can be measured, but music really begins when the measure stops being a cage.
    Click on the arrow of the logo "cuffie", press play and start reading.

    In Vienna, in a winter when even snow seemed to fall with education, a thirteen-year-old boy named Matthias lived.

    Matthias studied piano.

    He was not a prodigy child, which he was very sorry for, especially because he read that prodigy children began generally before him and had already composed at least three concerts in the age when Matthias had learned not to overthrow the soup.

    But he had a rare quality:

    It was accurate.

    Terribly accurate.

    His scales began at the established time, his fingers fell on the keys exactly where they had to fall and, if a semi-minimum appeared on the score, Matthias treated her with almost administrative respect.

    His master, Herr Weiss, often told him:

    — Matthias, you play all right.

    The boy smiled.

    Then the second sentence always came.

    — Unfortunately.

    Matthias never understood how something could be correct and, at the same time, wrong.

    He seemed an offense to logic.

    One afternoon Herr Weiss arrived with a box.

    — It's for you.

    Inside there was a strange wooden object, with a metal rod swinging from one side to another.

    — One metronome.

    Matthias looked at him like other children would look at a white horse.

    Herr Weiss loved him.

    Tic.

    — It's time to keep it.

    The boy's eyes lit up.

    Finally.

    Someone who didn't say "with more feeling", "respirate the sentence", "do not rush but not slow down".

    The metronome wasn't talking about puzzles.

    Sixty was sixty.

    Eighty was eighty.

    Hundreds, thank God, were hundred and twenty.

    Matthias took him to his room and spent the afternoon studying.

    Tic.

    Scale.

    Tic.

    Arpeggi.

    Tic.

    Studies.

    Never a statement.

    That night he went to bed happy.

    At midnight he was woken up by a noise.

    Tic.

    He opened his eyes.

    Tac.

    He sat down.

    The metronome was on his own.

    — You forgot to turn me off. — said a voice.

    Matthias opened his mouth.

    — Did you talk?

    — Of course.

    — Metronomes don't talk.

    — Even the pianists should not do it during the performance, yet I know a lot of them moaning.

    Matthias lit the candle.

    — What's your name?

    The auction rose with dignity.

    — Master Metròn. Time Keeper, Defender of Regularity and Natural Enemy of the Mal Giustificati Rubies.

    — It's a very long name.

    — At sixty beats per minute it takes exactly the time needed.

    Matthias was enchanted.

    He finally met someone who thought it like him.

    From that day they became inseparable.

    Master Metròn ruled everything.

    — Eighty through the stairs.

    — One hundred for the exercises.

    — Sixty-six for Adagio.

    Matthias obeyed.

    Metròn then began to take care of the rest of the house.

    He chronomed the maid while sweeping the floor.

    — Too irregular.

    He measured the cat's pass.

    — Undisciplined.

    He even tried to establish the correct duration of the embraces of Matthias' mother.

    — Four beats are enough.

    — But she's my mother.

    — Feeling does not authorize anarchy.

    When Matthias's little sister burst out laughing during dinner, Metròn shouted:

    — Out of time!

    — He's laughing. — protested Matthias.

    — Precisely. No recognizable structure.

    The boy began to think that his new friend was perhaps a bit demanding.

    But at the piano the results were extraordinary.

    He wasn't accelerating anymore.

    He wasn't slowing down.

    Almost nothing was wrong.

    The day came when Herr Weiss heard him perform an Adagio.

    Matthias played everything perfectly.

    It ended.

    The master sighed.

    — Impeccable.

    Matthias waited.

    — And?

    — He's dead.

    — How'd he die?

    — I don't know. You must have killed him on the second page.

    Master Metròn, from the table, taught himself.

    — Calunnia!

    Herr Weiss didn't hear it.

    Matthias is.

    — I've respected every value.

    — I know. — answered the master. — That's what worries me.

    A few weeks later Herr Weiss brought Matthias to listen to a famous man.

    Ludwig van Beethoven.

    Matthias imagined it solemn, ordered and probably surrounded by a special light.

    On the other hand, he found a broken man, with cards everywhere and an expression that suggested that the world had lost him a lot of time.

    — Sound — said Beethoven.

    Matthias sat down.

    Master Metròn was placed next to the piano.

    Tic.

    The boy began.

    No mistake.

    No hesitation.

    No surprise.

    When he finished, Beethoven remained silent.

    — Did I do something wrong? — asked Matthias.

    — Unfortunately not.

    The boy moved.

    That was exactly Herr Weiss' sentence.

    — Then it was perfect.

    Beethoven looked at the metronome.

    — Even a watch is perfect. I wouldn't give him a sonata.

    Master Metròn lightly accelerated for indignation.

    — But the metronome tells me time — protested Matthias.

    Beethoven pointed out the object.

    — That can tell you how long it takes a minute.

    Then he slightly touched his chest.

    — This has yet to decide what to do with it.

    Metròn didn't speak all the way back.

    It was the first time Matthias saw him offended.

    That night, however, the metronome made a decision.

    — I will prove to that man who is in a state that precision can make the whole world perfect.

    — How?

    — Putting it on time.

    Before Matthias could stop him, Master Metròn began to beat.

    ICT. TAC.

    The sound crossed the walls.

    He went down the streets.

    He entered the clocks.

    He went to the bell towers.

    And Vienna began to follow him.


    The next morning everyone walked at the same pace.

    The carriages were leaving at the same time.

    The furnaces kneaded in perfect synchronicity.

    The barbers lifted the razors at the same time.

    The bells of the churches sounded with such precision that even the angels, if they existed, probably controlled the clock.

    At first the city was enthusiastic.

    Nobody was late.

    Nobody interrupted anyone.

    The files flowed beautifully.

    The Minister of the Public Order declared that morning the most successful in the history of the Empire.

    Then problems began.

    A child fell.

    His mother stopped to help him, but the crowd continued to walk.

    ICT. TAC.

    An old man tried to cross a road.

    He couldn't follow the rhythm.

    — Faster! — he ordered Metròn.

    — I can't. — said the man.

    — Time doesn't wait.

    Matthias helped him reach the sidewalk.

    — Master Metròn, can't you go slower?

    — If I slow down for him, everyone would lose time.

    — But he needs more time.

    — Everyone has the same.

    Matthias looked at the old man.

    For the first time, that phrase didn't seem right.

    In a house, a mother cradled a baby.

    The baby was about to fall asleep.

    ICT. TAC.

    The rhythm increased.

    The boy woke up crying.

    Two lovers greeted themselves in front of a carriage.

    He kissed her.

    ICT.

    — Time's up! — he ordered Metròn.

    — Wait a minute.

    TAC.

    — I said time.

    Matthias intervened:

    — Maybe a kiss doesn't always last the same number of beats.

    — That's why kisses never produced an efficient civilization.

    The boy wasn't completely sure.


    In the afternoon the Vienna orchestra held a concert.

    It was the most precise execution that had ever been heard.

    All attacks together.

    All exact durations.

    No freedom.

    No hesitation.

    No mistake.

    When he finished, no one applauded.

    Not because it was bad.

    Worse.

    He didn't say anything.

    Matthias watched Master Metròn.

    — Did you like it?

    — Technically irrepressible.

    — I didn't ask you that.

    For the first time, Metròn hesitated.

    Tic...

    The auction resumed.

    — Technically irreproachable — repeated.

    But with less conviction.

    That night, Matthias was supposed to play in front of Beethoven.

    The room was full.

    Master Metròn imposed time.

    — Sixty-six.

    Matthias began.

    ICT. TAC.

    It sounded good.

    Then he came to a slow sentence.

    One note went up to another and seemed to ask for something.

    Matthias felt she should have waited.

    ICT.

    Your fingers should have gone on.

    They didn't.

    TAC.

    Matthias remained still.

    Master Metròn began to shake.

    — Get back!

    The boy let the silence live.

    One second.

    Two.

    Three.

    — Time!

    Matthias looked at the audience.

    At the end of the hall he saw the old man met that morning.

    It was late.

    He was breathing so hard.

    Matthias waited.

    Until the old man looked up.

    Then he started playing.

    Not when he ordered Metròn.

    When the sentence asked.

    Music changed.

    He didn't become disorderly.

    She became alive.

    A phrase accelerated slightly because he was in a hurry to arrive.

    Another slowed down because he didn’t want to leave yet.

    A break lasted long enough to allow everyone to miss it.

    Matthias continued to respect the rhythm.

    But he was no longer a prisoner.

    Beethoven smiled.

    A woman closed her eyes.

    The old man at the end of the hall slowly turned back.

    And Master Metròn, for the first time since his construction, stopped beating.

    When the song ended, Matthias turned.

    The metronome was still.

    — You broke up?

    — No.

    — Then why did you stop?

    Metròn blew.

    Then he said,

    — That break...

    — What?

    — Too long.

    — Yes?

    — It wasn't written.

    — No.

    The auction just moved.

    — She was beautiful.

    Matthias smiled.

    — A long time ago?

    — Mostruously.

    Quiet.

    — But beautiful.

    From that day Vienna slowly returned to Vienna.

    The carriages returned late.

    Children ran at unpredictable speed.

    The old ones crossed the streets with the necessary time.

    The lovers, with great scandal of the ministry, returned to decide independently the duration of their kisses.

    And Matthias continued to study every morning with Master Metròn.

    Scale.

    Tic.

    Arpeggi.

    Tic.

    Hard passages.

    Tic.

    One day, many years later, Matthias opened an Adagio.

    He was a pianist.

    Master Metròn had become old. The wood was carrying small scratches and the rod oscillated with some dignified fatigue.

    — Master?

    — Yes?

    — What time should I play it?

    For the first time in his long life, the metronome replied:

    — I don't know.

    Matthias smiled.

    Metròn added:

    — I can help you find him.

    — And then?

    The old metronome made a small ♪.

    — Then listen.

    Matthias put his hands on the keyboard.

    And Master Metròn ate.

    Not because he had nothing to teach him.

    But because he had finally learned when it was time to let him play.

    The rules are precious when they teach us to become free; they become cages when they claim to choose in our place. Accuracy can teach the music to stand, but only listening, thinking and feeling can teach you where to go.


    BOX HISTORY

    The mechanical metronome entered the European musical life in the early nineteenth century thanks to Johann Nepomuk Mälzel. Beethoven was among the most interested composers of the new invention and indicated metronomic values for many of his works. Our fable starts right from this encounter between a great modern aspiration — accurately measure musical time — and a question that no number can solve completely: how much space does the interpreter have?

    4 answers to "Maestro Metròn and the forbidden break"

    1. Avatar Danilo
      Danilo

      At the moment the most beautiful story among those published.

    2. Avatar left2ba3d74a7e4
      left2ba3d74a7e4

      How many times in life do we confuse what is right with what is simply measurable?
      We measure votes, salaries, results, numbers, rankings. Reassure us what can be counted, compared, archived. But not all that matters can be counted.
      The love of a mother for a child is not measured. Loyalty to a principle is not measured. The courage to rise after suffering, the kindness offered in silence, the time dedicated to those who need do not find place in a table or in a statistics.
      Yet these realities often constitute the most authentic part of our existence.
      Philosophy reminds us that good does not always coincide with profit, and that truth does not necessarily coincide with what is quantifiable. We live in an age that tends to give value to what produces visible results, forgetting that some of the most important things mature in the invisible: a straight conscience, a sincere bond, a right choice accomplished without witnesses.
      Perhaps wisdom also consists of this: learning to distinguish between what has a price and what has a value.
      Because not all that is measurable is important, and not all that is important is measurable. And often, what is really right is recognized not by the meter of numbers, but by that of consciousness.

    3. Avatar
      Anonymous

      Dialogue from which emerges an astonishing, even if laughter, depth of thought.

      1. Avatar left2ba3d74a7e4
        left2ba3d74a7e4

        I share. As Socrates taught, true discovery does not always consist in finding something new, but in bringing out what was already present, albeit hidden, in our consciousness.

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