Tags: musical education

  • 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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  • 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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