ROME SWEET ROME

Live and learn

Signing up for classes at the Saint-Cecilia Academy, taking private lessons with Gelmetti, and renting an apartment and surviving is an ambitious undertaking when you don't have a dime in your pocket. My academic credentials in musicology failed to impress. I tried to apply for a scholarship. However, my CV, and material, composed mostly of some unexpected press clippings, must have intrigued the jury for they didn’t return them.

As soon as I'm registered and settled in, however, I start thinking. Spaghetti westerns were at the peak of their popularity so I decide to audition for a risk-taking director. He gives me a chance by hiring me for the unforgettable Gold of the Bravados. My co-stars are French humoristic singer Boby Lapointe (the bandit) and George Harrison, an Italian artist (the cowboy). I play the intrepid commander of the Mexican army. The only prerequisite for this film is to know how to ride a horse. Boby Lapointe lied shamelessly. After all, he needs the money. Stricken by cancer, he isn't receiving any of the royalties that would later arrive with his posthumous fame. As for me I sidestep the issue. Where equestrian sports are concerned, I have more experience falling off horses than actually riding them. In Australia a thoroughbred that had evidently found me too much to bear unhorsed me shamelessly. In Afghanistan a small but vicious Arabian, spooked by a noise (a tank?), dumped me into a river bed river at full gallop. Falling out of the saddle and clinging for life to the horse’s mane, all I could here was zzzzzzmmmmmmm... zzzzzzzmmmmmmmmm… as rocks flew past my ears at 60 kilometers an hour. Death, in stereo.

Today, on the other hand, I feel confident. The film's opening scene is fairly simple: The carriage will start off from a sunken trail. Boby is supposed to give chase while I, at the head of my valiant army, come to the victims' rescue. We're waiting for good weather. On signal the carriage takes off. Then it's Boby's turn, as he wobbles off in hot pursuit.

Now it’s my turn! I kick my proud white mount with the spur of my boot. My army follows. There's a lot of commotion and electricity in the air. My troops fire freely at the bandits who, fulfilling their duty, fire at the carriage. Uh-oh! My horse seems to be improvising. I tug at the reins like it says in the book. But I must have stepped on the wrong pedal, because he keeps picking up speed while I bounce up and down in imminent peril on my ejectable seat. Finally, I catch up to the bandits.

At this point my troops are far behind me. I continue to tug at the reins and by now I'm actually working up quite a sweat. Yet my stubborn mule of a horse continues to gather speed. Great, now I've actually passed the carriage. The camera immortalizes my behind, which, with each of the horse's strides, squishes onto the saddle, sometimes to the left, sometimes to the right, threatening my already fragile equilibrium.

- CUT!

It's beginning to smell a lot like a layoff around here.

Take two. A lieutenant, who also happens to be the owner of the horses, comes to see me, since he's understandably worried about his animals.

For some reason unbeknownst to the producers, the six horses pulling the carriage turn around, and knock down the entire crew—who are nervous to begin with—one by one, like dominos.
At least that wasn’t my fault. Finally, after gathering our forces, we decide to try again.

- ACTION!

 This time everything goes according to plan. Suddenly, however, my entire army dismounts. I look around, stunned. Dammit! After the nerve-racking mishaps of the previous take, I completely forgot about the script. I was supposed to dive into the bushes.

The director picks up his megaphone:

- Signor Jumez? Alla cassa!

He eventually took me back, although this time it was to do the soundtracks for his films, a field where I felt more confident of my abilities.

*******

In spite of my fears my extra-musical activities don't detract from my studies. And yet they say that virtuosity is proportional to one’s dedication. But then how do you explain the fact that many performers often have several jobs, sometimes even administrative duties? The great pianists of the nineteenth century spent considerable time composing and searching for inspiration in various places (not all of them unpleasant). Teaching also takes up a large amount of a musician's time and energy. In reality the number of hours spent with the instrument isn't as important as the intensity with which those hours are lived. Inspiration isn’t perspiration though. Several minutes of deep concentration can be more productive than hours and hours of labor. The musician needs to accumulate his energy so he can release it in a burst when needed. That's why a good night’s sleep is more important before a performance than afterwards. If you’re a musician, you should nap when you’re feeling tired. By doing so you’ll need less sleep during the night, which will give you hours and hours of inspiration. Inspiration at night, expiration during the day. Sort of like a cruise.

*******

My two years in Rome are going to improve my guitar playing. Gelmetti painstakingly teaches me the hidden subtleties of technique.

C (Do). Place your middle finger on the third fret, fifth string. Play it for me. Very good.

D (Ré). Now place your pinky two frets higher... What the hell are you doing? Your middle finger stayed in the same place, as though the C still existed. No, no! The C is dead and buried, long live the D! The presence of the D makes the C obsolete. The world is an evanescent place. Each bundle of energy wasted on the past is lost for the future. The universe is in constant motion. No sooner is the note born beneath your enchanting fingers than it dies as your mind moves on to the next one. The development of the musical phrase is irreversible. So, free that crooked finger for me and let it travel to other destinations.

E (Mi). Good, since you don't need to be playing the D anymore, your pinky was free to move. However, your index finger wasn't ready for the Mi. While you were playing the D, your mind should already be focused on the E, and stiffening the index. C belongs to the past, it’s part of your genes by now. You haven’t just "memorized" it, it’s become a part of you. D is part of the present, the transition toward the E, which is the future. Get out of C in a hurry and anticipate the E as soon as possible and one day you can call yourself a musician.

F (Fa). Your right hand, now. No, you lout, don't press on the chord. Have you ever seen a violinist hold the bow like a saw to play more forcefully? It's the same for us: Organize, utilize, and distribute the minimum amount of energy as efficiently as possible. Just like sports! Channel your energy flow as much as possible and let your fingers fall under their own weight. This kinetic energy is what makes the strings resonate clearly, consistently, and durably. Your attack has got to feel natural, relaxed, and effortless. It will help you keep your mind open.

G (Sol): You did it again! Your role is to create beauty in a world that fails to understand that what is pleasant is useful. You've filed your nail, as if it were a quarry stone, to soften the strumming of the string. That's good. But now you've got to develop a sound that is clear and round. Save the pulling, prodding, pushing, tearing, and scraping for special effects. The SO must be played in the middle of the string. That way the sound can grow on one side or the other.

A (La). Can you hit a perfect note here? Yes, that’s it. You’ve got to bar the fifth fret by stretching your finger across the neck. What are you doing? Your index finger is having a hard time. There’s a lot of tension in those six strings, nearly 50 kilograms. What a disgrace. So much wasted energy! Three of your fingers are already blocking the three bottom strings. The bar only involves the three remaining strings. Only use force when you have to. That’s what "inner strength" is all about.

B (Si). You’re all twisted! You should be completely relaxed. Let’s continue. Start with the left hand. Your finger transmits force to the string, the result of various factors. The greater the number of motor factors the less fatigue you’ll feel. This creates a chain of forces distributed along a curve starting in your neck and ending in the last digit. All the tiny muscular contractions along the supinator, the triceps and the deltoid result in considerable pressure. The greater the synergy, the less effort is required. Your right hand, now. It’s the more intelligent since it searches for repose, which gives it its "dexterity." The process is similar to the left hand, that is, the result of numerous factors. But in this case the finger, by inertia, lazily strokes the string that is found beneath its trajectory, which is cleverly programmed as a result. The spine provides symmetry, the rhythm of the position, as in Africa. Scoliosis and cyphosis are the cause of many incorrect notes. Continue, everything seems to be in place. Go on. Play!

*******

C, D, E...they die as quickly as they're born. That’s a rather stark realization for a musician. Music is movement. My hesitation, following my return from America, was a kind of debate between the "fixed" and the "mobile." I wanted to become a civil servant, whereas, during my school years, I had spent a great deal of time practicing the art of the "fugue," and ran away from what I felt were oppressive institutions. The repetitiveness of the life ahead of me tormented me.

Unlike musicians, painters and architects are fairly stable. And yet, upon further reflection, some cultures—such as the Touaregs, Navajos, or Australian Aborigines—destroy their works as soon as they've created them. Sudanese architects build magnificent palaces out of friable earth. Children throw their drawings away and abandon their castles of sand.

Maybe we're not so different after all. Some look for security, regardless of the price. Others look for pleasure, but at the cost of living badly. It’s the old story of the grasshopper and the ant. For me the choice is clear: I don’t intend to compromise a beautiful afternoon for some future reward. A sleepy Laotian once explained to me that cultivating rice, selling the harvest, earning money— none of that meant anything, since once he was rich the only thing he would think about would be…sleeping.

Following the call of my harsh desire, sidestepping the temptation to look elsewhere for what is within, isolating the form of things to better stabilize their content, I leave "hope" and "determination" to others. I do persevere, however, and let myself be carried away by the feeling that music wafts through me, which stifles and redeems me at the same time.

*******

Our music theory lessons are often held at the restaurant. Wine and pasta promote the exchange of ideas. Great chefs complement the musician. They flatter all his senses, except the sense of hearing. In a small inn outside Rome, I ask for the menu.

- Non c'é menu, signore!
In these parts, I know exactly what he's up to. He takes me for a fool. Undaunted, I insist.

- Look, my friend, as you can plainly see, we're not Americans!

- There's a menu, but it's not very accurate.

- La carta, prego! I tell him, losing patience.

At last, he brings the menu. We order our meals and enjoy an excellent dinner. When we get the bill, the amount is twice what was listed on the ephemeral menu.

- What do you take us for, anyway!

- Ma cosa, signore? The prices on the menu are what we pay. But we need to make a piccolo beneficio!

Amused, but still rather irritated, I decide to compromise and leave something halfway between his expectations and my intentions.

- You shouldn't lose your temper like that, Gelmetti tells me. This is Italy, where aesthetics and pleasure are more important than money. You are contemptible in his eyes. What he has artfully and reverently prepared for us is priceless. A bit more, a bit less, it's all very subjective. Would you put a price on your music?

I can see the announcements now.

Bach Prelude... 1000 lira
Capriccio diabolico... 2000 lira
Forbidden Games (on sale)... 300 lira
Tax and tip included.

*******

In Santa Cecilia, another one of my classes preoccupies me. Professor Nataletti lectures on major currents in world pop and folk music. Descriptions that are sung or acted are often more credible than written history or geography. Music reflects global migrations and currents. In China, for example, the different dynasties are identified with a specific musical scale. A great emperor begins his reign by changing the scale. The rest follows. From Baghdad the Arabs exported the quarter note all the way to Joho in the southern Philippines. Their 40 musical modes spread throughout sub-Saharan Africa. Flamenco was the advance guard of Islam. Sicily was a battleground and the guitar embodies the history of its Byzantine, Phoenician, Vandal, Greek, German, and French invaders.

We also familiarized ourselves with other instruments. The West African kora intrigues me at once. Which is fortunate, since I’ll soon makes its acquaintance on a more formal footing. Unlike our harmonic system, there are three ways of tuning this instrument, known as tomoraba, silaba, or sauta. It uses thirds, fourths, even fifth notes. Better yet, in sauta mode, the higher octave is tuned one way and the lower octave a different way.

From a Western point of view, the result is complete cacophony. And yet the harmonies it produces for the listener are incomparable. So incomparable, in fact, that one has to wonder why African musicologists haven’t put on their anticolonialist helmets and assembled an expedition to discover the mysteries of our Western music!

My music course can be summed up quite simply as the exploration of the beautiful.