Have you heard? In Florence they play jazz!
Out of the historic centre, something very unexpected moves in the world of concerts
The guy stood tall in front of me in the crowded room. Where are you from? I asked. “Sweden!” he proudly replied.
Wow… I’ve been to Iceland but never to Sweden before. I’m sure it must be a beautiful land.
Sweden is also a new entry in the list of the acquaintances I have collected until now at my Sundays at St. Mark’s English church in Florence: Corea, Canada, France, Singapore, Austria, many Brits and a lot of Americans, not to exclude Italians. Of some of them I still have email contacts, even though I am not always sure if they will want to really keep in touch or not.
I held on with the conversation, with the inevitable “what do you do in life?” I think I already know a bit about his Sundays, as he is a member of the choir.
He plays trumpet. Oh… a musician! The conversation grew interesting.
He’s a fan of jazz, then named his favourite band who does fusion, but I can’t remember their name, I’ll have to ask him again. Then…
“Where would you suggest to go to meet good people in Firenze?”
“Florence Jazz Club” came out as prompt answer. And so our chat continued, until each one went their own way.
I have not seen him since then, maybe he had been busy. His girlfriend sings, and singers sometimes travel.
But I was impressed by the unusual fact. I mean, we’re in Florence, Italy, not New Orleans… I would have expected a violin before whatever other kind of music here.
5pm on a Friday. I became bleak white when the organist looked at me in odd saying “A concert here in church tonight?? IMPOSSIBLE! I have to tune the new organ!!”
Phelan and his pianist arrived 10 minutes after this totally embarassing conversation, carrying their many bags on their own shoulders. After calling the boss for instructions, he had the idea to play in the first floor salone. Excellent! It’s even more Florentinian style.
Music in a piano nobile (the main floor of a Renaissance building) is an ancient habit of families who used to host friends. These were the connections of the past, made of gatherings around an instrument, a piano, a violin, or/with someone singing.
Good thing we were not at La Scala, where such incident would cost reputations if not jobs. No, thank God here tonight nobody got angry. Nobody would dance on the mess, but the mess was a mess anyway, and caused discomfort. Mine was made evident by me never guessing what native language people who came in would speak. Any buonasera got a good evening as a reply, and viceversa. I guess I must learn to get used to it, as these antipatici imprevisti (unpleasant surprises) are normal in the music field.
At 7:30pm the music began streaming through the stairs, where I had to remain to watch the entrance and invite in any passer by who might have been attracted by the sound from outside.
The most awaited moment was starting, with Phelan the hitter keeping his eyes closed the whole time. Anyone who hears what he does with his drums, in the end will love jazz.
They started in low tones, as if to probe the ground....
Then they raised them as if to manifest their intention to meet until they assembled a ballad that reached me in a way that I could no longer stand still....
More than a concert, it was a conversation between two, one pushing the other to be heard: notes from the piano, hits from the drums.
That happened in Florence, Italy. Where they some-often-times play jazz.