With an imperious rake of my left hand, I yank the headband free without losing a beat. Problem is, my microphone headset is tangled with the headband and now it’s stuck hanging off the side of my head. I’m not fully into the music at this point. With a wave, Vittorio conducts the band into that section of the song in which I’m supposed to explode with drum fireworks. It’s my name on the ticket, and this is where I’m supposed to show ’em what they paid for.
One hand drumming furiously is what they get until I can get myself untangled. There is a break in the music where the rhythm stops and Fuzy wafts into space with some sprangly guitar effects. Pretty quickly I recover the headset, jam my trouser leg into my sock, cyclist style, and peer out of the foxhole. Vittorio looks like he’s watching a funeral. I kick back in, fully operational. But there is still something wrong. The sound onstage (now that I can think about it) is thin and unimportant. It’s a midrange clatter with no warmth. The drums go bink not BOOM. Even Armand sounds muffled and indistinct. His grin is down to four inches. At the front of the stage, Raiz is in his own private spotlit hell. The band sound has too much volume and not enough power. He’s screaming into the mic to fill the void. In the same fashion, I’m trying to get more sound out of my drums by killing them—which makes them sound even thinner.
Some stages are like that. They just reverberate all the wrong frequencies so that the sound is a jumble. After all, this castle was built for war, not music. For the band it’s the Alamo. We are cut off from one another by the noise. Fuze is hitting the power chords, but his amp just squeaks. Most of the band have their heads down, working to find the pocket, but Refosco the Brazilian looks like he’s sunbathing. He’s grooving.
As we work our way down the set, the audience is slowly picking up momentum. After a few songs, we are all professional enough to pull ourselves together and play the arrangements that we have worked out. All the parts that sounded magnificent in our little theater sound small and dumb on this stage, but we just have to trust that Taketo Gohara, our front-house mixer, is delivering something better to the audience than what we are hearing.
So we’re slogging through the set, slowly working up the crowd but there are still glitches. We get to one of the new songs that I’m supposed to kick off. But my mind is blank and I have no recollection of the tune. I just have to start playing something and see what the band comes up with. The carefully worked out song endings (very important for sparking crowd response) are hit and miss. Even when we do all end together, we can’t help looking sheepishly relieved, when we’re supposed to look triumphant. The songs that I count in are too fast and the ones that Vitto starts are too slow. But ever so gradually, things are improving. Every now and then are moments of actual music.
We get to a Raiz song that he does alone, accompanied only by some clouds of abstract guitar. He’s so relieved for the clattering to have stopped that he really wails into the song. It really is beautiful. The night seems to come down from the sky and blow through us. Then Armand and I do our improvised duet thing. This is always an easy score. Our entire preparation for this moment in the set was comprised of a few words over dinner.
“Will you be releasing upon our grateful listeners the blessing of your bass solo, Armand?”
“If you desire it.”
“Let the people hear all the music.”
So Armand starts off softly and tunefully and pretty soon has the crowd enthralled by some serious African magic. I start stabbing him with little flashes and bursts from my toms. He responds with sharp ripostes, and then we are blazing, hurling insults with our drums and bass. It doesn’t really matter what we play, as long as there is lots of it. After about a minute of raw, random, raging aggression, we suddenly stop. The crowd goes bananas. They always do. Armand and I have been doing this for years. Easiest score in show business. Of course it only works with towering bass players—Stanley Clarke taught us this trick.
By the end of the show, the crowd is actually sounding pretty enthusiastic. We put on a brave face as we take our bows and limp off the stage. The people are still howling as I sprint along the side passage, across the courtyard and over to an administrative building that has a shower. My dry clothes are already there. The shower is problematic, but I cast off my soaking wet gear and slump under the cool water. This is the signal for the endorphins to kick in with a sudden burst. My day’s work is done, and it’s all good….
Or would be, if the audience would stop howling. I can still hear them. The time-honored signal to the crowd that Elvis has left the building is for the house lights to come up and the deejay starts spinning tunes. But this hasn’t happened, and the folks out there are still yelling for more. When they have worked this hard they should get more. But Elvis is in the shower. It’s great to leave people wanting more, but it’s a drag to leave them pissed off about it. I add this to page thirteen of my things-to-fix list and turn the water to maximum cold as the yelling petulantly dies off.
My shower cheers me up terrifically, and when I burst into the dressing room I’m ready to hit the guys with a jocular “Well, that wasn’t so bad….” I haven’t talked to the band since dinner. But the dressing room is still deserted. Where the hell is the fucking band?
I quickly roll up my soggy jeans, shirt, socks, boxers, belt, sweat band, and sneakers. I gather up my earplugs, headset, gloves, and show glasses (wire-rimmed, light, and bombproof). With a last glance around the room for forgotten articles, I’m out of there and heading back to the stage. I’m now suffering from band separation anxiety.
When I come out of the tower, the well-wishers are waiting, but I brush past them. The bandsters are where I last saw them, mooching around behind the stage. Titti and Mauro are pouring wine down them. Everybody has his own litany of miseries to share. Pretty soon we are chuckling over it all. It’s only a show, and nobody died (physically).
There is a solemn absence of comment from our crack management team. Derek has a sage look that says, “We’ll talk about this in the morning.” The journalist from the Italian Rolling Stone is looking blank. Even Giovanni and Eugenio are looking mournful. We can hardly hear Taketo telling us that the front sound was actually pretty good. Mostly, the clues are pointing to suck.
Well, we needed waking up after our all too idyllic sojourn on Mount Olympus. Now we are in Valhalla (where the fallen heroes rise again).
IT IS GOOD TO be back in Rome. We are playing on an island at the center of an ornamental lake, at the center of a giant villa estate. Crammed onto the island with us are four thousand music lovers. Across the water are another four thousand or so souls, spreading over the park. It’s a beautiful evening and the air is thick with anticipation for our show. Since I first came here a few years ago with Orchestralli, playing for eight hundred people, I have been back a few times, with different ensembles, each time playing to bigger crowds. This is going to be great.
In my trailer, I’m twirling my drumsticks and tweaking my ratamacues on a practice pad as my little girls flirt coyly with Max’s suave Italian progeny. Armand is in Barcelona so tonight we have Max on bass. We are all straining at the leash, waiting for the nod. Over the PA there is an announcement requesting that the seats not be trashed. The crowd roars as we get the nod, climb the steps up to the big stage, and hit the lights with horse, foot, and cannon.
“Ciao, Roma!” I pronounce correctly into the mic, and the din surges.
“One! two!—”
BOOM! The band sounds huge. I love these big outdoor stages. All the right frequencies resonate perfectly. We are laughing as we rage through the first few bars. Everything sounds great. We are locked together in rhythm. Then, with a crack of the whip, we cut down to an underlying groove and Raiz takes over. And Raiz is hot tonight. He soars, he roars. He cajoles, consoles, and controls. Max seems to be enjoying watching another singer work while he pumps the bass. Fuze is leaning into it, and Vitto’s face is all crinkled up with joy. Refosco the Brazilian still looks like he’s sunbathing.
He’s just grooving.
All of our cool points of music are working out just like we planned, only with that extra drama that you get from a hot crowd. When we get to my guitar/singing moment, I feel like I’ve been doing it for years. We rip through “Strange Things Happen.” I manage to fit “Roma” into the lyric and the folks lap it up. Tonight I’m channeling James Brown as I improvise a sobbing dramatic conclusion to the song. The folks go wild. Then, after rising up and taking a bow, I’m backing away toward my drums, and suddenly I’m upended! I have been tripped by a monitor cabinet and, mid-triumph, am flying backward into the percussion riser. I hit the deck with an impressively amplified crunch from the guitar that I’m clutching, and the crowd goes even wilder. Somewhat dazed, I crawl to my feet, recover my poise, and with guitar held aloft stride up to the mic. “I rise again!” And a great time is had by all.
All too soon the music is over and Colombo is maneuvering me through the backstage throng to a car, which is going to take me to my shower in a hotel nearby. As the car threads its way out of the park through the departing revelers there is a real crackle in the air. The punters are buzzing as they leave the show. But they’re not as excited as I am. This is going to be a fun tour.
The next few dates pass by very quickly. After a night of self-congratulatory celebration in Rome, Max and I pile into a car with Vitto and drag ourselves up to Urbania for a show, then over to Asti. As we wind down out of the mountains and across the Italian heartland, we are serenaded by Max’s new Greatest Hits CD. Actually it’s a double CD. Vittorio grips the wheel and drives like the wind.
Along the way, I learn a new Italian expression, an expression of such power that it will make the most decadent Italian recoil in horrified hilarity. It doesn’t sound like much when given in English, but observant Catholics please skip the next sentence because I am going to translate: “Pig God.” There, that ain’t so bad, is it? In English, it doesn’t sound like much at all. In Italian it has excellent phonetic impact (Italian speakers skip this): Porrrko Dio!
This term is most effective when used utterly gratuitously, as in, “Where is the post office?…PIG GOD!”
My first opportunity to deploy this monstrosity comes after the Asti show. Emerging from a blissful postshow shower I remark to Colombo, “Ahh that was great…PIG GOD!”
He almost jumps out of his skin. This hardened tour manager is suddenly hyperventilating, sweating profusely, and then falls to the floor laughing hysterically. We sadly lack any such expression in English. Our term for the act of love, most frequently used to celebrate sudden adversity, has nothing like the nuclear effect of this Italian bomb.
Vitto and I are driving up to Senigallia. We are on our way to two days of rehearsal with the Taranta ensemble, in preparation for a string of Notte della Taranta dates. As we drive we are listening to tapes of last year’s show. Listening with mounting dread to the quantity of parts that the Gizmo guys have to learn. This is a completely different set of material. The horde of Salentini that we will be meeting up with all know the show, but our guys will be very busy.
PIZZICA ROCK
Senigallia is a beach town on the Italian east coast. The band is staying at a place right on the coastal boulevard. Armand is back! Which poses again the question of too much bass. Armand is Prince of the Deep, but Silvio, the Taranta bass player, is the social focal point of the Salentini. Sort of like an informal tribal chieftain. And he knows all the parts. I offer Armand my Fender guitar instead, but there is only a low, growling sound from The Deep.
The rehearsal space is an enormous theater with a stage that must be half an acre wide. There is enough room for the twenty or so players and then more space around the edges for goofing off.
And then my brethren arrive! The fathers of Salento, who adopted me as one of their own, have sent their finest sons to perform the brave pizzica music of their tribe, with your humble correspondent as their maestro concertatore, for a short tour of an evening known as: La Notte della Taranta.
Antonio, Enza, Francesco, they are all here! There are a couple of new singers, but it’s good to be back with this familiar posse. The new singer, Clara, is causing great excitement among the younger players. They are brisk and alert when she is on the mic. She sings like an angel.
Spread across the stage we have violin, accordion, bouzouki, keyboards, Silvio on bass, as well as a tangle of tambourines and singers. We have Antonio on traps drums and Giancarlo, who plays an inflated sheep. Add a layer of Gizmo and it’s a very busy stage. And then for the really big moments, we have Raiz.
The players are eager to assemble themselves and soon we are blazing through the familiar songs. Piece of cake! The homeboys completely have their parts. With great patience, they indulgently introduce Fuze and Refosco to the mysteries of the pizzica. There is a lot to learn and the Brazilian ain’t sunbathing now. In fact, he reveals a hitherto undisclosed talent for mallets as he tackles the quite vicious xylophone and marimba parts that Vitto and I have concocted.
At one point Vitto is explaining to the ensemble the required attitude for a certain show moment. His lengthy direction in Italian ends with the recognizable word atmospheric. I have sneaked up behind Silvio, and I whisper “Atmospheric…PIG GOD!” Silvio explodes. With a crunch, his bass hits the floor and bedlam breaks out among the Salentini. A good twenty minutes of rehearsal are lost to shocked, guilty hilarity. The women are hiding their blushed faces and their shoulders are quivering. The guys are wide-eyed, slack-jawed, and suddenly unsteady on their feet. The crew is howling like a pack of hyenas. Fuck-damn! We need something like this in English!
Your average Italian venue
After our two days of polish, we play the first concert. This one is a free show, set in a large circular piazza, so there is a very large and cheerful crowd. With the power of the pizzica it is no problem at all to light the place up. Toward the end of the show, the tambourine players and I are doing a little improvised dueling when there is a dark and mysterious sound welling up from The Deep. Armand has arrived on the stage like Emperor Bokassa. We do the bass and drum thing, but I just hang back and let him duke it out with the three Salento boys and their big war drums. They all break out like the plague and when the band comes back in the piazza is shaking under the stomping feet of what seems like the entire population of Senigallia. This pizzica music never fails.
A PERFECT SHOW FOLLOWED by a perfect shower has me in extremely good cheer as we hit the seaside restaurant for the post-gig dinner and hang. At this late hour we have the place to ourselves. The Salentini have enjoyed their week of music and are returning tomorrow to their lives as farmers, smugglers, postmen, and pirates. Long into the night we talk, laugh, and sing.
I’m making a list of things I like about this country and it’s running many, many pages. Just a few of the things are: the monasteries that hang up into the sky like earrings, the microscopic espressos (for which the Italians have learned to tune out the cosmos for the duration of the two exquisite sips), the habitations that are not blots on the landscape, the absence of plywood, the perfect table settings, the cultural envelope of an ancient and great civilization (no need for plastic patriotism), the unregimented minds, the optimistic maybe-can-do attitude, the natural inclination toward an aesthetically pleasing world, and the impossibility of finishing dinner before 2:00 A.M.
CHAPTER 23
JUDGE HARD PLACE AND THE BBC
(NICE VERSION)
2006
I have been appointed by Her Majesty the BBC to cast aspersions upon my fellow artists. With relish I become a turncoat.
T
oday’s mission is a trip to London to be a judge for the BBC on one of those Pop Idol–type TV shows. Life often throws up strange opportunities like this. Many are the invitations that I get to participate in media events of one kind or another, some of which are naff and some cool. Some are cool but onerous. Some are naff but fun. This one is very much the latter. To partake of some kinetic ritual of this
kind, in the company of millions of TV viewers, is irresistible—no matter how daft. Twelve hours out of L.A., my plane touches down at Heathrow airport at 11:00 A.M. Three hours later, after a shower and a dash across my old home town, I’m deep in the bowels of the BBC Television Centre, getting briefed on the nature of the show and meeting my fellow judges. I’m sharing the judicial bench with Trevor Nelson, a flash radio jock; CeCe Sammy, a vocal coach; and the sixties icon, Lulu. Trevor is a real live wire, Lulu is a dear, and CeCe totally looks like a pop star to me. I wonder why she hasn’t got a record deal of her own.
Our boss (producer) is the formidable and heavily pregnant Noleen. It turns out that we have many bosses, some of whom we never meet. We are surrounded by identical BBC babes, all with perfect skin, posh accents, and clipboards. I’ll never be able to tell which is which, but I’m sure that if I call out “Penelope!” one or more of them will respond.
The game show is comprised of competing duets performed by one pro singer and one celebrity nonsinger. I’ve never followed this kind of show before, but to see these couples come out and sweat bullets as they lay it on for live TV, with an audience of millions, is actually damned compelling. I totally get it.
After each turn, the cameras turn to us, the judges, and we lay into the brave fools. I am ever mindful that these artists do a far braver thing than us who sit in judgment upon them.
But we have a job to do. We have been appointed by Her Majesty the BBC to add jeopardy to the show. Our judgments are hurdles that they must overcome. This isn’t “We Are the World,” it’s Gladiators. Each duet has a different drama, and by the end of the first rehearsal, I can see why tens of millions of people tune in. I’ve got the best seat in the house.
Strange things happen: a life with the Police, polo, and pygmies Page 16
