Enrico Rava at Milan's castle aka leave the technique, take the heart and keep the storm at bay

It was unquestionably an Italian night.

- the leading daily newspaper runs a story on a special performance by trumpeter Enrico Rava, to be held at Castello Sforzesco, a monumental yet gracefully balanced construction, a remnant - beautifully preserved, tapestries, helm, bricks and turrets - of Milan's past as a feud of the noble Sforzas and Viscontis. Rava is on his way back from Umbria jazz, headed to Iseo Jazz where for the umpteenth time he'll be awarded for topping "Musica Jazz"'s poll on Best jazz musician. The castle is in full revival and hosts a summer-long series of cultural events. It's one of those nights anyone that counts canNOT miss, especially if he or she is into jazz. Or at least claims to be, which usually means a couple of Diana Kralls and Norah Joneses on the mantlepiece, next to the soundtrack from "Ray" and a copy of Nick the Nightfly's latest compilation.
I decide I COUNT and I AM into jazz - no copies of the infamous cds though, sorry. It's free: all we have to do is show up at a specific time and place and get our invitation.

Here's where it gets Italian. I had almost forgotten how much fun my people can be.

1-The newspaper published the wrong date for the invitations givaway. It was the day before. I show up and they're all gone. Suggestion: get to the castle early and do the blink blink. No bling bling, this is Italy yet bribing won't get me nowhere. Blink blink. Mascara galore.
2-I switch to Italian mode, load up on mascara, do my thang. I beat even promoters and security to the gates. When the first people show up I almost move a couple to tears. They both have a spare invitation and basically fight to decide which one I'll use to get in. I get in.
3-SIR Rava is there. I guess he walked into the castle's stunning central courtyard and decided he would be in character. He's sitting by one of those kiosks selling panini and Fanta, his legs crossed, a blue Oxford casually hangin out of his pants, looks relaxed, vaguely blase', greets fans and friends (Romans, gentlemen... lend me your ear...and we will, Henry, we will) and blesses them with minimal gestures of his right hand.
4. I find a seat. Next to me, "Ms. Leech": she's alone waiting for her hubby who's late, spots me from afar, decides she loves me and that she must entrust me with the story of her life, without ever pausing to breathe and possibly within the following half hour. It's not as bad as it sound especially because it turns out she knows Rava, they're acquainted more like, and she has a couple of interesting anecdotes about the guy from Trieste.


"Enrico, he had a beach house in Corniglia, Cinque Terre (that is Liguria) same as my family! He was so grumpy back then (some 20 years ago). Him and his first wife, both always pissy. And we didn't even know he played the trumpet. I guess he wasn't that good at that time. Then he left his wife, sold the house (funny how the two categories are often dumped at the same time) and moved to Chiavari. Anyway, I just spoke to him and he said he would like to get a house on Lago Maggiore... same as my family!"
(AIN'T HE LUCKY?)
Me: so... what about his playing? You like it? Is this the first time you hear him?
(OUTRAGED LOOK)
"Why, no! I first hear him years ago, he went back to Corniglia and played at a sort of homecoming celebration. His trumpet stole my heart. Today jazz is all I can listen to. Jazz and Eros Ramazzotti, but that's more for my husband. You know (KNOWING WINK), he's German"
Me: oh, you're a jazz fan, ain't that great! And what do you think of Paolo Fresu? (for the record, in my record, a much better trumpet than Rava's, and artistic director of Umbria jazz. His "Kind of Porgy and Bess" with a Moroccan oud player creeps under your skin)
"Paolo who?" says the jazz lover...
Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on the point of views - it WAS also night of music. And Rava played.


He plays I'm getting sentimental over you. Easy living. I remember April. Estate. Scrapple from the apple. The man I love. Poiniciana. Misterioso. One encore, a blues. All in one set: we're trying to beat a storm, it's been breathing down Milan's neck the whole day. You can feel it weight down from the sky. People look up every two seconds.
"Enrico said he looks West to see if it's coming. And it's not coming" says Leech.
Also spracht Zharatustra. I feel so safe with Enrico Weatherman Rava watching over us.

He's accompained by Mr. D'Andrea at the piano (who among other notable products delivered the score for "Last tango in Paris"). D'Andrea's playing reminds me of Monk's, but in a messy fussy prissy way.
Rava and D'Andrea stop two bars into the first piece to fix an obnoxious feedback from one of the speakers.
("I don't understand, it was working til one minute ago!" pleads the sound technician, his hands on his waist).
They fail miserably at a first attempt of call-and-response. They're in sync ALL THE TIME, which defies the concept of c.a.r.
Rava breakes the notes more often than I like and he gleefully glides, full slur ahead, on the trickiest fingerings.
On D'Andrea's solos he walks to the back of the stage, coughs and shakes SHAKES his trumpet, valves down, as if it was a wet umbrella. I shiver.


People here don't applaud at the end of each solo nor do they go "m-mmm" or "ahhhhh!", leaving me as the only freak doing it, that is until I decide to act pro and clip my lips and legs. I still do a little neck move, tho. After all, the guy in front of me has been snorting his (unlit) cigar, literally pushing it all the way into one of his nostrils, all the time. So give me a break.

There is all that. And yet, despite all the previous caveats. Yet it turns out to be a precious night.


As Enrico plays I am reminded of the wise words of young sax prodigy FC: "Rava doesn't have a great technique but he has heart". It may be the rusty, rugged, boorish heart of a seasoned sailor, but he has it and that's what he plays with.
I am also reminded of the words of my friend BM, who once said - and scores of jazz musicians and critics before him - there is no sorry musician, no bad piece of music, each and every one of them has a reason to exist and something to offer.
So for once I wash and fold my preconceptions. I forget I don't like how Rava o.d's on mute and long silences and proudly parades his introverted horn. And not only I discover he can play unmuted but also find a reason and meaning for the existence of his broken notes and slurry fingering. I find that meaning in his last piece, the encore, a blues. I find it in a hint of self-mockery (introducing I remember April ... "by an author whose name I don't remember, must be the old age"). I find it in his tribute "to Bix and Louie, who invented jazz". Well said Enrico.

At the end of the night, Leech's hubby joins us (I suspect he's been there all the time, but was trying to avoid his spouse's turrentine chatter). The storm spares us. And as I turn around to chase the echo of Rava's last notes, I realize they bounce against the back wall of the castle. I'm left wondering of other trumpets and other times. When the sound of trumpet was a call to battle. rather than a call to prayer and good time.

Than you Castello Sforzesco. Grazie Milano.