AN ITALIAN EXPERIENCE
 Above the village of Castelletto di Brenzone on the eastern shore of Lake Garda the seats were gradually filling up in the Piazza d'Ulivo. A lamp illuminated the Madonna over the door of the cafe where glasses and bottles were stacked to provide the nourishment for those who had come to the light music and jazz concert in the square. The olive tree itself was floodlit next to the makeshift stage which was covered, every inch of it, with musical instruments of various kinds. As we took our seats we observed the crowd - mainly Italians with a sprinkling of Germans and English. In the background the wisteria climbed the steps at the side of the cafe. Someone rescued a cat from below the stage. Babies in prams were parked in the front row and older children fought and scrambled in the Piazza. Candles aiieared on the tables, although few people seemed to be drinking yet.
From the balconies of houses around the square people leaned out - a dark, languid Italian beauty, two elderly ladies, a moustachioed military type and an old man in a vest.
Initially about fifty chairs formed rows in front of the neat tables with their check cloths. Soon there were about sixty present. The square, barred to traffic, bristled with notices, informing of today's concert, the forthcoming fishing competition, the latest sale goods to be found in a local shop, and one which said, 'Put your rubbish in the right container'.
The police presence amounted to two officers, enjoying an evening's entertainment, with little prospect of trouble. it was difficult to imagine an outbreak of violence in these surroundings - Italians attacking the musicians or the theft of traveller's cheques. Another old lady appeared on a balcony and the children were still squabbling as the musicians appeared - a dozen of them destined to play guitars, saxophones, trumpet, trombone, violin, keyboard and percussion. The silence was punctuated by a baby crying as the introductions were made. The 'maestro' was an Itaiiafi living in Holland with his Italian wife, and the other players were German, Dutch and Hungarian. The maestro, Angelo, asked, 'Are there any Germans here?' This question was greeted by a bellowing sound from the direction of the bar. The music ranged from Glenn liiiller, through German swing, Polish polkas and slow waltzes, to 'Sweet Georgia Brown'. Each item received vociferous applause.
As the music played the waiters drifted among the spectators, a man rushed round with a video camera and a child stuck his fingers in his ears. The policemen took off their hats and girated and clapped with the rest. In the small space in front of the stage a little girl pirouetted and twisted to the music whilst another group of children gathered in a doorway and then climbed up the wire-netting fences and switched the lights on and A few people wandered away down the hill, a baby sitting on his father's shoulders rubbed his eyes, and the ice cream adverts outs the cafe shone brightly.
By now some two hundred people had arrived and there was much waving of hands when a seat became vacant. Lines of washing mingled with the general merriment. Long-haired youths satalongside cigarette-smoking mammas. Two little girls wearing dresses with sailor collars - a sort of Italian version of Laura Ashley - smiled and smirked at their friends. une of the policemen made his way into the bar for a second drink as a wailing child was carried away. As the Dixieland music continued, a mother shouted to a small boy to get off a gate, 'Guido, cosa fai?l
An interval was announced and flowers were given to the lady at the keyboard. The concert had been going for two hours but there was more to come.
We decided to call it a day (or night). To the strains of a numi-ler entitled 'Tropical Swing' we headed down the hill. The children were still fighting, the candles burning, and the policemen and the Pladonna and Child smiling brav@?ly as they waited patiently for the last lights to go out and for darkness to fill the square once more.
|
