"Talking about music is like dancing about architecture," said Frank Zappa. But enough words to talk about music and dancing, I think.
E 'evening of jazz at the brewery in Bologna. Organizing concerts takes me to live as a local place of applause and the paying public. Every Tuesday is "behind the scenes" that falls to me, the lighting of that starter who sketched the fabric of every live performance.
Four instruments sit on the stage. First you place the battery, brass plates that meet the whipping of two magic wands. Then the piano keys in a dark suit arm a fellow dressed in white. In the background stands up bass, violin strings grew, while a trombone hole silence, singing an aria from overseas.
they are! A quartet of thoroughbreds of the swinging jazz sounds that blend in to the rhythm of bebop.
Tonight I have no appointments, no one to talk to journalists and while I think of becoming public and travel notes, comes forward, punctual as the dawn of a day you would not want the first incident.
Ready Lucia? I am the engineer. "
" The guys are already here. "Reassured him.
"I I'll be there! "Replica him. Communicate
four musicians who live there will be a sound engineer is like removing the safety net in an acrobat before double somersault.
with confidence and I get closer to the mixer with air expert.
"Are you the engineer?" Asks the pianist.
"Yes", I ment.
If I were in front of the panel of a Boeing 747 would be more relaxed and with a little effort I could find the autopilot and fly.
The evening begins.
"Lighten the sound of the trombone!" Suggests the bass player.
I watch the lights flashing and a sense of helplessness I repaint the face. Before me, an endless series of buttons, levers and knobs are arranged in a policy that completely ignores. Move the first lever and raise the overall volume of the speakers. A sound of thunder fills the peaceful public chat at the tables. The silence reproaches me first, then follows the glances of the drummer and I see only his wand raised.
"Lighten the trombone!" Insists bassist.
My eyes follow the input cable that connects the microphone to the mixer and restricts my action buttons relating to it. There are eight. What will be the light color?
The Eyes of the Bassist I beg.
I turn secure the first. No effect.
The bassist insists.
The second button is red. Instinctively not touch him but I break the deadlock. The only relief and response part of a warning whistle that pierces even the thought.
E 'panic.
'm like a blind man driving in rush hour traffic.
The third button is grayed out, reassuring. We tried again and remain in apnea to capture even the slightest variation. Rotates clockwise while I still can not breathe and the sound of the trombone began to emerge from the tunnel that had intubated. Here is the light color, I think. Bassist smiles. Listening to that tune which has regained enamel and those highs that were missing.
The tension dissolves, I resume breathing.
"Bury me along with the last artist, because my life would be useless without them," wrote one day, but I know that if this continues, will have to bury me first.
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