A story of freedom
My father is a saxophonist (he’s actually a doctor), but he used to play the clarinet when I was a child. He is the kind of man with highly selective interests that demand his full attention and commitment over any other topic. Music was no exception. His favorite music was, and still is, the traditional Jazz from New Orleans and Dixieland. He had a Geloso tape recorder with several tapes, featuring Louis Armstrong’s Hot Five and Hot Seven, Jelly Roll Morton & his Red Hot Peppers, New Orleans Rhythm Kings, Original Dixieland Jazz Band and the revival group called Yerba Buena Jazz Band.
I was fascinated by that Geloso machine, with its mechanical clicks, toy-like colored buttons and that comically small speaker. My dad used to play the tapes in the afternoon after work, and sometimes he played along with his clarinet. The result was sometimes good, sometimes okay, and sometimes comical. As a result, this quickly became a favorite source of jokes and teasing in our family.
At that time, I couldn’t imagine that I would follow in my father’s footsteps a decade or so later. After moving to Rome, I started playing my dad’s alto saxophone as the ultimate way to tease him. The instrument—a cheap gift from his mother—had never been his favorite; he disliked its tone and had chosen the clarinet instead. Consequently, the saxophone sat forgotten in its case, and this alone piqued my interest. At the time, my father was practicing, and occasionally torturing, a song by one of his heroes, Bix Beiderbecke, called ‘Singin’ the Blues.’ It features an intro played on a C-melody saxophone, which is essentially a tenor in C, by a great musician called Frankie Trumbauer. With neither skill nor knowledge of the instrument, I tried to replicate that tone and, quite surprisingly, I was able to capture that feeling.
From then on, it was mainly a snowball effect. Jazz ceased to be just a way to tease my father; it became a passion—a visceral one. I started taking lessons and even bought my own 1930s C-melody sax. One of the main drivers of this unexpected passion was certainly a desire to connect with him. As a result, many of the decisions I made in the beginning were driven by that need. So, I would listen to traditional Jazz on the Geloso machine and try to transcribe solos and parts. I was reasonably good and fast at it, and my dad was really proud of me.
After a couple of years, my father talked me into joining a band made up of his old school friends. They were looking for a tenor sax player; besides, the limitations of my C-melody—mainly its intonation—had become hurdles to my growth and performance. I had to buy a new instrument: a tenor sax. Since everyone on the scene was obsessed with vintage horns, we looked for a good piece from the 1930s. I tried several saxes, but nothing surpassed my C-melody in terms of tone. Finally, I found the one: a 1929 Conn ‘Chu Berry.’ It was badly beaten up, with scratches and dents everywhere. The color of the brass was unique—a deep, almost reddish hue. The tone was incredibly powerful and full; it sounded more like a baritone than a tenor. I was in love with it from the get-go.
I am profoundly grateful to this saxophone for the many hours of joy, sweat, power, and rage it has given me. But most importantly, this sax helped me understand who I really was. Its tone was the perfect tool to play the jazz of the ’40s, ’50s, and even the ’60s—from Hawkins and Young to Rollins, Coltrane, Shorter, and Getz. I could play whatever I wanted and move beyond early jazz. I wasn’t just a clone of my dad; I realized I didn’t need to please him in order to connect with him.
In the end, I didn’t just find a new instrument; I found my own voice within his, turning an old family joke into a journey toward freedom.
