Antonio Raia - A Sax for the Last Ones

We caught up with saxophonist Antonio Raia just before the release of his debut album, "Asylum", dedicated to a precious Neapolitan cultural space, the former Asilo Filangieri. A work that blends intimate fascination with the instrument, reverb, and elusive melodies. Raia's music is as deep as it is a tribute to a certain free-form tradition, as well as to some classics of Neapolitan tradition - reinterpreted for the occasion in a thoroughly unusual and distinctly personal key. A sprawling interview in which the musician, born at the foot of Vesuvius, tells his story, revealing the genesis and secrets of this debut work, in which the contribution of sound engineer and experimenter Renato Fiorito was fundamental.

“Non c’è albero che voglia male al giardino/ Non c’è figlio che non abbia avuto utero/ Non c’è uomo che non possa farsi asilo” (Lyrics for the special edition of "Asylum"): these beautiful words also bring me back to those expressed by Avitabile in "Tutt'eguale song 'e criature", because after all "nisciuno è figlio de nisciuno, tutt nati dall'ammore". But here there's something more, and the asylum takes on an ambivalent meaning: on one hand understood as nest and cradle, on the other its political, social value emerges. What did the Asilo Filangieri mean to you, and how much did it influence your music?

The Asilo Filangieri is a space I'll always feel connected to, for the great opportunity of human and musical exchange it's given me over these years, during which I've tried to lend a hand whenever I could. The building sits right in the midst of the chaos and beauty of Naples' historic center, a place I've lived in and frequented my whole life. It felt natural to start from a place so familiar to me.

The album has a distinct spatial dimension to it, it almost feels like you're right there beside you while you play the saxophone. Is that just a personal impression, or was it a deliberate choice, with a clear intention behind it?

The element you're describing was the cornerstone around which my technical research, together with Renato Fiorito's, revolved. To push even further the idea that the listener should feel part of and close to the creative process, at times we deliberately let the sounds of the city into the recordings – if you turn the volume up you can hear them more clearly.

How did the idea come about to revisit, and essentially pay tribute to, the Neapolitan tradition with "Torna a Surriento" and "Dicintencello vuje"? Why these two particular pieces of history and not others?

Roots are an opportunity for historical readings of the present. The Sorrento coast renewed in me the concept and the power of the sea, which is why in "Torna a Surriento" I tried to play by speaking about the sea itself more than about the song as such. I also wanted there to be a love song untouched by time, and "Dicitencello vuje" is one of those. There's no faithful interpretation of the composition here, and its deconstruction stems from a wish to be even more faithful to the consequences of being in love.

A sense of isolation from the world dominates the album, yet today it seems everyone feels less alone thanks to social media and the web in general. For Antonio Raia, can solitude – understood as deliberately choosing to be alone – also serve a redemptive function against all this, or is it just a false remedy, and is it always better to connect to the world in every way possible?

"Asylum" is only falsely a "solo" album. It's a collective work beneath the surface, just think of Fiorito's presence, the history of the former orphanage, of those who lent microphones and much more. I firmly believe it's never a matter of the what but always a matter of the how, and that the internet and its social platforms are a wonderful opportunity to engage with. Instagram, Facebook, and so on are like the great squares of a metropolis, where you need to understand how to move around. They offer beauty just as much as emptiness, so you have to learn to choose. In any case, solitude is an action I consider necessary to get to know yourself even just a little and to feel better within the whole, an action that should be repeated like a ritual.

People always talk about Vesuvius as the symbol of an energetic, fiery city, just like a volcano, yet living next to such a massive natural phenomenon unconsciously stirs up certain anxieties, moods that are in a sense tied to the volcano. What's your relationship with this natural giant? Has it ever inspired your music?

Having an active volcano at home is, besides a threat, a great means of heightening the awareness that we're always too small in the face of nature's overwhelming power, and it ends up becoming a good yardstick for noticing beauty and not getting sucked into one's own microcosm.

When did you start playing the saxophone? Who's your favorite saxophonist?

I started almost by chance at nearly twenty, and grew more passionate about it as my sense of listening developed. I don't have a favorite saxophonist, nor do I make rankings, which I hate in the creative field, both as a listener and as an artist. I can, however, mention among my main influences: Archie Shepp, Anthony Braxton, Ornette Coleman, Joe McPhee, George Adams, Ronnie Cuber, Wayne Shorter.

The sound is entirely acoustic, recorded live, with no overdubs or electronic effects, and Renato Fiorito was a great help with that, right?

Renato Fiorito has been, and still is, invaluable to every one of my artistic projects. Having a sound engineer with such deep musical culture and creative ability is a real added value to everything. My idea of sound has always been to strip things down to the essential. I play the saxophone because through it I manage to describe things I can't express in any other way, so I need it to be as close as possible to the gut, to the innards, stripped of any possible superstructure.

A new scene seems to have emerged in Naples, a kind of youth wave somewhere between (neo)melodic pop and the rhythmic ideas/discoveries that have always come from places like London and Berlin. I'm thinking of Nu Guinea, but also Liberato and others. Do you follow today's Neapolitan pop scene? What do you think of this pupular "rebirth", halfway between mainstream and underground?

Even though we operate very differently on every level, it's impossible not to know about these two acts you mention here in Naples, not to mention that I personally know almost the entire live band of Nu Guinea, and they're people whose musical skill and competence are beyond question. The city's underground scene is very strong and constantly evolving; sometimes, in search of wider success, some artists choose to move into more pop-oriented circuits, and now that the city has become almost a brand thanks to TV series, books and a tourism boom, things that have actually always existed within the walls of Naples can suddenly find a bigger echo.

“The Children In The Yard” almost seems to want to lead the listener back to the image of children playing in a circle in the middle of a poor courtyard, abandoned by the rest of the world. Where does this composition come from?

“Asylum” is dedicated to political asylums and to nursery schools as places where you learn through play, so while I was playing I kept thinking about how many lives have been deprived of that sacred carefreeness. The track depicts a group of children playing in a courtyard, where someone trips while running, someone shouts, someone holds hands, someone stands still and someone else climbs. It's all imagined, but to me the vision is crystal clear, and for some reason the whole scene is viewed from above.

He's only just made his debut, yet he's already played with Chris Corsano, Adam Rudolph, Elio Martusciello, Alvin Curran, Colin Vallon, Lisa Mezzacappa, Fabrizio Elvetico and Caterina Palazzi. What did these experiences leave you with? When did you realize the time had finally come to try it alone with a debut LP?

Every encounter, musical or otherwise, is a co-author of my compositions. I play what I've lived through and what I can imagine because of what I've lived through. The ancient Greeks used the word Kairos for the right time for things; last September, it was Kairos knocking inside me, and all I had to do was go along with it.

Com’è nata “The Sound Of Voices Mingled With Scraps”?

Like the voice of someone who is last in line. I wanted it to be hard to let out a scream, as if it were being held back. Hard to find, to listen to, but also hard to release. So I took off the mouthpiece and started blowing into the sax with all the air I had.

You'll be taking the album on tour – what will the live shows be like? Is there any surprise you'd like to give us a preview of?

The live shows all stem from the same source, but their evolution and structure change from place to place. I use the album's compositions as sketches to work from, but that doesn't mean I'll play all of them, let alone play them in full. Renato Fiorito, besides handling the sound, often adds electronic music interventions thanks to his experience in field recording, which enrich the message even further. Even the length varies depending on the acoustics of the venue we're working in – we're very careful to make sure the performance is never repetitive.

Ride the wave of great music

Add OndaRock to your favorite sources on Google Discover. Don't miss our reviews, milestones and latest news straight in your feed.

Follow on Google