Vinicio Capossela - The omnivorous minstrel

We meet Vinicio Capossela in his dressing room, after two and a half hours of a concert that set the Cavea of the Auditorium ablaze. Besides the regulation white shirt, he's still wearing the bizarre headdress adorned with ears of wheat that he sported on stage. He's still buzzing with the excitement of the show, but he seems calm, almost relaxed, with a smile that betrays all the satisfaction of having gotten through the first, delicate leg of a tour as complex as this one for Polvere – the summer tranche of a double live session that will see him take the second part of "Canzoni della Cupa" into theaters in the fall, under the title Ombra. A demanding, courageous concert, especially in its first half, which revisited almost in full the oldest, most folkloric core of the album. "There were eleven of us on the pitch. A badly mown wheat field of a pitch. And we played two halves, plus extra time," he quips right away, poking fun at football metaphors. Two halves, then, and the first one really kicked up some dust... "I'd really like people to leave this concert feeling covered in straw, in dirt, to feel this physicality of ours, this dust you are and to dust you shall return," Capossela stresses, always ready with a joke: a colleague raises his hand and he immediately shoots him down: "Come on, tell me ticket prices are too high, you tore me apart last time!" And everyone bursts out laughing...

Then he turns more serious as he recalls the various symbols evoked by the show: "It's an open-air concert and we've set these songs in a kind of wheat field where remnants of an agrarian civilization emerge: pieces of festive lights, a cow's skull, the leftovers of some village feast. And there's a season, summer, the dry season, of sweat and scorched stubble, after the wheat has been harvested. Then we chose a non-random opening date, June 23rd, the night of San Giovanni (where the show premiered at the Cava di Ricci in Pignola, in the province of Potenza, ed.), just as it's no accident that we're here today in Rome, on the night of Saints Peter and Paul, since Paul is the saint of the Tarantas."

From Amarcord to Time of the Gypsies, everything begins and ends with a wedding and with the graveyard: they are the alpha and omega of a community. So we too move from the wedding of Maloservizio to the Marcia del Camposanto.

In the Cupa ("the dark hollow") the folk bestiary feeds on diabolical spirits and mysterious apparitions. Like the noonday demon of "La bestia nel grano", which opens the concert like a thunderbolt: "It was the natural starting point," Vinicio nods. "Wheat has to do with fertility, there's a direct relationship with the earth, which is why on stage we're also decked out with straw, with wheat, to celebrate abundance. Then the set continues with Femmine and other female portraits – from Dagarola del Carpato to Franceschina la calitrana – all the way to Componidori, who is nonetheless dressed by the massaieddas, the little housewives. Then there's a series of more nocturnal episodes: La scorza di mulo, La notte di San Giovanni and two Matteo Salvatore songs, Taresuccia and Il Forestiero. Everything is set in the summer season outdoors, by night and by day. Right up to the more festive, farmyard-party songs: Nachecici (the macaroni) and Puttarossa la puttanazza (even saying it out loud makes him laugh, ed.). But as always, everything tied to the community ends with a wedding. Like Amarcord, which closes with Gradisca's wedding, or Time of the Gypsies, which ends with the two of them going off together. Everything begins and ends with a wedding and with the graveyard: they are the alpha and omega of a community. In our case, we close with Lo sposalizio di Maloservizio, which has a really funny backstory, inspired by something that actually happened in Calitri: poor Maloservizio had a death curse put on him, they tied a thread linking his front door to the gate of the graveyard. A thread like that of the Fates of the Greeks and Romans, like that of Lachesis who cut the thread of life. The thread that starts at the wedding and ends at the graveyard, and then wraps around the whole community and the villages where the story is set."

At every wedding there are always the gate-crashers, the ones who weren't invited but are always there anyway, and the party can't start without them. And my gate-crashers are certain unwieldy characters from my back catalogue, whom I've more or less forced into the setlist, like the Maharaja, the King of the cellar from "Che coss'è l'amor", la Pena dell'alma, l'Uomo vivo, San Vito...

From there begins the second half of the concert, with the return of songs from earlier albums. "I brought back, for instance, La marcia del camposanto and Al veglione, which are nonetheless still set within this same kind of culture." But, as at any respectable party, there are always gate-crashers. And Vinicio has a name for them too: "They're the accampanti, an institution of weddings. They weren't invited, nor are they relatives, but they're there driven purely by the desire to live, the desire to be present. They're the most unwieldy, but in the end without them there's no party. And my accampanti are certain unwieldy characters from my back catalogue, whom I've more or less forced into the setlist, like the Marajà, the King of the cellar from Che coss'è l'amor, la Pena dell'Alma, L'Uomo vivo, San Vito... As if it were one big wedding that ends with the uninvited guests."

At the end comes Il Treno, which swept them all away. It's the train of history, the same one that today is stirring up entire parts of the world. A biblical migration that we're witnessing, more or less distractedly. Communities fall apart and can only be put back together through storytelling, as I've tried to do with these songs.

The final coda, however, has a more bitter flavor. And recalling it, Vinicio grows more pensive: "Yes, the concert closes by returning to the album's last track, Il treno, to remind us that this whole ancient world no longer exists. And the train that swept it away is the train of history, exactly the one that today is stirring up entire parts of the world. The real central event of these years isn't the war in Syria, but this biblical migration that we're witnessing, more or less distractedly. We shouldn't only think about the people who arrive, but also about what they leave behind, about how these economic flows are emptying out whole lands and countries. Communities fall apart and can only be put back together through storytelling, exactly what I've tried to do with these songs. That's why, after the train, I added La Golondrina, a Mexican song that has always moved me and that speaks precisely to this, to a swallow forever forced to fly, to keep moving on, never able to rest."

Matteo Salvatore was introduced to me by a French musician, Philippe Eidel, who had the French version (Chants de Mendiants) of our "Lamento dei mendicanti". "Canzoni della Cupa" draws on the heritage of the culture of the land, in which I don't see deep distinctions between North and South. It's everything that isn't urban. But it's not a folk-revival, it's not a philological exercise. I like the folkloric root that draws from the particular and reshapes itself into something universal.

Shared roots, after all, for music that carries a universal message. And what if "Canzoni della Cupa" were the right moment to export a lesser-known face of Italian folk song abroad? Capossela seems a bit skeptical. Perhaps he knows the mechanisms of the record industry too well to nurture vain hopes. Still, he recalls an episode: "I discovered Matteo Salvatore abroad, actually. A French musician, Philippe Eidel, played it for me - he had the French version, Chants de Mendiants, of our Lamento dei mendicanti. Canzoni della Cupa draws on the heritage of the culture of the land, in which I don't see deep distinctions between North and South. It's everything that isn't urban. But mine isn't a folk-revival, it's not a philological exercise. I loathe folklorism, while I love the folkloric root that draws from the particular and reshapes itself into something universal, something that also finds a place in the contemporary world. In certain sayings, in certain popular proverbs, I find a real way of reading the world. And I always think of that line by Ernesto De Martino: Solo chi ha un villaggio vivente nella memoria può essere davvero cittadino del mondo. Well, I think music too can play a role in that."

And so even raising Dust can become a political gesture, contributing to dismantling the system. "Dust is often linked to anarchic gestures - Vinicio agrees - The most famous of all is Antigone's, who covers the body of her dead brother Polynices with dust, overturning the king's order and asserting the law of humanity against the monarch's edict. There are so many gestures tied to dust, for instance Jesus writing 'Thou shalt not kill' in the dust in the episode of the adulteress who was to be stoned. Dust is anarchy, because it's already the disintegration of everything that is established... gunpowder, dynamite dust, raising dust... This year we'll title Sponz Fest Chi tiene polvere spara. It's not an invitation to a shootout, but another village saying that means Whoever has something to say should say it, not keep it to themselves. The greatest sin, as my fourth-grade teacher always told me, is not doing something. Like in the parable of the thirty talents, where the one who errs is the one who buries them underground and keeps them hidden, not the one who puts them to use. So mine is an invitation to make use of what we have."

The tribute to Bud Spencer? He was a man of the frontier with his spaghetti-westerns. He gave us a reinterpretation of certain landscapes in an epic dimension. A more accessible epic than that of the Iliad and the Odyssey. And then the fact that he chose Bud as a stage name from a beer and Spencer from Spencer Tracy proves he was a genius!

Less predictable, however, was the tribute paid to Bud Spencer during the concert. "Because this tour wants to evoke a sense of frontier, of dust, and for me the frontier has always been the western. Maybe specifically the Italian western of Bud Spencer. These songs, after all, come from a kindred basin, a land that was also the birthplace of Sergio Leone's father, born in Torella dei Lombardi. There's no lost paradise in the culture of the land, of the South in particular. These are stories of hardship, of mud, of poverty. But I've always liked the idea of reshaping them in a frontier key, in a way like the western, which gave us a reinterpretation of certain landscapes in an epic dimension. A more accessible epic than that of the Iliad and the Odyssey. Bud Spencer contributed to all this and left a mark, at least on those of my generation. I was very sorry he passed away, and it felt necessary to remember him during the concert, as a master of this genre. I never met him personally, but he always struck me as likeable. Then I have a friend, Marco Celletti, who's my own Bud Spencer... everyone has their own Bud Spencer: the biggest friend you've got. And then the fact that he chose Bud as a stage name from a beer and Spencer from Spencer Tracy proves he was a genius!"

Poetics can coexist with politics without necessarily becoming demagogy. There's something political about playing rebetiko, there's something political about dancing music embraced... As Carlo Levi said, "there's the time of peasant civilization and the time of clock civilization". We're talking about a stillness that by now exists only in storytelling, to which one returns just as the seasons return, as the wind, the wheat, the snow return. Something with no real urgency of its own. You find it when you need it, like a hoe.

The western saga of "Canzoni della Cupa", on the other hand, had been incubating for almost twenty years. With plenty of forewarning signs, from the epic 2009 night of reading on the Formicoso (the Irpinia plateau threatened by the construction of a landfill) to the Sponz Festival, all the way to the publication of "Il Paese dei Coppoloni", the novel that acts as something of a narrative prelude to this musical collection. "I started working on these pieces in 2003, in Sardinia, in San Salvatore, behind Cabras, where some westerns were shot, precisely because it's a frontier landscape - Capossela explains - A year earlier I had met Matteo Salvatore, and in 2001 I saw Calexico for the first time. These are all events that marked the birth of this journey. Another significant stop along the way was the 2007 tour with Banda della Posta: together we toured for almost a year and a half, playing dance music even in out-of-the-way places, because I'm convinced there's something political in doing certain things. Poetics can coexist with politics without necessarily becoming demagogy. There's something political about playing rebetiko, there's something political about dancing music embraced... We played quite a few concerts where we combined anarchist songs, folk music, village sonnets from Calitri, dance music, wedding music. Then I wrote Il Paese dei Coppoloni. I wanted this record to come out while some people I care about are still alive, so I forced myself to release it. Le canzoni della Cupa, however, draw on a stillness. When you engage with that kind of time, you're no longer talking about your girlfriend who left you and in six months you won't have that urgency to remember anymore. As Carlo Levi said, There's the time of peasant civilization and the time of clock civilization. We're talking about a stillness that by now exists only in storytelling, to which one returns just as the seasons return, as the wind, the wheat, the snow return. Something with no real urgency of its own. You find it when you need it, like a hoe.

Joey Burns and John Convertino are truly beautiful people. John really is the most beautiful man in the world... And then I found out he reads Nikos Kazantzakis! He made a joke drawn straight from the book "Zorba the Greek". Calexico put a certain coloring on what they do, with their desert dust, "dust", a word that seems to evoke those aluminum trailers from American movies... Whereas Matteo Salvatore's dust chokes you in the throat and won't let you breathe: it's the dust kicked up by the master's cart as it passes.

And sometimes it's artists who seem worlds apart, like Vinicio Capossela and Calexico, who find common ground. A partnership that's been active for years now and that found a fertile new occasion in "Canzoni della Cupa". "Joey Burns and John Convertino are truly beautiful people - Capossela lights up - John really is the most beautiful man in the world (laughs) They have this air of eternal boys, even though in the meantime they've started families. The last time we went to record I told John: But Joey looks very different compared to six years ago, he's more nervous. And he said: You know... marriage, house, children, everything... the full catastrophe!. And I immediately recognized the line from Zorba the Greek. There's the film, but also the book, and I asked him: which of the two? The book. Incredible, John Convertino reads Nikos Kazantzakis! Really, they're exceptional people, we met a few years ago. In their early records, very loosely, there's something of what I try to do myself - in America there's always been this sense of the frontier in music. Calexico is a village on the border with Mexico, I saw some of their old calendars: there were tractors, symbols of rural life, something tied to the civilization of the land. In my view, the pull exerted by Mexico, by the South, has to do with the land, with something unruly that each of us finds again. The real frontier isn't between Mexico and the United States, but between archaic civilization and clock civilization. That village, for someone from Arizona in 2001, still means access to that kind of frontier. Calexico put a certain coloring on what they do, with their desert dust, dust, a word that seems to evoke those aluminum trailers from American movies. Whereas Matteo Salvatore's dust chokes you in the throat and won't let you breathe: it's the dust kicked up by the master's cart as it passes. There's a song called Lu Polverone, which takes your breath away, it really gives you the idea of the suffocation of this poor wretch, who has worked all day and as the ultimate humiliation has to endure this mouthful of dust. The theme of the frontier helps me make this material, which is actually entirely our own, easier to digest.

I can't be nobody just because someone in England holds a referendum and the stock market crashes, so that I no longer have a damn thing. I have to have something that goes beyond that. And that means belonging to a culture. International bureaucracy should guarantee free movement, but it should never force us into a homogenization of language: we're not all the same, we don't all share the same history. Localisms, particularities matter. It's wrong to use them politically, not culturally.

Meanwhile his musicians burst into the room, hug him, want to go party with him. "This greeting reminds me that this material isn't something made up - Vinicio points out - There's the western, there's the comic strip, there's Calexico, but above all there's a real root, which is the root of my life, drawing on something I perhaps didn't experience directly but that I grew up steeped in through storytelling. And it's a story that I believe belongs to all of us. A world that gave us our roots and that very fast changes have pulverized, even though it has a history spanning millennia. I can't be nobody just because someone in England holds a referendum and the stock market crashes, so I no longer have a damn thing. We live in a civilization where if you have nothing you are nobody, whereas I need to have something that goes beyond that. And that means belonging to a culture. It's wrong to put up borders, international bureaucracy should guarantee free movement, but it should never force us into a homogenization of language: we're not all the same, we don't all share the same history. I believe that localisms, particularities, matter. But of course they mustn't be used the wrong way. It's wrong to use them politically, not culturally."

The theatrical concerts will make room for a different repertoire: the lunar side, the side of brushwood and ghosts. The side of howls and brambles, of branches that against the moon give shape to the creatures of the Cupa: the pumminale, the werewolf, the beast in the wheat...

We could listen to him for hours, but the party is looming, and before saying goodbye Capossela wants to spend a few words on his new band. "A composite group, uniting roots and frontier. When I saw Calexico for the first time in 2001, I was struck by the fact that they had four mariachi players with them. We don't have four, but two, though we also have two people playing pressure drums, the cupa-cupa, this ancient instrument that also exists in Africa. We got them from Tricarico and they bring a radical element to the record. In Canzoni della Cupa, alongside Calexico and Los Lobos, there are Italian masters like Antonio Infantino and Giovanna Marini. And then there's young Francesco Lucisano on chitarra battente, a very much our own instrument. We put together the mariachis, the cupa-cupa, the voices - both Giovannangelo De Gennaro and Enza Pagliara use their voices, but also do research on the repertoire, on traditional song. Then there's an experimenter like Mirco Mariani, already known from Saluti da Saturno, who combines mellotron, percussion and voice. And finally the two guitarists, Asso Stefana (absent at this first date) and Victor Herrera, a Spanish guitarist and partner of Josephine Foster. It's an entirely new group, one that also cost me effort to put together. I think it expresses this choral quality, this plurality of voices that characterizes the world we're evoking. And it all happens in a somewhat radical way, in the sense that everyone does their own thing, but not alone, in pairs: two cupa-cupas, two mariachi trumpets, two guitars, two voices. Of course tonight's concert was just the first cry, the chemistry will improve." And then will follow the autumn version of Ombra... "The theatrical concerts will make room for a different repertoire: the lunar side, the side of brushwood and ghosts. The side of howls and brambles, of branches that against the moon give shape to creatures that show themselves to only one person at a time to escape zoological classification. They are the creatures of the Cupa: the pumminale, the werewolf, the beast in the wheat. Creatures that come to life in the songs."

In just over half an hour, listening to Vinicio Capossela, it feels as though you've taken a journey through the world and through time. From the roots to today, from the district of Cupa to the Civilization of the Clock. And looking closely at the tips of your shoes now, they really do seem covered in dust.

(Rome, June 28, 2016)

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