Gigi Masin

It was a rather rare opportunity, the one granted by Biennale Musica under the artistic direction of Caterina Barbieri for Thursday 15 October: an evening in the evocative setting of the Teatro Piccolo Arsenale, wrapped in the waves of vibratory light conjured up by Gigi Masin, a cult Venetian composer whom the rest of the world fights over but whom Italy still struggles to appreciate at his true worth.

The uniqueness of the event — sold out for weeks — lay in the performance of Masin's debut "Wind", an ambient jazz gem recorded in '86 and here played in a full but duly reworked version, for a line-up of electronics, grand piano (both played by the composer), trumpet (Marco Baldini) and double bass (Neil Charles).

On stage, Masin carries himself with the ease of someone who favors musical substance over posturing: a simple black t-shirt, a pair of billowy trousers and a silent nod are his calling card to the audience. And the audience, captivated after just a few piano details, responds to the breeze of these electroacoustic winds with an almost religious devotion: no phones waved above heads; the urge to photograph and record proof of the concert gives way to the desire to immerse oneself in the ocean of the present moment.

Everything works with the same naturalness with which water slowly fills a glass: the tracks from "Wind" are blended into an unwavering stream of consciousness, stretching and contracting over an hour and a half of performance, encore included. The interplay between the three is a matter of pure alchemy: without ever raising the volume, but playing each note as if it were the first and last of their existence, the musicians set the electronics in dialogue with the details of a trumpet which, exploiting the timbre of the mute, underlines the narrative fabric through subtraction. The double bass carves out soft rhythmic textures, then dissolves into discreet drones, amplifying the otherworldly feel of the ensemble. In its rarefaction, the live show recalls the atmospheres of instrumental David Sylvian on "Gone To Earth" or of Mark Hollis's sole solo album. It closes on an emotional peak, with "Call me", the track originally placed at the opening. Here Masin's voice moves us just as much as his piano does, and it manages to do so, fittingly, using a handful of lines as simple as they are universal. “Search me/ Find me/ Kiss me/ Call me, love”. When the lights go down, it's clear that the thunderous applause isn't enough to give thanks for this magic.

photo: the Wind Trio (credits Andrea Avezzù – Courtesy La Biennale di Venezia)

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