Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Report from Bologna (three) - ex mercato 24

The funeral that leaves all of us without too much suffering is the one of domestic objects. Still it is one of those activities that bring about a feeling of new life. In a solemn ritual the almost dead object is judged for its last functional or decorative value. Ghosts step out of the cupboards and voices are heard behind non - existing doors. Then a force awakens within, the spirit of the ancestors straightens shoulders and the piece gets ripped of of its last resistance. In a short one-man procession it is brought to the sidewalk and left there until morning light comes sweeping the streets.

These objects provoke the same hunger to gather as pieces washed upon a shore. The story of a shipwreck can take you back centuries. What's the story behind all those domestic refusals? At night the streets are full of shadows. She steps into a tipi of light, picks up an old suitcase and an umbrella and walks away.

I have an old catalogue in my possession, a gift. It's the kind of booklet that should end up in a box and left on the sidewalk. I can't throw things away; they are storytellers and I'm still listening. It's the catalogue of the seventh edition of Angelica, held on six to eleven may 1997. That year's them was plunder phonics, the art of sampling - it is the art of giving new life to sounds that were buried. Nowadays, Angelica is one of the lighthouses in the world of sound.

Link has left the building. In some stage of their existence they must have moved to another part of town. Their space was taken over by ex-mercato 24. Mercato means market. It's run down, because of the lack of money, and vivid, because of the coming and going. The backyard is full of pieces of wood. At some time they can be converted into tables, a stage, whatever. there is some wasteland around. The building itself, a line of cubic rectangular spaces, is used for political, social and cultural activities - a small theatre without seats, a bar, a computer room. On the evening of my concert, Bengali or Indian or Pakistani immigrants were attending Italian lessons.

Ricky was helped by two friends - forgot their names - guys from the north-east of Italy, where winters are fierce and grappa shows mercy. They had a magic bottle of good wine that never got empty.
At nine o'clock the room was a mess; at ten o'clock we were eating homemade pasta at a big table; at eleven o'clock Luca and Giovanni from Mondocane had changed one side of the room into a radio room of a cargo ship. at midnight Lukas was curing a cut in his foot. At one o'clock - during my set - I saw how the last pasta was handed out to the guests and at three o'clock on e of Ricky's Friuli friends filled six cups with rum and six cups with pear juice and that was the good night ritual of the evening.

Fifty people were there to see the concerts. the door money covered our travel expenses. The bar had a good night, good enough for the ex-mercatoneers to survive some days.


Link :



Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home