Robin Hayward
Nouveau saxhorn nouveau basse: Elegy to a Failed Instrument

LA RECENSIONE

Old country men speak little and slowly because they know that in the end there's nothing to say, that everyone - except them - are fools.

I'm not talking about those who, through the care given to the grandson or the current canary, regain the sparkles in their eyes, eager to bite their slice of Eternal Return, nor about the sweaty churchgoers who endlessly seek that plenary indulgence that cleanses them from every sin and can present them as candid, soft, and fragrant as freshly washed sheets before the penetrating glances of an accusing god.

I'm talking about the old ones who swear when they read the front page of a newspaper, who shout "fuck off" to their card game partner for a poorly timed play, who change their underwear once every two weeks. If they have grandchildren, this doesn't mean they want them around too much; even if they admit the existence of some kind of demiurge, they certainly don't waste time kissing his ass, settling the matter by paraphrasing Heine: "Dio mi perdonerà. È il suo mestiere".

These are people who may not have seen it all, but they've intuited it all; perhaps they no longer believe in anything, but nothing has killed them.

With an old man of such kind, you have to strike up a conversation during the rare moments when he's in a good mood: usually around mid-morning when - after a couple of small brandies on an empty stomach - a tipsy calmness of a warrior at rest mitigates the riotousness forged over the years and the neighbor transforms into a diary where they can write their memories.

Sit with him at the bar counter and, more than to the content, pay attention to the sound of his words; to that thick, muddy voice corroded by a long-standing tobacco habit: the essence of "Nouveau saxhorn nouveau basse" is all here.

An old tuba with a furrowed brow that slowly fills the room with its deep baritone. Vibrant notes, long, drawn-out, separated one by one and lost forever in a haze of memories.

An old tuba and the story of an entire life marked by deep drags of smoke. A lazy monologue floating mid-air thanks to a cunning game of enveloping echoes where the whole intensity of the sentences is supported by silences loaded with subtext.

An old tuba with an unkempt beard, calloused hands, and grave gestures that weigh the effect of its anecdotes on the face of whoever listens. A minimal classical declined to a drone ambient sui generis; an essential, powerful, and vivid eloquence that translates the rich refluxes of a brass heart into images.

The voice of an old man can be an invitation to travel like the siren of a ship about to set sail.