A is for Accordion

There are over 500 churches in Rome and probably twice as many accordion players. I have no complaint with that; it’s a lovely instrument. Lyrical, versatile, and complete. I’d go so far as to suggest that the accordion is a more effective treatment for depression than any of the SSRIs, SSNRIs, or atypical anti-psychotics that are spending all those advertising dollars. But only when used as directed.
I’ll give you an example. I came to Rome in 2006 with my then-wife, my brother and his wife. We had a great time tromping all over the city but each night, our feet sore from negotiating the San Pietro cobblestone, we were invariably confronted with the task of humping our way up the incline of Via Cavour in order to make our way back to our hotel. Every day we swore we’d find a way around it and every night we were foiled.
Our last night in the city, brother John and I were sure we had found a direct path home, but as we strode on, everything started to look uneasily familiar. We were all getting pretty cranky and accusations about our ability to read a map started to seep into the air. Suddenly, as if on cue, a compact but dapper man in a linen suit sauntered through the alley wheedling some Neapolitan tune out of the huge accordion strapped to his chest (A baritone accordion?).
Immediately, the air was sweetened and our mood brightened. Smiles flickered; hands were held. My brother’s wife slipped into his arms and they deftly waltzed across the cobblestones. OK, maybe I’m getting carried away. We were still pretty cranky but just for a moment, things got… Well, maybe I’m still overstating things but it was a cool suit and a really big accordion and I distinctly remember it to this day.
I grew up with the accordion. Not like I grew up with the aforementioned brother, in the same house and everything, but it was always around. This was northeast Ohio where the accordion and polka went hand in hand. We learned to polka in school; in religion class to be precise (true story). Sunday morning TV included Polka Varieties (with Wally and the Polka Chips) and if you’re from the area you know what happened whenever someone from Parma wrote in to Ghoulardi (If you’re not, never mind). My sullen contemporaries and I tended to regard the music and the instrument with scorn but our toes still tapped. Years later at my nephew's wedding reception, I knew I was home when the dance floor, which had been a veritable no man’s land, was immediately swamped when the Deejay threw on a polka. Hell, it wasn’t even the Chicken Dance.
Somewhere along the lines the instrument picked up street cred and some versatility. For me I think it started with Flaco Jimenez’ appearances with Ry Cooder and Doug Sahm but then again, the Band had a great way of sneaking it in amongst all those layers of keyboards. When it started to show up on Springsteen albums it was safely out of Eastern European ghetto and when R. Crumb’s Cheap Suit Serenaders recorded Persian Rug, reclamation was complete.
Here in Italy, I suspect its appeal has remained constant. The average street player has as good a chance of being a grizzled septuagenarian as some sleekly tailored young dude, and is likely to be a man as a woman. One of my favorites is a woman who works a corner near the Pantheon, expertly wringing Sabre Dance out of her box. I had hoped to get a picture of her but she won’t stop moving long enough for me to focus. The kid in the collage recently started to show on the strip in front of the Forum but works his way through a nice traditional canon.
Repertoires vary. Walk through a restaurant district most evenings and you’re bound to hear Strangers in the Night, My Way, and Besame Mucho. The Love Theme from the Godfather is another standard. There are those who try to stretch the instrument with limited success. A few months ago, some guy outside my window was pumping his way through Europe’s The Final Countdown. I moved shortly thereafter. I put a coin in the cup of the woman in the derby and she immediately broke into I will Survive, which, come to think of it, may have been her reaction to the fact that it was a really small coin. At the time I just figured she recognized me as an American and, as we all know, Americans love Gloria Gaynor. I walked away.
A more disturbing trend is the nascent effort to update the instrument itself. The young man smiling for the camera also works the Pantheon but accompanies himself with a little karaoke machine (I think his mom is his mixmaster). The young lady in black tries to bring a touch of elegance to the proceedings and filters hers through a synthesizer so you end up with Keith Emerson playing La Vie en Rose. The worst is the kinetic little guy with a boom box working the blue Metro line. The subway is hot and crowded enough without having this guy bouncing around.
Actually I think the instrument is best from about a block away. Preferably a block parallel to the one I’m on. That’s not a knock. I’m really fond of the instrument. (I’ve even thought about getting a small one and annoying the neighbors.) I just think it sounds best when it’s wafting, just working the edges of perception. There’s something very, well, Italian, about walking home at night and catching the faint scent of an accordion in the air. Even if it never fully materializes, there’s something very sweet about the promise.