L. to R. Marta, Bruce and Carlo

The spirit of Naples was perfectly captured by the famous Neapolitan composer LIBERO BOVIO, who wrote, "Ej'so' napulitano, e si nun canto, moro!" (I'm napoletan, and if I don't sing, I'll die). During an Easter (2003) visit to this vibrant city my wife Barbara and I got to see this spirit close up.

Our Neapolitan friends Carlo Lella and his wife Marta D' Auria took us to a concert of Neapolitan music at the Trianon - "Il teatro della canzone napoletana" (The theater of Neapolitan song). This charming theater, constructed in the historic center of Naples in 1911, resembles a small opera house, complete with several tiers of box seating. It was recently refurbished after many years of neglect (our friends told us that just prior to its restoration the theater had served as a pornographic movie house!).

The concert featured the Italian tenor PIERO QUIRINO, and the Accademia Mandolinistica Napoletana, an 8-piece mandolin orchestra. Five of the players had traditional mandolins (Italian style with rounded back and sides); and two others played the slightly larger mandola. Another member played a bass mandolin (larger yet), and alternated with a 4-string bass classical guitar. Well-known Italian classical guitarist GIOVANNI DELL' AVERSANA (with whom Carlo had studied for three years) accompanied the mandolin orchestra. There was also a percussionist.

In spite of its ornate setting the concert was decidedly informal - like Naples itself! There were even a few sing-alongs, including the well-loved O Sole Mio (no, this song was not written by a Venetian gondolier), and Funiculi, Funicula. Out of almost two dozen songs by numerous composers, however, three in particular caught my ear - all composed by E.A. MARIO.

MARIO wrote Funtana all'ombra (Fountain in the Shade) in 1912. This lovely song contrasts the seemingly eternal spring-fed fountain with transitory human lives. Around the fountain the generations meet:

"The first was the grandmother who went there to drink, and close to her there was a young boy who was looking at her * * * in the shade of that fountain they start to speak together, and to love each other.

Then I too went to that fountain where once I saw you. We had come by different streets but returned together embracing, knowing that we will never leave one another.

How many people will come to that fountain in the coming years? How many marriages will be celebrated? Especially in summer the girls in love wait at this fountain * * * "

The evocative Santa Lucia Luntana, written in 1919, is considered the Hymn of the Immigrants. It is one of MARIO's most beautiful songs. Marta (whom I thank for the history and translation of these songs) tells me that E.A. MARIO is the progenitor of "the song of the immigrants," a musical genre inspired by the mass migrations of Italians to the New Continent during the decade of the Great War.

Situated near the sea, Santa Lucia was one of the last vistas that Neapolitan immigrants saw from their departing ships; and the melancholy voice of the mandolins in this lovely piece evoked the image of moonbeams playing upon a restless sea.

"The ships depart for distant lands.
On board the people sing: I'm napoletan!
While they are singing the gulf has already disappeared,
and the moon, in the middle of the ocean, lets them see
a little bit of Naples.

Santa Lucia!
Distant from you,
how much melancholy there is!
You travel around the world,
you go to find your fortune * * *
but when the moon rises,
it is impossible to stay
distant from Naples!"

The program finale was MARIO's Tamurriata Nera. The "Tamurriata" is a lively song in which the drum (tammurro) shaken by the singer becomes the protagonist among all the other instruments. E.A. MARIO wrote many "tammurriate," but the Tamurriata Nera is very famous.

This song was born from a real event. On an auspicious day in 1943 at the maternity ward of the Loreto's Hospital a Neapolitan girl gave birth to a black child, apparently the fruit of her amorous encounter with an American soldier.

MARIO tells this ironic story without any hint of vulgarity:

"I don't understand, sometimes, what happened * * *
and it is impossible to believe in what you see.
It is impossible to believe in it, it is impossible to believe in it!
It is born a baby who is black, black * * *
and his mother calls him Giro,
yes! she calls him Giro * * *

Hey! turn and turn * * *
Hey! turn and turn * * *
Either you call him Ciccio (Neapoletan for Francesco) or 'Ntuono
(Neapoletan for Antonio)
Or you call him Peppe or Giro,
the fact is he is black, black
very, very black!"

The climax of this song is sung in staccato fashion, bringing the glorious chaos of the Neapolitan street into the theater; and QUIRINO's vocal gymnastics would have made an auctioneer weep!

It is sometimes said that when Neapolitans talk, they seem to sing. I can verify this. The day after the concert we were driving down to Paestum to see the stunning 6th Century B.C. Greek temples. I was sitting in the front seat with Carlo, and Barbara and Marta were in back; when Marta spontaneously began to sing a charming little song. Before I could identify the tune, however, I realized that she had simply dialed up a friend, and was talking on her cell phone!

Neapolitans are fond of saying, "see Naples and die," implying that there is nothing else between Naples and Heaven that is worth your time. I would add, "hear Naples and sing! "

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