#amaraterra

[londranotizie24]

Amaraterra & Mr Morski al The Jago: un concerto inaspettato

Di Silvia Pellegrino Gli Amaraterra si esibiscono al The Jago Dalston (copyright Silvia Pellegrino).Gli Amaraterra & Mr Morski si sono esibiti sul palco del The Jago Dalston. Performaces increbili, pubblico impazzito, ma ad un tratto tutto si è trasformato in altro... Nella moltitudine ritroviamo salentini doc nonche’ appassionati di pizzica venuti da tutte le parti di Londra La sala densa di fumi colorati, tigri, ombrellini di carta e pubblico in trepidante attesa fanno da cornice all’esplosiva ouverture di Mr Morski agli Amaraterra sul palco del The Jago Dalston. Il tornado di generi musicali accende i corpi stimolandoli con ritmi diversissimi tra di loro, una digressione di generi musicali distinti eppure ricuciti insieme dalla brillante rock star bulgara che ha la potenza di una supernova. Sa bene che molti nel pubblico sono italiani, e nella moltitudine ritroviamo salentini doc nonche’ appassionati di pizzica che sono venuti da tutte le parti di Londra per lasciarsi trasportare dal calore di una musica tradizionale, le cui radici affondano profonde nella terra. Nella precedente intervista rilasciata prima dell’evento al The Jago, Alfredo Giani (mandola, chitarra e voce) ci ha spiegato che uno dei principali intenti della musica degli Amaraterra e’ ricreare l'atmosfera di piazza che è la base più arcaica e “pura” della (loro) musica. Amaraterra in concerto al The Jago Dalston (copyright Silvia Pellegrino).Mina cantava del cielo in una stanza. Gli Amaraterra riportano invece la piazza in una stanza Prendendo assolutamente per buone le sue parole e avendo successivamente ascoltato i loro brani ma senza mai averli visti dal vivo, rimasi molto colpita da tale affermazione. Le atmosfere suggerite dai testi e dalla musica immediatamente trasportano chi ascolta su un altro piano. Mi sono detta - che incredibile potenza - e si’ che l’immaginazione agevolata dal loro talento mi ha rapita, ma mai mi sarei aspettata di rivivere ad occhi aperti la mia gioventù campeggiante e gioiosa nella penisola salentina. Mina cantava del cielo in una stanza. Gli Amaraterra riportano invece la piazza in una stanza con una forza in grado di far provare quel famoso trance che tutto ripara. Istanti magici, corali; complice anche l’intreccio di voci che cantano storie diverse. La musica non riparte perché è intrappolata in un limbo di malagestione manageriale che degenera col passare dei minuti Dopo una pausa che sarebbe dovuta durare il tempo necessario per i cantanti di riprendere fiato, ci attende la seconda parte del concerto. Rientro dentro il locale, richiamata dal calore e dalla voglia insaziabile di musica ma ad aspettarmi c’e’ tutt’altra atmosfera. La luce fredda della torcia impugnata da un uomo della sicurezza che ora e’ sul palco insieme ad alcuni componenti del gruppo, ha rimpiazzato il fumo, prima attraversato dai fasci di luce colorata. La musica non riparte perché è intrappolata in un limbo di malagestione manageriale che degenera col passare dei minuti. Gli Amaraterra si esibiscono al The Jago Dalston (copyright Silvia Pellegrino). A conti fatti abbiamo un'accusa ingiusta e il concerto interrotto Mi guardo intorno, e oltre alle facce dei presenti a forma di punto interrogativo, ritrovo la mia amica Sophie (nome di fantasia) la quale mi racconta che e' stata costretta a fornire il suo documento e i dettagli della carta di credito. Prosegue dunque raccontandomi l'antefatto: Sophie durante il primo tempo aveva trovato una giacca di qualcuno per terra e per non farla calpestare ulteriormente, l'aveva raccolta e poggiata su un muretto alle sue spalle. Pochi istanti dopo la giacca e' stata nuovamente scaraventata a terra perche' aveva urtato un bicchiere di birra posizionato accanto al mixer (una decisione questa assai infelice e poco professionale).E' dunque partita la caccia alla ''strega'', accusata ingiustamente e intimata di mostrare il documento e di lasciare i dati della carta di credito qualora il mixer fosse stato danneggiato. Io e il resto degli amici rimaniamo basiti. ... Continua a leggere su

[idontwearblack]

Song of the Week - 15 May 2017

Amaraterra - Cozze

Over the last few years I have become more and more interested in cycling outside of the Tour de France, which has been a favourite for a while. This lead me to The Telegraph’s The Cycling Podcast who not only cover the aforementioned Tour but also the other grand tours as well as a weekly podcast. The Giro d’Italia is currently on and their daily updates are fantastic as is their opening music by Amaraterra, which gets stuck in my head following a listen to the podcast.

[donasonica]

[shortlist#2]

Questa è una mia personale selezione della line up [di donne] del prossimo Womad, interessante e magico festival che si tiene in quel di Londra e dove quest’anno suoneranno anche Amaraterra, un band che ha base a Londra, suona musica popolare del sud, e a cui auguro un gigantesco merda, volendogli un gran bene! Non ci sono nella selezione, perché, come accade spesso, ho dedicato questa oretta di…

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[beats-and-scribbles]

The Bite of the Tarantula

 “If you want to get married in a good family, you don’t mess with pizzica.” warns Alfredo in his rich, Southern Italian accent. But it’s a windy Friday night, the moon is out, and we’re in the wilderness of the East London docklands. Behind a red velvet curtain, the rich mahogany interior of Jamboree beckons, tall candles flickering seductively over the low-slung stage. Flames send ripples of light dancing over bagpipes and tamburellos- large tambourines- before plunging them back into the darkness. Furthermore, Amaraterra is the only pizzica band in London, assembled via Gumtree ads written exclusively in the Puglian dialect. My good marriage can wait.

As soon as I enter the threshold of Jamboree, I feel I have stepped into a den of contraband; of antique pianos and home-brewed beer, the club’s dark floorboards exuding the promise of quality musical tradition. Federico suddenly digs his spurs into his tamburello and starts to beat a vibrant, galloping rhythm. Carla, lead singer and commander of the whole affair, comes down off the stage and starts two-stepping in a circle in the middle of the room. She looks wonderfully alluring in a long black dress, and a short red cardigan pulled close over her shoulders. Soon Alfredo, the mandola player, has come down off the stage too, following in her wake, two-step, run, two-step, run. Cassandre breathes fire down the bagpipes and the tamburello ramps up its boot-shaking vigour. Soon members of the crowd have joined in, Italians and Brits alike, and are two-stepping, running, two-step in a large circle in the middle of the room.

This dance, Carla later tells me, is called pizzica pizzica and is traditionally a courtship dance. “It was danced at family celebrations and was an occasion for ladies to get out the house and be noticed by boys. The women would lead the dance, making circles, and the man would go around her, courting her.” The air is pulsing, the rattlesnake tamburello addictive, and Carla has singlehandedly managed to get almost the entire room dancing. But it’s not exactly something my mother wouldn't want to hear about.

“Ah…,” Alfredo smiles, “But pizzica actually means bite, referring to the bite of the tarantula… If only you understood the Puglian…” He calls over  Federico, who starts to sing in the thick dialect of the South, which few Italians themselves can actually understand. “The songs are about work, love… Mostly love, but sometimes they are bit more pornographic…” He pauses considerately before kindly translating for me.

  Where did the spider bite you?

Between your breasts?

Or further down, between your legs?

  Now this is a bit more like it. “Thousands of years ago people used to believe that there was this tarantula that would bite girls, women and sometimes boys, causing them to dance until they fell on the floor in convulsions. They needed to do this to sweat out the poison the tarantula gave them. Pizzica pizzica is just the dance to cure to the bite; people stamp their feet on the floor to the rhythm of the tambourine to cure the ladies that got bitten by the spider.” Alfredo leans in conspiratorially. “But the first dance, the pizzica tarantata, is much more secret..." Even in London, it seems, the pagan origins of this dance remain steeped in mystery and intrigue.

The pizzica taranta was first described in the 11th century and was originally spread all throughout the Mediterranean and Anatolia. It has  survived only in Puglia largely due to isolation and syncretism. I am reminded of the trance genres of Moroccan gnawa and Tunisian stambali, which are still used to exorcise demons and illnesses. They originated with the African slaves employed by the Arabs, and to a large extent, have been Islamised, but the demons still bear a strong resemblance to their African counterparts. Similarly, tarantata seems to have stemmed from pagan practices. “Nowadays we have Santo Paolo, the protector of the girls who get bitten, but probably originally it was some sort of god, like Dionysus or someone.” says Alfredo.

Pizzica’s pagan origins and risqué lyrics, in spite of all Berlusconi’s antics, make it a rather unlikely fit in arguably the world’s most Catholic country. According to Carla, it has survived in the Southern countryside under this Catholic facade for a long time, perhaps due to it being sung in the Puglian dialect and therefore outside the Italian mainstream. Fifty or so years ago, however, it began to experience something of a comeback. “People started to play and sing these songs more publicly, even if they didn’t agree with the morals. Some wouldn't. My mother would never have mixed with these people!” Though safely married to a Brit, I wonder what Carla’s mother now thinks of her being the lead singer of the only pizzica band in London…

“But these daya Puglia pizzica is a fashion!” exclaims Carla. “It has come back detached from all negative stigma. This new generation has revalued pizzica and we appreciate the values which transfer to our society.” I look at her inquisitively, picturing some Bacchanalian trance rave amidst the sun-soaked vineyards. She laughs. “Not values! But the joy of dancing, the joy of taking part in a song which belongs to our tradition but at the same time is so modern. Now the new generations play, sing and dance all the time - at all events, all parties.” It certainly seems that Amaraterra have injected that sense of irreverent joy into the room this evening, as couples continue to dance in their range of polished and goofy styles.

The fabulous opera singer Mark Glanville takes to the stage to perform ‘Klama’, a woman’s and child’s lament for their husband and father, who has left the family to find work.

'Why are you leaving, daddy?' 'To live,' the father replies.

'The poor man sweats to make the rich man fatter with his labour.'

Sung in the Greek dialect of Griko, I don’t understand the lyrics but I am deeply moved by the performance, and the rich baritone which silences the room.

As I leave, I am already mapping out a pizzica route to Puglia in my mind, and I briefly tell Alfredo of my plans. He looks up at me in surprise. “Alright Eloise… But remember, it’s a very rude music. It’s not for good girls, or good boys perhaps….”.  Visions of convulsing women and galloping tamburello cartwheel through my mind. Oh yes Alfredo, my good marriage can most certainly wait.

 By Eloise Stevens