Passport to Puglia #5

Embouchure

Saturday's journal written today, Monday, such is the time warping effect of Trullo Adagio.
Like the swallows, I've been flying to Italy's heel every year forever it seems, never tiring of the simple pleasures on offer there.

This weekend Locorotondo has hoasted a mini jazz festival - each evening a different band playing to a largely local audience, all crowded into Piazza Rodio, a tiny envelope of space in front of the Mother church.

We settled quickly into a routine of getting there early to get good seats and feasting on takeaway pizza before the band came on.

Friday's band were terrific, Sunday's not so great, but on Saturday we were exposed to the whirlwind trumpet playing of Fabrizio Bosso.

It's a voyeuristic thrill to watch at close quarters as a maestro coaxes miracles from his instrument - the finger wrestling, the lip strain, the circular breathing, the subtle eye contact prompting complex interplay with fellow band members ...and all the while this combination of slow, familiar tunes, splintering into a torrent of unpredictable notes (barks, chirps, groans, belches and bell-like purity)
Magical. Unforgettable. Analogue
Thank you Locorotondo

Apologies:
The photograph hopelessly fails to capture the magic of the concert described and only acts as a personal memory nudge.