The Mandolin Lesson

Frances Taylor

Copyright © 2014 Frances Taylor

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Grazie mille, a thousand thanks, to all my teachers and especially to my parents, Molly and Peter Taylor; my late husband, Colin Keiller; my Italian mandolin teacher, Ugo Orlandi; and Paul Marquis, who started me off on the violin and mandolin and speaking Italian.

What is the mandolin? Why learn the mandolin? And most importantly, is this journey for me?

The mandolin is a small half-pear-shaped stringed instrument, which is held a bit like a guitar and plucked with a piece of plastic called a plectrum. A bit simple, perhaps even a bit crude as an explanation, but I have to come up with something that makes sense when I am asked this ubiquitous question. Usually I am asked at unguarded, relaxed moments – you know the kind of thing – when I am having dinner with friends but there are some new people to meet. The new people ask me what I do and I say I am a mandolinist. Eyes glaze over. The new people say, “Oh, that's interesting. What
is
a mandolin?”

That's when it starts; my attempt to give a cool, succinct explanation. Sometimes I try the, “Oh, it's like a lute, only much smaller,” routine. Sometimes it works but sometimes it doesn't, because these new people don't seem to know what a lute is either. (I was thinking Shakespeare and thought it might have made a connection!)

Really, it is all very strange, because the mandolin as we know it seems to connect to so many different genres of music and so many different cultures. Mandolins come in all shapes and sizes – some have flat backs – and most countries in the world have a plucked stringed instrument, a close or distant relative, which has a role in traditional music. Think the
bouzouki
from Greece, the
balalaika
from Russia, the
bandurria
from Spain, the
ruan
from China and the
charango
from South America – the list is just endless. At the same time, the mandolin appears in jazz, folk, pop and rock music just as easily as it does in the opera, ballet and other types of classical music.

Not only that, the mandolin seems to have a history which extends back through the entire timeline of civilisation, to the very beginning when man scraped out the tasty contents of the gourd and used the shell, stretching over it another waste product – gut – to make strings and, in turn, a kind of early mandolin.

So the answer to ‘why learn the mandolin?' isn't just because I love its sound. Although I
do love
its sound, which is at times sparkly, effervescent, and at times, evocative and illusive. After all, how can eight pinging cheese-wires make such soulful, stirring music? But the answer also has to do with the oneness of the instrument – the way it can connect to so many people at so many levels.

And that brings me to my last question – is this journey for me? Or what I really meant is – is this journey for you? Well, I don't expect everyone to learn the mandolin or even music. (Although the incredibly inspiring project El Sistema, which provides free instruments and free lessons for all children in Venezuela, does bear testament to the life-enhancing power of music for everyone.) However, I have read and I do believe that feelings are the language of the soul. I also believe that music is a way of expressing those feelings and that it can communicate whether it is understood or not. In other words, you don't have to play an instrument or have any particular musical knowledge to fully enjoy music.
You
are already fluent in the language. That's right. Just in case you think I have made a typing error, I shall repeat it.
You
are already fluent in the language of music. If you are watching a film, for instance, you know immediately the mood of what is happening or about to happen by listening to the music. You know when it's tragic and you know when it is ecstatically happy, and you know all the emotions of the spectrum in between.

The thing is that this journey of mine and, if you read my book, the journey you will take, isn't really about learning the mandolin or learning about music. Yes, the mandolin is my thing. It gives me that fantastic rush of pleasure endorphins just as sport, sex or dark chocolate, does for other people. (Actually I
love
dark chocolate but I'm not much good at sport and as for sex – well, that's too much information.) You, on the other hand, probably want to do something completely different from me. Climb a mountain, a sponsored bike ride across India, improve your skiing, learn to paint or cook, learn a new skill or revisit an old skill, travel somewhere unheard of – I can't begin to list the infinite possibilities. Whatever it is though, learning something new, honing a forgotten skill, a sponsored challenge, a grand project, a little project – the process of achieving a goal or many little goals helps us to have insights about ourselves and others.

Yes, my journey is set in the beautiful land of Italy, but it could have been set anywhere. My story is not just about music or about Italy – they just combine to become a delightful coat-hanger upon which to hang the garment that is the story. The theme of my book is timeless and universal. It is about a journey that we are all on, a journey to find out about ourselves and to reconnect with who we are. In this sense,
the mandolin lesson
is not just for mandolin lovers like me –
the mandolin lesson
is for everyone.

(As a precaution, I've included a small glossary at the end for those of you who might find the odd technical term a bit confusing!)

I look at the train ticket in my hand with awe and reverence, as if it is a Roman artefact belonging to the British Museum, which through some miracle I have been allowed to handle and inspect closely. On the orange ticket is printed ‘from LONDON to PADOVA' under the title ‘Outward' on the left-hand side. The destinations are reversed under the title of ‘Return' on the right-hand side. At the bottom of the ticket, it states that the journey will be via ‘SEALINK OR HOVERSPEED – FRENCH PORTS – PARIS / LILLE – BASEL / DELLE / VALLORBE / VERRIERES – ISELLE / CHIASSO – MILANO'. Normally, my train tickets are for the tube and printed with destinations such as Oxford Circus or Bond Street.

It seems quite incredible to me that I am about to depart from Victoria Station, London, on such a long and international train journey. It is October 1994 and the Channel Tunnel is not yet a reality. Until now, British people have been acutely aware of their island status. In order to go abroad, it is necessary to cross the sea, historically by ship and recently more frequently by air. Despite the cultural differences within our United Kingdom, it is still difficult for us to understand how people separated by language, governments and hugely contrasted cultures, are able to cross land borders, easily and quickly, in order to visit friends and relatives, go to work, undertake shopping or do many other routine activities.

Even more incredible is the fact that I am not leaving this island for a once-in-a-lifetime holiday trip or a great railway journey. I am travelling almost a thousand miles to Padua, Italy, with a special purpose: to study the mandolin. However, unlike young music students in their early twenties, I am unable to stay there for a year or two when I arrive. I have to maintain the life I already have in England, with its family and work commitments, and this means I will return almost immediately. I will spend twenty-four hours travelling on various trains (including a quick sea crossing of the English Channel).

It is now almost a quarter to nine in the morning and when I arrive at this time tomorrow morning in Padua, I will spend the entire day at the Music Conservatoire. At five o'clock in the afternoon, I shall have a few hours to wander around the nearby streets and to eat a meal in a restaurant. At about half past eight in the evening, I will catch the Venice-Paris overnight train from Padua Station to start my homeward-bound journey. After another twenty-four hours, I will arrive home in London. The whole expedition takes three days and two nights – the nights being spent in the train. I leave on Wednesday morning and arrive home early on Friday evening.

In essence, I am planning to embark upon a course of music study that will entail me attending a mandolin lesson, approximately once a month, in a foreign country. I am going to commute from England to Italy for a year, or maybe two years.

I look around at the other travellers and I notice a party of Japanese people. The young girls, small and elegantly dressed, contrast with the huge moulded plastic suitcases they wheel along the platform. I carry a small, navy blue canvas bag, which I am about to test for its potential. It is supposed to be strong and yet small and well designed to carry papers, a spare shirt and other overnight things. Instead of papers, I have my music in the large pocket section. In addition, I carry the mandolin in its case and a small handbag which, like the canvas bag, has a shoulder strap. I intend to travel as light as possible.

As I board the train and choose a shabby, worn, blue plaid seat next to the window I settle down to think. I am looking forward to thinking time on my journeys. The train bumbles slowly through Kent, sometimes described as the garden of England. The rhythmic movement of the train is disturbed unexpectedly from time to time by a jolting movement. Despite these unexpected movements and the consequential fierce noises of jarring metal, I still myself and begin to reflect on my work. I wonder exactly how all this began.

*

It begins with a telephone call while I am cooking pasta for the evening meal.

Just as the telephone rings, I notice that the water seems to be bubbling a little too fast for my liking.

A man's voice speaks with a strange accent that I don't recognise. I am immediately suspicious and my head races with all kinds of ideas.
Is he crazy? Drunk? A serious enquiry from abroad about my playing? Or perhaps someone I know very well playing a trick on me?

Eventually, after some difficult moments, I understand, at least I think I understand, what he is saying. He is Ugo Orlandi (the distinguished Italian mandolinist), and he is staying in Dublin whilst undertaking a concert with an orchestra called
I Solisti Veneti
. The day after tomorrow he is returning to Italy via a connecting flight at Heathrow Airport. He wants to meet me at the airport to have a chat and to receive, if possible, a copy of an essay I had written on the mandolin. (He knows about me and my essay from a visit he made to a mandolin factory in Naples. I had left a copy of my essay with the owner of the factory, because it concerned music written by his grandfather, Raffaele Calace.)

After I put the phone down, I return to my dinner preparations but it is difficult to focus on what I am supposed to be doing. My head is in a spin. Being a classical musician means that I belong to, what some people believe to be, a small and elite group within society. Within this category of classical musician, I belong to another very tiny group, which is almost an extinct species – the professional mandolinist! I don't like being thought of as part of an elite group, but I dislike even more being nearly extinct! Orlandi's work had for some time been an inspiration to me through his recording of the beautiful Paisiello mandolin concerto, which I absolutely
adore
. It seems unbelievable that he had just phoned and asked to meet me.

*

Four days before Christmas 1989, I find myself waiting at the airport for Maestro Ugo Orlandi. I have been wondering what he will look like. I am suffering from pre-Christmas stress and my mind is fragmented as I mentally try to catalogue various lists of jobs that still need doing in the ever decreasing time available. Periodically I bring my attention back to the people arriving and I realise that it will be easy to recognise Ugo since he will be carrying a mandolin case. However, when the musicians of the orchestra
appear, it isn't clear at first who is carrying a mandolin case. Somehow Ugo notices me first, probably because I am looking intently for someone. He is tall, with an olive complexion, dark receding hair and a beard. He has a wicked grin and twinkling brown eyes. I have the impression that he is a little older than me. Maybe it is his greater height and broad shoulders or maybe he exudes an aura of expertise. Anyway, the mandolin case is swung over his shoulder like a pregnant tennis racket carried by a Wimbledon champion. I have never seen a mandolin case like this before.

We spend an hour together talking about the mandolin and musical life in England and Italy. I give him a copy of my essay as requested. He is encouraging and interested in my research into mandolin music, and I feel hopeful that it is the beginning of a mutually helpful working relationship.

For the second time in its 400-year-old history, the mandolin is undergoing something of a revival. The term
mandola
was first used in Florence in 1589.
Mandolino
, the Italian for mandolin, Ugo tells me, is the diminutive of
mandola
, just as
violino
, violin, is the diminutive of
viola
. In other words, the present-day mandolin is a small
mandola
. The Italians worked from the biggest instrument downwards when they chose words of description, rather than the other way around. I imagine that we shall be able to swap all sorts of useful bits of information as we each explore the libraries of Europe in search of forgotten manuscripts.

Ugo introduces me to another mandolinist, Dorina Frati. She played with Ugo in Dublin. Together, they were soloists in a performance of Vivaldi's double mandolin concerto.

Before we part, Ugo pulls a large, glossy white sheet of folded paper out of his bag and hands it to me. I read the words at the top of the sheet. ‘
Programma del corso straordinario di Mandolino
': Programme of the Extraordinary Mandolin Course.
Straordinario
might be better translated as special, in which case the heading would be ‘Programme of the Special Mandolin Course'. Either way, it acknowledges the unusualness of this course of study. The four-sided prospectus laid out the requirements for the seven-year course, the scales and repertoire to be studied during each of the years, as well as a list of pieces from which a choice could be made for the two diploma exams. So many beautiful Italian names, some well-known to me and others unknown. Gervasio, Eterardi, Barbella, Conforto, the list was endless – all like dishes on a menu. Each name beautiful in itself for its musical sound and representing some great treasure to be cherished by the ear and sensed by the body. So often people are disparaging about the mandolin because they think it has little or no repertoire. The prospectus was an affirmation of exactly the opposite. I feel a great surge of excitement about the whole idea of the course and I think that if I had my life again, how fantastic it would be to be able to attend a course specifically designed for my instrument.

*

Between Christmas and the New Year, I receive a second surprise phone call, this time from the Royal Opera House asking me to attend a rehearsal the following day for Verdi's opera
Otello
. It is a stunning and much publicised production starring big names – Placido Domingo, Katia Ricciarelli and the legendary conductor Carlos Kleiber. I am contracted for two rehearsals and three performances. OK, yes I know this definitely sounds a bit elitist, but although I may have privately fantasised about such a possibility, all the odds were heavily stacked against me, and it is the proverbial ‘dream come true' experience. I am at once exhilarated and utterly amazed – there has been a big shake-up in the mandolin world to make this break possible for me. The lives of the mandolinists usually booked have taken them in different directions. I am so grateful for the opportunity it gives me to extend into a new area of professional activity. Until now, most of my work has been as a soloist, giving recitals around the country.

At the first rehearsal, I meet another mandolinist, Sue Mossop. Although mandolin courses do not exist here – they are not advertised in any prospectus – Sue managed to break new ground by becoming the exception. She was accepted as a student at Trinity College of Music and she was able to continue her mandolin studies with her previous teacher. Whilst she was able to study harmony, history of music and other shared components of her music course with her contemporaries, it must have been strange being the only mandolinist – sometimes special, sometimes isolated.

The rehearsal takes place in the Crush Bar, famously so-called because of the crush to get a drink in the interval. It exudes richness: deep red and gold, and glittering chandelier light. I am part of the off-stage band, which includes four mandolins, two guitars and an oboe. Apparently, when Giuseppe Verdi wrote the opera, he had in mind a small mandolin band. When it was first produced at La Scala, Milan, in 1887, just over one hundred years ago, the band comprised of six mandolins and
mandolas
with four guitars. They walked around the stage whilst playing. We sit hidden, between the wings, and are conducted by an assistant conductor who is kept in contact with the orchestra pit by means of headphones and a small television monitor.

The Maestro, Carlos Kleiber, takes the rehearsal himself instead of sending along an assistant. I have a healthy respect for the Maestro, knowing that some great names are difficult to work with. However, the rehearsal goes easily and at the conclusion, the Maestro compliments us on our good playing and asks if we were part of a mandolin orchestra. We tell him that we are not.

*

It is still January and I receive a letter from Ugo introducing himself and saying everything he told me during the phone call before Christmas. I realise that he had tried to prepare in advance for our meeting. The letter is headed Brescia, 29
^th
October 1989.

I had also written a letter to Ugo, which I had handed to him personally at our first meeting. I was unhappy about my essay since it had become a bit of a disaster, and I wasn't confident that my Italian language skills were up to explaining the technical details. The essay – really a thesis of sorts – had been for a research diploma, which was not awarded to me and at the same time was discontinued as an exam.

I didn't really want to give Ugo a copy of my thesis because I felt it was somehow negated since it failed the exam, not to mention an exam which didn't exist anymore. More than anything, though, I think it showed my driving desire to find out more about music for the mandolin – music that you can't find in any shop. I just wanted to find music that I could play on the instrument whose sound I loved so much. This is the reason I found myself turning music detective and becoming interested in the libraries and museums that might harbour secret supplies of mandolin music. Sadly, as far as the essay/thesis was concerned, without any research skills I found it hard to present my argument in an academic manner. All I had wanted to do was to raise the profile of the mandolin; to share with others this small, fragile, yet enchanting and passionate instrument.

In the meantime, I enrolled on another course – a Master's degree in which I was able to specialise in the performance of mandolin music and to pursue my research into its repertoire. The course has helped me to develop the research skills I so desperately needed and I am now about halfway through this part-time study.

*

It is July and I receive another surprise phone call from Ugo. At about five o'clock in the afternoon, and after a gap of about six months, Ugo is explaining that he is in London to play in a concert this evening and could I come? He was playing at the Mansion House as part of the City of London Festival. Once again, my head is in a spin. I can't miss this opportunity, but I have to get a ticket and find a babysitter for my five-year-old son.