Lassel stà… l’è roba de barbun (“Leave them alone… that’s homeless stuff.”)

Blog curated by Marco Ramelli, TU Dublin Conservatoire

When I first began to take an interest in the history of blind musicians in relation to the evolution of classical music, I often encountered a question among some colleagues—a question that I still occasionally receive today: Why are you so focused on blind street musicians? They do not seem to matter to the history of so-called “art music.”

This reflects a common doubt about the relevance of looking toward the margins, toward a culture often labeled as “low” and associated with homelessness and poverty, in order to understand what is considered “high” culture.

In the article, I believe I have shown that the implications of this research are, in fact, fundamental to understanding classical music and their instruments, and that what may initially appear distant is, in reality, deeply connected. This research does not concern only the past, but also how we play today and where our playing comes from. Much of contemporary guitar practice is indebted to a culture that is distant not only in time, but also in lived experience. Above all, I research because it is important to understand our past and find direction to the future.

It is not easy—or perhaps not comfortable—to acknowledge that our instrument carries with it a millennia-old culture, rooted in the lives of countless individuals who cultivated this art, many of whom belonged to the poorest part of society.

It is necessary to learn to look toward those at the margins, not only in music. A major source of inspiration for me is the songwriter from my hometown of Milan, Enzo Jannacci. A doctor and musician, much like Antonio Cano y Curriela (1811–1897)—the guitarist and doctor whose address at the Madrid School for the Blind I quoted in the article—Jannacci consistently turned his attention to life at the margins of society. Cano explicitly called for the ability to look toward the poor and marginalized, recognizing their contribution to culture and society. Like Cano, Jannacci focused on the lived experiences and emotions of real people that we rarely look at.

In one of his most famous songs, El purtava el scarp de tennis, sung in Milanese dialect, Jannacci tells the story of a homeless man—a barbun—and his great love. At the end of the song, the man is found dead. One person reaches out to touch him, while another stops them, saying: “Lassel stà… l’è roba de barbun” (“Leave him alone… that’s homeless stuff.”)

This is a burden we have carried with us for centuries: an instinct that leads us to look away in certain directions, particularly toward the poorest members of society. I believe this instinct has also made us blind to the history of our instrument and to the identities of those who contributed to its development.

Even when we look at figures such as Francisco Tárrega, we tend to focus only on the aspects in which we can recognize ourselves—the great composer, the friend of Albéniz, the virtuoso who revolutionized technique—while trying to not look at his identity as a street musician who played alongside blind performers and felt at home among those at the margins of society.

I would like to conclude with a quotation from Antonio Cano y Curriela, the final quotation cited in this article:

I hope that the day will come when, understanding the great responsibility that falls upon all of us for such indifference, we will open our hearts and hands to these poor individuals, offering them all our love and charity.

Antonio Cano y Curriela, Discurso del Colegio de Sordomudos de Madrid del Curso 1887 a 1888 (Madrid: Imp. del Colegio Nacional de Sordo-mudos y de Ciegos, 24 June 1888), Biblioteca Nacional de España, https://bnedigital.bne.es/bd/card?oid=0000057770.

Reflections on the article A Lost Culture of Touch and Sound: The Contribution of Visually Impaired Musicians to the Evolution of the Spanish Guitar