Music and memories created by mom
It was as familiar to me as the smell of her Sunday sauce simmering on the stove, and just as predictable--that daily, melodic sound of Mom's accordion music filtering through the house. Tattered, worn sheet music, browned with age, rested on her music stand, evidence of its daily use.
Mom's routine practice on her accordion lasted an hour or more a day, long enough for it to become a customary part of my life. On long, hot summer nights, before air conditioning came along, our neighbors sat outside on the their front porch stoops, listening as Mom's rendition of "O Sole Mio" wafted through the neighborhood.
I guess Mom inherited her love of music from Grandma Rizzolo, who was a whiz on the old concertina. Grandma, like many young Italian immigrants of her day, came to this country without a job, money or prospects, bringing with her only the ability to play the concertina (a musical instrument similar to the accordion but with buttons instead of a keyboard).
I think Grandma's music helped her to express emotions she was feeling but just didn't know how to say -- feelings that were shared by many European immigrants who felt the joy of living in a new land and the sorrow of leaving their homeland. Among Grandma's favorite tunes were "The Tarantella" and "La donna è mobile."
Great-grandpa Vincenzi was also an aficionado of the accordion. Grandma often told us this amusing story about him. It seems Great-grandpa was quite the accordion player in his little town, and he stayed out every Saturday night until the wee hours, entertaining in the cafes. Great-grandma, tired of staying home alone, waited until Great-grandpa had gone to sleep at night. Then, unbeknown to him, she took her sharpest hat pin to the bellows of his accordion, poking a series of tiny, invisible holes.
After a while, Great-grandpa, to his puzzlement, found it harder and harder to pump out a tune on his accordion. Thinking he'd lost his touch, he decided it was time to retire from the late-night cafe circuit. Like that of most immigrant musicians, my grandparents' taste in music was simple. They shared the musical philosophy of famous accordion man Lawrence Welk: "If they can't hum it after I play it, it's not for me."
My grandparents' musical skills can't be compared to the abilities of professionals such as Welk. I think they should be judged instead by the amount of joy and entertainment they brought to our family, and in that sense, their talents were immeasurable. It was only natural that Mom and her sister Ann both inherited Grandma's love of the accordion.
And it was only natural they took their lessons from a popular local musician by the name of Louis Figone. Mr. Figone was an accomplished music professor and owner of two successful music studios in San Jose. It was in his downtown studio during the early 1930s that Mom and her sister were privileged to take their weekly music lessons. Local events, such as the opening day of baseball season or a holiday parade, were a guarantee that they both would be playing atop a float in Mr. Figone's prestigious band.
In 1939, alumni of Mr. Figone's music classes reunited for a one-time event, the San Francisco World's Fair. One hundred of his best students, including Ann, gathered from all over the state to perform at the international fair. As with a lot of kids who grew up in an Italian American household, the accordion was a traditional presence at all our social gatherings.
Most of us can remember the thrill of pulling and pushing on its powerful folding bellows, trying with all our strength to squeeze out a melody. Today I still have fun trying to poke out a tune in synch with Mom --"Neapolitan Nights," the only one I know -- but even after all these years, we never can manage to end on the same note. In my day, the accordion was as popular as today's electronic synthesizer.
Every orchestra, big or small, featured an accordionist. At wedding receptions or in nightclub acts, nine times out of 10 there was an accordion player in the band. The "squeeze box," as it was fondly called, was once one of America's favorite instruments. Like the banjo, the ukulele and the trumpet of Harry James, the accordion has faded in popularity but wistfully lives on in our memories along with jukeboxes, poodle skirts and drive-in movies.
Today, Mom is no longer with me, but sometimes, on warm summer nights, I think I can still hear her timeless rendition of "O Sole Mio" echoing through the neighborhood. Piled high on my coffee table is that same timeworn stack of her old sheet music -- a pleasant reminder of mom, and a day gone by.
10631 Vinedale Street, Sun Valley, CA 91352 - Phone (818) 767-3413 - Fax: (818) 767-1410
