Jazz traveled by train. A special, extraordinary, festive train. Route: from Bari to Martina Franca and back. Departure at 16.25; I arrive at 18.35. September, day 19.
A crowded convoy not only of tourists, but also of people eager to enjoy the novelty, to face a small adventure, to fully experience the original experience, to be in company in a different way, admiring the scenic and architectural beauty of the towns crossed, enjoying the colors, the climate, the heat. In those hours Milanese, Bolognese, Apulian, including some foreigners, got to know each other, exchanged addresses, someone even laid the foundations for a friendship; they met, tasting typical products of this land full of hospitality and courtesy.
In the intervals between one piece of music and another played by several orchestras, curiosities about the delicacies tasted, the characteristics of the places, the history of the locomotive (diesel, from 1959) that pulled three Carminati carriages from the 30s and 40s , with wooden seats, a terrace from 1903, a trunk from 1940. In short, historical artifacts. "The cars look like those of the Far West", insinuated a fan of Bud Spencer and Terence Hill, but the joke was wrecked in the notes of "Summertime", greeted by thunderous applause. Then, while the engine slowed down and got ready for the last puff, a gentleman with an Einstein mustache recalled the Blue Train of the Bèlle Epoque; and such at least was the lively atmosphere that exploded on the sidewalk and from the windows. A ninety-year-old man with a shaky step, but with an expressive, lively look, addressing a companion, mentioned the times of the war, awakened by the furnishings of the cars, however properly restored and well maintained.
The fascination of the train accompanies us from childhood. The plane is fine; equally good the bus, the car, but you want to put the pleasure of going on rails from one place to another, with solemn olive trees, vineyards in prayer, chipped houses, roofs, dry stone walls ... that run like arrows? A dreamy-looking "madame" confessed that all the light drunk during the journey had refreshed her soul; that the intense green of Puglia had never been seen anywhere else. And she solicited information on the “Valle d'Itria Express”. Time to time. The organizers (the Aisaf of Bari with the collaboration of the musical cultural association "Nel gioco del jazz" and the musical school Il Pentagramma of Bari) did their best to explain, illustrate, tell, especially to the boys, the most pressing, insatiable, at the sight of the exciting, scenographic images that our region can offer; starting with the trulli with roofs like the hats of fairy tale wizards, surmounted by pompoms or billiard balls.
"The train called jazz" hissed almost as a sign of joy and the children rejoiced. Dario De Simone, from the Aisaf of Bari, psychopomp of the initiative, was dazed, tossed between the reporter anxious to know a thousand details and the Telenorba operator who filmed him from the face, in profile, hidden by the double bass that the player was struggling to save from the crowd.
Scenes already seen a month earlier, when the "Salento Express" had made its first run on the same track. The car was from the early 50s: museum piece, yes, but still in full force. The carriages probably dated back to wartime: almost the same as those that took us from Taranto to Martina, where terrible roars woke us up at night: the bombs that made the horizon flash and the buildings collapse. At the time the train did not pass the Nasisi station, because that of Taranto was at risk. From there to Tre Carrara, where I lived (was it twenty kilometres? More?) I had to go on foot. Tiring walk, which we had to do after each bombing to make sure that our street was not submerged in rubble. When the conflict was over and the pieces were being collected, we went by carriage to the Bimare station. The driver, always the same, in a box with a top hat, showed up at six in the morning, when the streets were deserted, the windows closed and the shops as well, apart from the baker's. The train to Martina left at 7.30. The stages: Nasisi, Statte, Crispiano, Madonna del Pozzo, San Paolo. I was intoxicated by the whistle "d'a Ciucculatera" which sometimes had a shortness of breath.
Years went by, and I don't know how many times, arriving in Bari from Milan, I reached Martina with the Sud-Est. And I rediscovered forgotten details, experiencing emotions that moistened my gaze. One day, I no longer know whether in Casamassina or Conversano, the loudspeaker announced that the peasants, in protest, had occupied the tracks, so it was not possible to continue. I didn't get upset: I went downstairs and sat down on a bench, giving up turning on the usual toscanello to better observe the travellers: annoyed or angry or soaring. I had time, I was free from commitments: I was already in Puglia, in my Puglia, which for Giuseppe Carrieri is the homeland of Andersen, “a Mediterranean Andersen, with more flashing mysteries”… And I was happy, I breathed familiar air, I rediscovered old fragrances. .. I was directed to Martina, and I remembered:… “the Murgia dei Trulli reaches its Sunday showcase here, its expressive extravagance”.
"It's indecency," shouted a fellow in a gallinaceous voice. "A disgusting," joined another. “The police who do; is he watching?” thundered a third. Then a deafening chorus. Seraphic, when I could, I ventured: “Everyone defends himself as he can. They suffer an injustice and they react”. I came out of the surgery unscathed. No one was tempted to beat me to a pulp. It was almost noon; the interruption was supposed to end at 16 pm. I looked at the locomotive and envied the engineers who, from the driver's cab, enjoy the train as it spins and devours the railway track. And I was thinking of the revolving platform of the Martina station, buried under a layer of earth. They tell me that it will soon be rediscovered, restored and arranged as the basis of a "Ciucculatera": a monument to the train, which feeds dreams, chats, confidences, outbursts, meetings.
My friend Gerardo wanted to go see the platform burial site. But there was no time. The level crossing barriers had been lowered. The "Train called jazz", or rather "Salento Express", had already left the Locorotondo airport. It was almost 19pm.
“Beware of the third rail,” a voice warned. Right after the mess. A thousand cameras took pictures. Two hundred and eighty travelers greeted with handkerchiefs in hand, the sidewalk was swarming with people who suddenly emerged and besieged the convoy: a warm welcome that blocked the day-trippers on the platform, on the steps. The trumpeter overcame the temptation to sing silence, to facilitate one of the "staff" who informed, hoarsely: "Anyone who wants can go and visit the historic centre, but must return on time", while a human hedge grew around a complex who, not yet exhausted, resumed the concert in the square.
A 19 September to be entered in the annals, commented Gerardo's father, Nicola, a man of few words, but always well dosed, who with his father-in-law Vito and his wife Antonella had waited an hour long for the event. “Apart from the really great show, have you noticed the caper plant that has sprouted right on the third track?”.
