Gone in the Air: Seeking Out Live Music at the Southern Tip of Corsica

“When you hear music, after it’s over, it’s gone in the air, you can never capture it again.”
— Eric Dolphy

There’s nothing like live music, whether it’s a full orchestra, a busker in the subway, or the ululations and drums in a distant land; you never know what the moment can bring.

When I was in high school, my dad, Walt, a former reed man who played clarinet and alto sax, then a record producer and A&R (Artist and Repertoire) for RCA Victor and Capitol, and I had a date on Wednesday nights. He turned me on to what he described as a country western joint called Bonesville on Melrose in Hollywood, where “every Wednesday, a bunch of schoolteachers get together to jam,” he’d say in wonderment, “and they play with time signatures like 27/16 and crazy meters, simply wild.” I’d wear jeans and his old, cool suede jacket, sleeves cuffed up, and Dad and I would sip black coffee and smoke cigs together as we listened, nodding our heads to the rhythms as he tapped his fingers on the table, marveling at the intricate time signatures of Don Ellis! This was the late 60s when dad was immersed in transferring Welte piano rolls by 19th century classical composers onto analog tape, then disc, so for both of us this was pure listening with a beginner’s wonder, since neither of us were aware of the Don Ellis Orchestra, his early fascination with Indian meter and instruments as a graduate student at UCLA’s ethnomusicology department, nor his international fame. He lived in North Hollywood, and his band used Bonesville as a rehearsal venue. Among his many awards, Ellis later won a Grammy for Best Instrumental Arrangement for the movie The French Connection.

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Macduff and I are traveling on a ship that is sailing from Barcelona to Athens, via Menorca, Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily, and Corfu, so our tour is a sampler-tasting of the riches these islands offer. Corsica is a territorial collectivity with special status in France (région to collectivité territoriale à statut particulier) and is by far France’s windiest region. On this mountainous, forested Mediterranean island, Bonifacio, at its southernmost tip, hosts a mile-long, fjord-like harbor flanked by massive walls of white limestone that provide a refuge for lavish yachts, diving, and fishing boats alike. It is here, in Bonafacio Marina, that we dock, and in the evening, we take advantage of the chance to explore by ourselves.

Tonight, there’s a stillness in the air so that the tall fenestrated buildings across the harbor reflect grid-like patterns — a Mondrian Broadway Boogie-Woogie in the water. At 9 p.m., the smells of fried fish, cigarettes, and perfume, all shaken and stirred with sea-sweet saltiness, infuse this spring evening. Several restaurants provide outdoor pavilions facing the marina for al fresco dining. Touts smile, beckon, entice, and cajole tourists and locals to enter their establishments. My ear catches a distant sound of live music. It lures me. We follow this aural thread along the boardwalk, lose it as we pass a bar thudding techno and hack Euro-pop, then pick up the acoustic chords of a guitar again. A jaunty Django-Reinhardt jam draws us into Restaurant Pizzeria Le Bonifacio. A trio of musicians includes a lad sporting a traditional tan Corsican cap, counting time with his mouth, as drummers do. He sits on one side of a long wooden table, playing guitar, with serious intent. Across from him, the quiet man with a wisp of a goatee plays but does not sing, letting his guitar speak for him. His buddy, both of them at least two decades deeper into the music than the younger Frenchman, is a bald man who plays a guitar that his father, who remains a legendary guitarist here and beyond Bonifacio town, crafted by hand. The trio resumes with a tender version of Mexican composer Consuelo Velázquez’s classic bolero “Bésame mucho.”

It’s a sparse audience. We negotiate the cluster of empty wooden tables and chairs and choose a spot just behind the musicians and order some wine. Just then, they take a break, and we ask if we may buy them a round. They politely refuse but invite us to join them at their table to chat. Morgan, François, and Pierre are practiced musicians. When they resume playing, Macduff pulls his camera out of his bag and, with a sideways nod from the nearest musician, Pierre, he gets a silent “okay” to make photos. They play another set, Macduff shoots a few pictures, then scoots in closer and closer, clicking away, until he is literally at their side. Rather than minding, they seem mildly amused, as they continue to sing and strum. Their repertoire grows richer, a lively upbeat number followed by a melancholy ballad, their playlist a blend of traditional and popular songs. The evening reels out its magic.

Whether it is their music, the mood, or Macduff photographing them, a small crowd gathers around the musicians, and the pizzeria tables fill. Two women decked out for the evening stop along the marina to listen, catch the rhythm, and then one raises her arms in a rhythmic hip-twisting dance to the music, soon joined by her friend. Another couple in sweatshirts and pressed jeans, perhaps on a moonlit ramble from their docked yacht, joins in the scene. The bartender, the owner, and the musicians are pleased. Minutes pass into an hour or two, and we finally exchange WhatsApp and email addresses and bid goodbye to our new friends. Macduff promises to send Morgan some photographs.

I go to settle our bill, and the owner waves me away with a smile, insisting our carafe is on the house, clearly delighted with the evening’s turnout.

It’s one of the gifts of travel — to take a chance, to follow a hunch, to suspend judgment. Buskers in a subway or at a Farmer’s Market may well be gifted students from Juilliard out for a lark or a serious musician hoping for a break. A chance encounter with nameless music makers may unfold into a feast for the senses. Just take the leap and give a listen. Seek out live music, for, as Eric Dolphy puts it, “When you hear music, after it’s over, it’s gone in the air, you can never capture it again.” And the moon, all silvery, glances down on the harbor, casting wiggly patterns like sound waves across the water as we weave our way back to the ship.