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The Song
is
Ended, but the Architrave Lingers
On. As an ex-musician who never made nearly the money I deserved, I am pleased to note evidence of at least one local musician who made it really big and then was not shy about mouthing off about it. Above the entrance to his home is still inscribed: AMPHYON THEBAS EGO DOMUM A.D. MDCCLIV
Majorano was born in Bitonto, near
Bari, and studied in Naples. He sang in Naples for some
20 years and was widely regarded as one of the great
voices of his day. He appeared elsewhere in Italy and
abroad, as well. He was known for being surly,
temperamental, rude and, later in life, generous and
polite. Go figure. Both the Venetian playwright
Carlo Goldoni and the great librettist Metastasio mention him in
their memoirs and letters as being a wondrous and
obnoxious talent. After singing for Louis XV in
Versailles once, he was rewarded by the monarch with an
ornate snuff box. Majorano complained to the royal
gift-bearing messenger that there was no picture of the
king on the box. The messenger
told Caffarelli that those were only for ambassadors.
"Well, then," said the singer, "have His Majesty get
ambassadors to sing for him." He was arrested once for
sitting in the audience and shouting insults to singers
on the stage. He apparently
mellowed enough later in life to be offered the
directorship of San Carlo, which he refused.
There are a few stories about the
inscription. Apparently, Leopold Mozart took his son,
Wolfie, over to the house in 1770 when they were on tour
in Naples. Father explained the mythology to son and
also held Caffarelli up as an example of what kind of
money you could really make as a musician. (Obviously,
the lecture didn't take.) Another story claims that the
inscription was at some point during the singer's
lifetime defaced with graffiti that read "Ille cum, tu sine"
(He with, you without), referring to something—a couple of things, really—that Amphyon had, but
Caffarelli no longer had. Some sources think the
graffiti must have been put there by a clever Neapolitan
scugnizzo—street
kid. That's not too likely, since those kids couldn't
(and still can't) be depended on to handle a simple
phrase in Italian, much less Latin. It was probably a
jealous rival.
Many thanks to Knud
Posborg for reminding me of this place.
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