The morning I saw Tony Gardner sitting among the tourists, spring had just arrived here in Venice. We had completed our first week outside, in the square – a great relief, admittedly, after so many hours of work in the stifling atmosphere at the back of the café, blocking the customers who wanted to go up the stairs. That morning, it was windy and the new tent for the band was flapping around us, but everyone felt a little more refreshed and rested, and I suppose that mood was evident in our playing.
But I am speaking to you as if I am a permanent member of a band. In reality, I am one of the "gypsies," as the other musicians call us, one of the types wandering around the square, serving whichever of the three cafes' bands needs us. I mainly play here, at Caffé Lavena, but during busy afternoons I might also play with the kids at Quaddri, pop over to Florian, then return to the square, to Lavena. I get along well with everyone – even with the waiters – and in any other city, I would already have a permanent position. But in this place, so passionate about tradition and the past, everything has been turned upside down. Anywhere else, a guitarist would be welcomed. But here? Guitar! The managers at the cafés stand awkwardly. They think it’s too modern, the tourists wouldn’t like it.