Bella Ciao – a simple song layered with complexity

I've always been an ensemble singer, a team player. But my way into The Swingle Singers was singing a solo. I sucked at my audition, but it was a bit of luck and crooning through a My Fair Lady tune that got my foot in the door. The baritone part during my time (1998-2006) was a fun mix of various elements to keep you interested - not least a lot of vocal percussion, and the odd spotlight solo.

I joined the group with the wrong attitude, to be frank. I didn't do the research, the home practice. I didn't come to rehearsals prepared, instead relying on a bit of charisma and that same bit of luck that meant my part was neither too difficult nor too exposed, but still gave me chances to show off now and again.

Our Italian encore piece was Bella Ciao, in a gorgeous arrangement by Ben Parry that has a natural ebb and flow through the verses, referencing mandolins in the accompaniment without sounding too corny, and always a lovely end to our shows in Italy. The baritone gets the solo. I sang it like it was a nice folk tune that sat well in my voice, nothing more.

In 2002 we were invited to take part in the inauguration of the Sala Sinopoli concert hall at the new Parco Della Musica complex in Rome. I'd been in the Swingle Singers for four years, still a long-haired idiot enjoying the randomness of the life of a touring musician.

A lot was going on that day.

On stage, we were part of a long programme including some very fine musicians (I remember Nigel Kennedy being great fun, which helped me forgive him years later when he almost ran me over in his Jag in a music festival field car park); our Musical Director had announced she was going to leave the group; another of the singers chose the evening to propose to his girlfriend from the stage.

Backstage, our founder Ward Swingle was there, with whom we had recently reconnected and healed relations; security stopped Piero Angela (a great Italian TV presenter, jazz musician, and Swingles fan, who used the Air on the G String recording from the classic Les Swingle Singers album Jazz Sebastien Bach for his show SUPERQUARK) from meeting Ward, because he didn't have backstage access; soundcheck time had been limited (we were the only amplified group), and the sands of Italian scheduling were constantly shifting.

Our late-afternoon set went down really well with a packed-out audience studded with notables from the worlds of music, celebrity and politics, the latter all being on the front row of the stalls. Called back for our encore ("Bis! bis!"), we launched softly into Bella Ciao.

It's a long intro. Delicate, with a couple of dynamic shifts, not giving away the melody. It's gift for the soloist, keeping the audience guessing and leaving you time to consider your breathing, to think "So how am I going to sing it this time?". (In my case, I probably gave more than half a thought to what I'd be ordering for dinner after the show. Beef Tagliata, almost certainly.) As I lifted my head, narrowed my eyes a little, and set off through the first line, it was as if the air was sucked out of that vast room with it's not-quite-finished-yet smell. Gasps, murmurs, whispers began to flit about the auditorium, mostly from the gallery above, which up until then had escaped my attention. Having already been collectively determined to 'make this a good one' (it was the last encore for our departing MD after all, plus the newly-engaged tenor needed something to bring him back down to Earth),?the visceral tension in the air gave an extra edge to our performance.

The play-out after the final verse is almost as long as the intro, and long before we'd finished the shouts started, emanating from that same overhead space as the reactions minutes before. Not knowing much Italian, I assumed they were shouts of appreciation, calls for another song, though they were a bit more call-and response than the usual post-show hubbub, and getting a lot of shouts back from the floor in return. We took our bows, the warm applause mixing with the continued yelling, and bounced offstage to enjoy the afterglow of a job well done.

Later that evening, enjoying my steak, I asked an Italian at the table what all the shouting had been about. It turned out that someone had called down to the front row, where all the politicians were seated, "...and this is what'll happen to you!". I was a bit confused. The verses of the song (in the version we sang) detailed the writer's determination to join the partisans, to repel the invader, to die if needs be. Was this what they meant?

I finally did some research. We were deep into Silvio Berlusconi's second stab at being Prime Minister, the right was in power, the left was incensed. Earlier that year the journalist Michele Santoro had sung Bella Ciao on prime time TV as a direct dig at the media magnate premier. I remembered a quick conversation that had taken place just before our performance that afternoon, between our agent and one of those responsible for getting us on to the programme - possibly Luciano Berio, the renowned composer (and another Swingle fan – his Sinfonia for Orchestra and Eight Voices has proven to be the pivotal work of mid-20th century western art music and has been a lynchpin for the group's continued relevance and existence) - the former asking repeatedly if Bella Ciao would be an appropriate encore, the latter insisting on its inclusion. They'd obviously seen the same list of invitees. I learnt just how important this song was both historically and politically, and my attitude to preparation changed from that moment.

A couple of years and many performances later, we were in Verona - the city I now call home - meeting audience members post-show, exchanging smiles, signing a few CD's. An older gentleman quietly came up to me, his eyes wet with emotion, looking unsure of what he wanted to say but fiercely determined to say it. My Italian had improved by then, but I still needed help in trying to interpret what he was desperate to tell me, my hand grasped in both of his. When I understood he had been a partisan, I didn't need any more translation. Bella Ciao meant so much more to him than it could ever mean to me – though now, it holds a very special place in my heart.

In whatever guise, every 25th April when I hear the opening bars strike up (usually louder, faster, more vibrant than our soft-focus approach – a call of defiance, resistance), I'm taken back to those years and the lessons that experience gives us.

Buona Festa della Liberazione!