Quick outline
- Set the scene and why I care
- Who they are (plain and simple)
- What I heard live, with real moments
- What worked, what didn’t
- Who should listen
- A few listening tips
- Final take
Here’s the thing: I still hear the wood and wind from that night. Naná Vasconcelos on berimbau and voice. Antonello Salis on piano and accordion. Two people, one room, and a lot of breath. I caught their duo late, at a jazz festival in Sardinia. If the island’s tug is real for you too, here’s my local guide to Sardinia’s best area to stay; it maps the beaches, bars, and cheap rooms I swear by. No big intro. Just a nod and a soft shaker. Then—boom—magic. I later poured every spark from that first collision into a longer recap, which you can catch in Berimbau and Bellows: My Night With Naná Vasconcelos and Antonello Salis.
Wait, who are they?
- Naná was a Brazilian percussionist from Recife. He made a single string sing. The berimbau looks simple—bow, gourd, wire—but he could make it sound like rain, birds, and a heartbeat, all at once. He passed in 2016, but his sound lives strong. If you’ve heard the Pat Metheny and Lyle Mays record “As Falls Wichita, So Falls Wichita Falls,” that airy, human rhythm? That’s him.
- Antonello is a Sardinian pianist and accordion player. He treats the piano like a friend and a playground. He plucks the strings, slaps the wood, then jumps to accordion and floats a melody that feels like sea air. He laughs when he plays. It’s kind of great. You can dig deeper into his world at Antonello Salis’ official site.
Curious about an entire night devoted only to Antonello’s set? I wrote it all down in I spent a night with Salis Antonello—here’s how it hit me.
You know what? It felt like a kitchen jam
I grew up with spoons on pots. So when Naná shook a caxixi (that small basket rattle tied to his berimbau) and thumped his chest mic for a bass hit, I smiled. It felt homey. Then Antonello slid his hand inside the piano. He muted the strings with one palm and tapped a rhythm with the other. Clack. Thrum. A tiny blues phrase slipped out. He looked up and grinned.
Real moments I wrote down that night
- The birdcall tease: Naná whistled a high, thin note and brushed the berimbau string with the coin. The gourd pressed to his belly made that wah sound—like a voice talking. Antonello answered on accordion with a slow, rising swell. It felt like dawn, even though it was close to midnight.
- The stomp-and-spark: Mid-set, Antonello shifted to the piano and played a left-hand drone, low and heavy. Naná layered shakers, then clapped a backbeat and used his voice as a drum—puh, tsk, tsk, hah. He tossed in tiny bells. I saw two people at work, but I heard a whole street parade.
- The quiet break: They dropped to a whisper. You could hear chair creaks. Naná sang—just vowels—and held the berimbau note until it buzzed. Antonello tapped harmonics on the strings and let them shimmer. Nobody coughed. We were all holding the same breath.
- The wild laugh: Antonello hit a big piano cluster—both forearms, fast—and laughed out loud. Naná shot back with a rolling rhythm and a flash of cupped-hand mouth beats. It sounded rough but felt right. Like fresh bread torn by hand.
A small tangent, but it matters
Earlier that week I re-listened to Naná on that Metheny/Mays album. Same warmth. Same body-in-the-sound feel. So when he built a groove live by stacking voice, shaker, and bow buzz, I knew that flavor. It wasn’t a trick. That’s his thing—make rhythm breathe.
What worked for me
- Texture play: Wood, skin, metal, air. They kept changing colors. You think it’s a drum duo, then you hear a hymn.
- Humor and heart: They teased each other. Quick quotes, little jokes. It kept the room loose.
- Movement: Accordion lines floated over earthy beats. Piano thunder met berimbau whispers. Push and pull, like tide.
What didn’t (and it’s fair to say)
- Wandering bits: One long stretch felt like searching with the lights off. If you need clear tunes, you might drift.
- Room noise: A couple mic pops and chair squeaks. Not a big deal, but in soft parts it stood out.
Who should give this a shot
- Folks who like improvisation more than fixed songs.
- Fans of global jazz and folk edges.
- People who enjoy hearing the actual material—wood, string, breath—do the talking.
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And if your post-gig wanderings ever carry you to Philadelphia’s porch-lined Germantown neighborhood, the city’s inclusive nightlife has its own sweet after-hours coda. For listeners who crave one-on-one company as adventurous as a free-jazz solo, exploring the trans escort scene in Germantown offers a safe, discreet path to vetted companions, transparent expectations, and the kind of mutual respect that lets everyone improvise their perfect ending to the night.
If you’re unsure, try this
- Good headphones. Medium volume. Let the low berimbau bloom.
- Follow the conversation. Ask yourself, “Who is leading right now?” It flips, a lot.
- Don’t expect a melody you can hum all night. Expect a moment you’ll remember.
One more real example I loved
Near the end, Naná set a fast shaker pattern and sang a short chant. Antonello squeezed a bright, almost carnival run on accordion, then landed back at the piano with a soft, major chord bed. The chant slowed. He held one last berimbau buzz, and Antonello tucked a single note under it, like a pillow. The lights felt warmer. People didn’t clap right away. That pause said plenty.
So, would I go again?
In a heartbeat. It’s not background music. It’s close-up, hands-on sound. It’s two people testing wood and wire and breath, and somehow finding a shared story. Messy at times. Human always. And honestly? That’s why I loved it.