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The Accordion Man
By Michael Kissinger-staff writer
There's an accordion in Lorenzo Faoro's cramped workshop that stands out from the dozens of others that line the shelves and walls of the makeshift musical shrine.
Made in 1918, the accordion is only a few years older than Faoro. Its squared edges-a sign of its age-and ornate gold and white exterior have faded over the years, giving the instrument an added sense of prestige. So too, does the inscription-"Paolo Soprani"-the name of the factory in Castelfidardo, Italy where it was made.
The northern Italian town is considered the birthplace of the modern accordion and to this day is an international centre of accordion production.
Its reputation extends back to the 19th century, when a farmhand named Paolo Soprani started what was to become the first industrial production of the instrument.
Lore has it that in 1863, a pilgrim passing through the region stopped, by chance, at the farmhouse of Antonio Soprani. The pilgrim had with him a rudimentary music box, which he gave to Soprani's eldest son Paolo. Fascinated by the strange instrument, Paolo took it apart, studied its inner workings and saw how it could be improved and reproduced inexpensively.
The Soprani factory is also where Renzo (as he prefers to be called) learned to build and repair accordions before moving to Vancouver and opening the Accordion House half a century ago.
Since then, the accordion's grip on popular music has become little more than a nostalgic tug, but the Accordion House has remained-first as a short-lived store on Commercial Drive, then as a room in Renzo and his wife Rosina's home.
Now with the accordion undergoing a renaissance, particularly within Vancouver's roots music community, Renzo Faoro and his beautifully crowded repair shop have become not only a beacon for accordion players and collectors around the world, but one of the few remaining links to a disappearing tradition.
From the outside, the Faoro home looks much like the others in his Renfrew neighbourhood. But inside the tiny room where Renzo spends many of his days and evenings, it's like a time capsule. Row upon row of accordions of all makes, shapes, colours and sizes fill the cluttered space.
Shelves bend under the weight of boxes and jars of accordion parts-reeds, valves, keys, bellows, screws, rivets, bolts, straps. The walls are covered with postcards, old photographs, newspaper and magazine clippings, certificates and an autographed picture of polka great Dick Contini. Then there are the tools-glue guns, soldering irons, files, screw drivers, pliers, magnifying glasses-so many knickknacks, thing-a-ma-jigs and paraphernalia, it's easy to overlook the fax machine wedged in the corner or the small window above it that lets in just a crack of light.
"Accordions are made so many different ways," says Renzo. "If they use too much plastic, they are no good. They won't respond. Some factories in Germany, in China, they don't care. But a good accordion should last a lifetime... When an accordion leaves here, it's like new."
Renzo's introduction to the persnickety world of accordion repair began in 1942 when he was 20, just out of the army and in need of a job. He decided to visit a friend who worked in one of the many accordion factories in Castelfidardo.
"That was the area where they made all the accordions, so it was easy to find a job."
In fact, between 1947 and 1953, considered by many the golden age of accordions, Castelfidardo and its 75 factories had increased the production and export of accordions from 60,000 to nearly 200,000 instruments a year.
While in Castelfidardo, Renzo met his future wife Rosina, who worked in the Soprani factory-her oldest brother had married one of Soprani's daughters. Soon after, Renzo got a job in the Soprani factory as well, where he trained for two years, starting with compression and tuning, then moving onto repair and production.
In 1945, he and Rosina married. They continued to work in the accordion factories, but after a decade in Castelfidardo, Renzo was ready to leave.
"Somebody from the city went to the U.S. and was making good business, so I said, 'I'm going to try myself.'"
In 1952, Renzo immigrated to Vancouver, where an aunt and uncle had been living since the 1920s, and set up an accordion shop on Commercial Drive near Vancouver's thriving Italian community. "It was a time when families would buy accordions for their children," says Renzo. Nine months later, Rosina and their two daughters joined him. Business wasn't good enough to support the family, so he closed the shop and went to work in construction, although he continued to repair accordions out of their home on East Pender and later Renfrew.
Renzo worked on both the construction of the Granville and Second Narrows bridges, and was working the day a portion of the Second Narrows Bridge collapsed, killing 18 workers.
By the late '50s, the accordion's popularity was beginning to wane as more and more European immigrants distanced themselves from the customs and culture of their homeland in an attempt to assimilate themselves into North American society.
Then, of course, came a little phenomenon known as rock 'n' roll. In the face of Elvis's provocative leg-shake on the Milton Berle Show to the Beatles' scream-inducing North American debut on Ed Sullivan, the accordion and all its old world baggage didn't stand a chance. Suddenly, the accordion was what parents listened to and what kids were forced to play when their families couldn't afford a piano-hardly the stuff of youthful rebellion.
"The guitar took over," explains Renzo. "The kids, they don't want to play accordion anymore. It's too hard. It's easier to play the radio."
But despite the proliferation of six-stringed warriors, savvy marketing of youth culture and emergence of MTV, Renzo Faoro has quietly gone about his business, working on the one instrument that truly makes sense to him.
Why accordions? "Why not?" is his answer. Pressed further, he says, "It's something you can use outside, anywhere, anytime. You can even play it in the dark."
Oddly enough, neither he nor his wife play the accordion, though that doesn't seem so strange to Rosina. "When you work in an accordion factory you hear all day long, 'Doot doot.' Oh God. Why would you want to hear that?"
Standing in his workshop, Renzo picks up his favourite accordion-one with his name inscribed on it, made for him in Castelfidardo.
Every summer, he and Rosina return there to visit friends, family and the accordion factories, some of which have started to diversify and make freezers as well.
He likes to see the new models that are coming out, and pick up parts to bring back with him.
On busy days, Rosina sometimes helps Renzo down in the workshop, but she says she'd prefer if he retired altogether.
"I want him to retire so we can travel more," says Rosina. "We both work hard. Oh my god. Oh gosh. That's why I say it's enough. After 50 years, it's enough."
"But I'm already retired," smiles Renzo. "I do it just to keep it up. I do this for the customer. Somebody that plays and they get stuck, where will they go?"
"We have a son," say Rosina. "He's a music teacher, he plays the accordion really well. When he was a young boy I say, 'Watch Dad repair accordions,' but he never was interested. What a shame. What a shame, you know? He was always like, 'Oh no I don't like that.' But he's a really good musician."
Over the years, customers of the Accordion House have included priests, psychiatrists, students, teachers, entire families-even a 70-year-old woman who decided it was time to finally learn how to play the confounded squeeze box. But lately much of Renzo's business has come from younger musicians rediscovering the much-maligned instrument through roots music.
Robyn Carrigan, who plays accordion in the alt-country band Bottleneck and bluegrass trio Daisy Duke, acknowledges there's a stigma associated with accordions, but says that's changing. "Oh yeah, 'Welcome to Heaven, here's your harp. Welcome to Hell here's your accordion.' I think previously, people associated it with polka and Lawrence Welk and a certain kind of squareness. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But now there's Tex Mex and Cajun, and people see there's other ways of playing it. It doesn't have to be 'oompa pa, oompa pa.'"
Carrigan first discovered the Accordion House two years ago through the phone book when she needed a couple of keys fixed before going to play a festival. "I remember going up the walk and pressing the doorbell of this guy's house, and then he took me into his workshop. He was very sweet."
Ana Bon-Bon, who plays a hybrid of blues and gospel on her beat-up and beer-soaked amplified accordion, first started playing in elementary school. "As a teenager I kind of shied away from it and only played it at home. But then I sort of fell in love with it, learning the history of it, the different ways you can play it... I think a lot of irony came into music in the '90s. And it's not something I really favour, but things that were sort of kitschy or not part of popular culture were made fun of and got more exposure, and then people realized they were having some fun, that there are positive things to the accordion."
Bon-Bon learned about the Accordion House through word of mouth. "I just remember all the beautiful accordions. It's really overwhelming and really cool, especially for an accordion player like me."
Geoff Berner says part of his initial attraction to the accordion was the same as what drew him to punk music. "At the time, part of its appeal was having something to rebel against, because I grew up listening to punk rock, and the general idea was if there was a mainstream value in something, it was probably wrong. So if anything, the fact that many people covered their ears and said, 'Oh no, the accordion,' was an appealing factor."
Like most first-time visitors to Renzo's workshop, Berner says he didn't know what to expect. "On the one hand it was surprising to find out the Accordion House was just this tiny room in someone's house, but on the other hand it makes perfect sense. I mean, where else would you go? And who else would think? It's a beautiful thing."
Berner estimates he's been a loyal customer of the Accordion House for nearly eight years.
"There have been several times [Renzo] has fixed up my accordion right there on the spot. I'd ask him how much it was for the repair and there'd be this look of disdain from him as if it was ludicrous to charge money for something so simple."
Renzo's version of events is slightly different. "Well, because I'm so reasonable," he says. "I feel sorry for the guy because he doesn't make any money."
Sitting at their kitchen table, Rosina shakes her head while discussing how busy Renzo's business has become. "Now everybody phones him who needs repairs. There was another guy in town who used to repair accordions but he died. So Renzo's the only one. There's nobody else." She turns to Renzo. "And you're to call that man from Taiwan. He's phoned twice. He speaks very good English. He wants to buy parts."
The phone rings and she rolls her eyes. "One time this gentleman who's been here several times phones and we both pick up and he says, 'You know, Renzo, what's people going to do when you pass away? Perhaps you could teach me?' And I said, 'Oh, because you're never going to die?' He was older than Renzo! Oh my goodness. That was really something."
Renzo says he prefers to work at night, when there's nobody around. "It has to be quiet... Before it used to take me two or three hours to repair anything. Quick. Now it takes me 40 times more time. I wear glasses. I have to stoop low to find the pieces, make sure it's the right one."
Berner, however, has no doubts about Renzo's abilities.
"No matter what someone does as a craft, whether it's baking or playing an instrument or underwater welding or a doctor, there's a great deal of pleasure in watching someone who knows exactly what they're doing... and when [Renzo] sits down with an accordion, his knowledge and care and bedside manner inspire complete confidence."
Back in his workshop, Renzo shuffles about the room quietly, pointing out the types of accordions in his collection. Some are waiting to be picked up by their owners; others are waiting for repair. Some are for sale, while ones like the antique Paolo Soprani are not.
He picks up a rectangular metal plate the size of a $2 coin to show me the difference between a working accordion reed and a broken one.
The only difference is a thin strip of metal about half a centimetre long. If broken, the corresponding key on the accordion will sound out of tune or not make any sound at all. He puts the reed to his mouth, blows a single clear note and smiles.
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