One of the antiques on the lower west side.
Rocco Costello tuning up his Italian bagpipe.
That's no Banshee - It's our Rocco
City's lone Italian Bagpipe Player.
With Spring here and windows open, Sullivan Street can really hear him-
At 72, he 'still got plenty power'
By Murray Schumach
Windows are wide open again along Sullivan Street and banshee wails float once more over tenement roofs these nights and filter into crowded streets from area-ways. Responsible for these hair-raising harmonies are the Italian bagpipes of Rocco Costello.
Mr. Costello is probably the only Italian bagpiper left in this city that had a few dozen such instrumentalists when he first came to this country from southern Italy in 1901. He was 24 years old then and the bagpipes were the only possession he had brought to this country from the farms and woods of his childhood.
"When I came over", he recalled last night at his apartment at 156 Sullivan Street, "I play on a ship for nine days. Everybody dance. People sick there. I don't care. Always playing bagpipes." He laughed and rose from a sofa to repeat the tarantellas and polkas he had played during that voyage.
After filling the apartment and several blocks of Greenwich village with chords that sounded like a duet between a steam calliope and foghorn, Mr Costello paused to show how he tuned the instrument.
TUNES IT WITH WAX
He worked fingers over holes while corking and uncorking wooden pipes and blowing into the bag under his arm. Occasionally, he would remove a bit of wax from a hole along a pipe or else apply some wax with a bone pin. The tones were sometimes quite piercing. He was surprised when asked if neighbors complained. He snorted and beat his chest.
"When I play", he declared, "people listen. Is wonderful. Very strong. I play ciaramella too. I show you."
Briskly, while his wife sighed, he stepped into another room and re appeared with a wooden instrument shaped like a holiday horn. After a brief warm-up on this miniature factory whistle Mr Costello cut loose with "When Irish Eyes are Smilin". The tone seemed a blend of Scottish bagpipes and cornet. Mr. Costello beamed - as final shrill notes rolled towards the Hudson.
"I'm an old man", he said. "I still got plenty power"
Mr Costello is barrell-chested and thick necked with legs unusually long for his short torso. When he huffs into the bagpipe his walrus mustache seems to bristle and his dark eyes are almost closed in rapture.
ALWAYS PLAYS STANDING
Like all true pipers, Mr Costello, though now 72, will not play sitting down. He taps a lively beat with his right toe and left heel and frequently pivots as though about to break into a jig.
Since he came to this country Mr Costello has used his music to supplement his income, but mostly for pleasure. Nowadays he operates an elevator at 11 West Third Street from 8 AM to 5 PM.
Mr Costello makes his own reeds for bagpipes and ciaramella out of bamboo and tin. The bag for the pipes, which he also makes, is a more complicated project and is quite a ritual.
The last time he needed a bag was seven years ago. Thereupon he organized a party of his cronies and they all went to New Jersey. There they bought, slaughtered skinned and ate a goat, washing it down with plenty of wine. The goat's skin is now the bag that feeds the pipes.
Mr. Costello blew up the bag to show how he had sewed it. He played a few lively dances. Then he brought out a gallon of red wine. Soon he was talking about his eight children and eight grandchildren. He patted the bag under his arm.
"When I am 15 or 16, in Italy, he mused, "we was to watch the cow in a farm and a wood and I learn bagpipe. Now there is only me. Only me."
