EXCELSIOR Akkordeons sind nicht nur prestigeträchtige Instrumente von herausragender Qualität  die von italienischen Akkordeonbaumeistern in Handarbeit aus erlesenen Hölzern und dem besten Stimmenmaterial hergestellt werden. Sie sind viel mehr. EXCELSIOR steht für italienischen, kosmopolitanen Stil, welcher repräsentative Tradition und innovative Zukunft miteinander vereint. EXCELSIOR hat sich besonders im Akkordeonjazz einen großen Namen geschaffen. EXCELSIOR führt die lange Tradition von Qualität und Prestige weiter und stellt mit einer Mannschaft von erfahrenen Spezialisten Akkordeons aus den erlesensten Materialien her, die in der ganzen Welt gespielt und geschätzt werden. Lassen auch Sie sich von einer EXCELSIOR verzaubern und teilen Sie die Spielfreude die Akkordeonisten weltweit erleben.

EXCELSIOR History The Excelsior Company was established in New York in 1924. The high quality of accordions manufactured by Excelsior made it quickly popular throughout the United States. The greatest popularity of Excelsior accordions was reached after the Second World War as they became a "must" for any big orchestra: Charles Magnante, Art Van Damme, Pietro Deiro Jr., are just a few among the many prominent players who chose Excelsior. In 1948 a new plant was established in Castelfidardo, Italy, to expand production and sales. Since then excellent sound, quality and fine look of Excelsior accordions have been appreciated all over the world. Today Excelsior goes ahead in its tradition of quality and prestige. The Excelsior accordions are still built with selected materials and according to the best traditional craftmenship methods. To own an Excelsior accordion today means to own a prestigious instrument and ideally to follow the paths of the best and most popular accordion artist of past and present.

The romantic EXCELSIOR love story  (a Novel by Roberto Lucanero)

I leave the office quickly calling goodbye to my colleagues as I shut the door; the raincoat flung over my arm I slip on in the elevator. It is raining. I get into the first taxi I find after buying a small bunch of red roses. This is our first date - and I´m late. In the taxi an Egyptian song is playing and the notes of an almost unreal accordion are mingled to the rippling notes of strings and drums which beat out the rythm of a belly dance. I hope it bodes well for a lively evening. I finally reach the restaurant where she is already sitting at the table. It is the first time a man has kept her waiting and I can see she is annoyed. When I reach the table I put the roses on my chair and take her hand drawing her to her feet: I stop her from saying the sarcastic things she has been brooding on for the twenty minutes she has been waiting and I make a pre-emptive strike by taking her on to the dance floor. Providentially the orchestra is passionately playing a resolute and solid Italian tango. We dace without speaking and things are off to a good start. I know that I could love her, she already does. We sit and eat getting to know each other. When the dessert is served the accordion player is playing "How high the moon". With a slight pang I suddenly remember another date in a different city, another sweetheart. A more certain hazy love unrehearsed with no roses or dinner, just Vodka and Tonic in a Jazz club where Art is twisting on a giant accordion whose grill looks like the radiator of a Cadillac. She notices that I am thinking of something else and starts to say something nasty about being late, but just then ... tun - titi - tun - tun ... Rrrumba!! I come back to earth realizing that I can´t risk losing a rosy future for a moment of nostalgia. The evening continues well while we nibble each other like two sweethearts on a first date: I thrust in with words and fend off by dancing. The accordion player seems to humor me with leading his orchestra in a medley of pieces which are unusual for a restaurant but a must for our hearts that are meeting for the first time. She is magnificent in her red evening dress, which sparkles against my white pin stripes when we dance wrapped in the notes of a ballad or when we let ourselves going to frenetic Cuban rythms. She moves lightly on her elegant medium heeled shoes which she slips off when we leave the restaurant throwing out her arms and twirling bare-footed across the lawn of the Park that we cross to reach her home, singing at the top of our lungs a funny version of the Viennese waltz we had danced so seriously and with such aplomb accompained by the orchestra. Just a few hours later I am back in my barchelor flat on the other side of town. It´s dawn and I am in yet another taxi whose driver is a Mussette music buff. I try to remember the face of the accordion player the night before who had accompained me like a guardian angel in the first steps of my new love. I remember every note of his music, but I cant´t remember his face. I remember his hands with the ruby that all accordion player wear on his right finger, I remember his black accordion with its pearls catching stray rays of light in the dimness, but I can´t remember his face. I get home, and finally there is silence while my head buzzes with Jeanne´s theme from the Last Tango in Paris. I take my fathers old accordion out of the cupboard and try, unsuccessfully to play something that sounds like the music that is running through my mind. From tomorrow I will be looking for an accordion Maestro!

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