35 - Our Family Friends: An Afternoon of Revelations (Music)

Back at the Queen Olga's apartment, that hive of intellectuals, my guardianship from Billy, as if by an older and bigger brother, continued and touched upon issues on which my real guardians had neither an opinion, nor they were reluctant to discuss. It was another Saturday afternoon during a family visit, when we were lying on the floor in front of Billy’s state-of-the-art stereo system, of which naturally I was in awe and envious– thanks to the several control buttons and knobs and corresponding features, as well as the size and power of the two loudspeakers on either side of a rack of selves, which housed the different components. Billy enthused demonstrating the power and fidelity of his stereo by varying the volume to its maximum amplitude, whilst orienting his ear in the direction of each speaker. The bottom shelf of the rack was occupied by a respectable in size set of vinyl records with artistically intriguing covers. He would select an album and then, meticulously and with uncharacteristic dexterity and diligence, he would pull an album out of its case so that we could listen to a piece of musing of his likings. At a pause he asked me: "You, L, what kind of music do you like listening to?"

What answer a musically ignorant child, whose deplorable experience with listening to music was limited to a handful of popular Greek songs, hits of the time that were played on the radio, television, the jukeboxes of taverns, or could be heard from the open windows and balconies of my working-class neighborhood? What could be the response of a child, whose musical education could be summed up by a single hour of week of choirs-singing of patriotic songs at school, with inadequate music sources, a non-existent collection of records and tapes and, therefore, utterly incapable to distinguish between genres and trends and styles, foreign or Greek, modern or classical, let alone fully appreciate and enjoy a music composition? ‘Light Greek pop..." I timidly whispered in two words to that dreadful and evasive question, ashamed by my ignorance which laid bare. Yet, I answered to the best of my non-existent knowledge (of music). The one and only vinyl record of 45 rpm, was a gift from one of my aunts on my eighth birthday, and I played it on the old mini-record player Father normally kept on the top shelf of our wardrobe for my aunts and Kostakis, the only guest amongst friends, to listen to. It had two singles, hits of the time, by a popular singer and former neighbour, Kalantzis: "Dolphin, little Dolphin" on one side, "The Glib Man" on the other. Oh, I forgot... There was also collection of old songs of Father’s, either forgotten or banned by the junta censorship, from genres popular amongst the progressive youth, branded as ‘artistic pop-music’ and the ‘New Wave’ in a tape, but that semi-damaged tape could not be played in the dysfunctional player without being twisted and warped, and a handful of scratched 45rpm records in a plastic bag; the Beatles' Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da’ is the only one I recall.

Billy’s query was well-intentioned. He just wanted me to pick a song to my musical likings, if any, from his rich record collection so that we could both enjoy listened to in high-fidelity. Undoubtedly, his musical ear was more cultured and refined, yet he did not mock my feeble answer. But instead of something like ‘light Greek pop’, always with good intentions, he chose and put on the turntable the closest available to that genre: of the then communist Theodorakis' ‘The Little Songs of a Bitter Homeland’, whose music was censored and banned by the junta government since 1967. It was an album that the Akrivides’ purchased in Paris and smuggled into Greece, another piece of evidence, symbolic as it was, of a small but brave under the circumstances, resistance to the policies of the regime. We recorded the album on a cassette. Despite Mother's protests (the always fearful and compliant teacher), we listened to them, in the privacy of our FIAT when on the motorway. I might have been too young then to resonate with the revolutionary lyrics and beats and the mobilising melodies of Theodorakis' music.

After ‘The Little Songs…’ of Theodorakis’, Billy, pulled another record out of it album cover, and with his index finger and thumb of softly touch the circumference of another album, as if holding a valuable and fragile object, he placed on the turntable; an album of his liking, I presumed. His cover featured a photograph of a Zeppelin airship, which I recognized from a war film we had recently watched together in the nearby cinema. It was a milestone album of the ‘Led Zeppelin’ band, again purchased in Paris at Billy’s behest. Squatting next to the speakers, the volume of the amplifier being adjusted to higher scales, after the few seconds of the characteristic spiky noise created by the needle after it contacts the vinyl record, our ears vibrated and our souls were filled, wholesome sound of Jimmy Page's electric guitar and Robert Plant's raw and powerful voice. I had not listened to any rock music until then, let alone the innovative heavy metal sounds that were captivating the ears and souls of avant-garde young people, like Billy, and, of course, I had not heard of Led Zeppelin either. It had taken several years, from the barren days of utter world music ignorance, for me to discover rock and heavy metal, along with many other genres and sounds of the then contemporary but timeless music production, even the classical heritage; everything that might have reached the ‘bitter homeland’ homeland and my room from the musical pioneers of the world. Pop and rock music, foreign and unknown, always sounded like ‘noise’ and an incomprehensible ‘buzzing’ in the ears of Mother and Father, the artists as scruffy and ‘hairy hippies.’ I would have to tread for a few more years the lukewarm waters of Greek light-pop music, before experiencing a broader musical repertoire, Greek and foreign.