Rebetiko Lives in Queens - Μια Βραδινή Σκηνή

Mihalis Alisandratos

CUNY Hunter College

« Γεια σου ρε » 

The call came out through the din of voices. I turned to seek out its source and saw him there, eyes locked on me, mouth near the microphone. The gleam of his bouzouki shone on his face despite the darkness. As he receded back into his seat, the crisp, bright sound of steel strings being brought to tune came to the fore, all the while the voices continued. A fedora’ed man, a miniscule baglama, an aged, bearded face, and a burly guitar completed the crew. 

The swirling cacophony of Greek and English consonants and vowels combined to form one communal representation of all those present. It was dark here in the subterranean, vaguely purple lighting illuminating the three music makers. Behind them hung a tapestry, cheap in quality, but rich in meaning. The bathhouse it showed, ornate Islamic tessellated architecture making up its walls, brought us all back. Back to where we had come from, the cradle of our collective ψυχή. A flicker from the right caught my eye, a projected film playing on the far wall. Although out of the field of attention, the film played like a fly on the wall, a nuisance at times, a welcome distraction at others, a reminder of home now. 

Bodies moved around in the dark, cups in hands being lifted to lips, hands moving wildly in emphatic expression. 

“So glad to see you.” “How have you been?” « Που εισαι ρε; » 

They sat at wooden tables, white tablecloths draped over them, elbows barely missing shoulders, their owners none the wiser. They stood at a marble bar, four standing in a room made for three. I smelled the wine on their breath, the retsina that had made its way from the old country. Puffs of white smoke emanated from lips, the scent of burning tobacco mixing with unexpected notes of watermelon and cherry. Bright pink, green, and blue little flash drive-like devices were pulled from lips, only to be returned soon after. The soft clack of beads emanated from hands fiddling with a κομπολόι. Full plates gave me a clue on where to get some grub. 

As my teeth tore through succulent beef, crisp vegetables, soft pita, and creamy tzatziki, a new silence grew louder and louder. I turned and saw that everyone was ready. Attentive audience members sat on the edge of their seats, glasses held in suspended animation. The bar stood quiet; heads turned to the shrine of sound. 

Strings, strings, strings, playing LOUD and clear, destroying the silence that had solidified over the scene. Steel against plastic pick, double stringed joy, and velvet voice came together as one. The deep growl of guitar came from down below to hold the sweet, brightness of the bouzouki aloft, the baglama egging on with a rhythmic chant. The beats came one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, NINE, our extra little friend. The soles of leather bound feet came hard on to the ground. Hands came together with vigor, taps on tables, the timpani of the crowd. A final clang announced the end, a switch to something new. 

A single note came through. Once more. 

Once again, a little faster. 

Faster. 

The drone of the guitar emerged, a tremolo that could shift the sand of a dune. Fingers flew over the bouzouki’s long and rich ebony neck. Fret to fret, the δρόμος was revealed with dexterity and skill. The picture of hijaz came to be in front of us, painted in the broad brushstrokes of the maklamar and the maqam before them. From Greece to Turkey to Persia and beyond and back again, all along being home. With a final tone, the taximi had culminated, and the resolve hung thick in the air. 

« Γεια σου ρε μάγκα με τις πενιές σου!»