Part 1: The Musical Revolution
The recent death of Mikis
Theodorakis is not cause for grief. He lived a
long and fulfilled life, and left behind him
much wonderful music—a gift to Greece and the
world. However it is sad that relatively few
non-Greeks have even an inkling of how great a
composer he was. Most people know him only
through “Zorba’s Dance” and his music for the
film
Zorba the Greek.
“… the negative aspect is
that now, as far as the great masses are
concerned, a stamp of identification has been
placed upon me. I am Zorba's music. Even Fidel
Castro—the only music he has on his boat when he
goes on an excursion is Zorba; and he knows me
as Zorba.” (Mikis Theodorakis, translated)[1]
This limited awareness is a great shame.
“Zorba’s Dance” is excellent indeed,
particularly the original recording, and fully
deserving of its fame, but it is not an isolated
instance. Theodorakis was one of the greatest
and most prolific songwriters and composers of
the twentieth century, and deserves a reputation
equal to that of, for example, Bob Dylan.
Certainly he looms just as large in the Greek
world as Dylan does in the English-speaking
world.
The Beginning of the
Revolution:
Epitaphios
Theodorakis’ music first
rose to prominence in Greece in 1960 when he
started a musical revolution by creating a new
sound and a new genre of song—the έντεχνο λαϊκό
[artistic popular song]. This revolution was
heralded by and embodied in the song cycle
Epitaphios,
a work which still stands, alongside so many
others, at the pinnacle of Theodorakis’
achievement. Its importance as a pioneering work
cannot be overstressed.
Those of us
who lived through the 60s know from that
experience that, in music, the coming together
of particular individuals can generate the most
sublime magic. Talent alone is not enough.
Fortune must first bring together the specific
mix of musicians which the magic requires. The
greatest example of this was, of course, the
Beatles, but also the Rolling Stones.
In the case of Theodorakis
it was the
Epitaphios project
which contrived the fateful coming together of
Theodorakis with Grigoris Bithikotsis, and
Manolis Chiotis. That trio was the essential
combination from which the musical magic of
“κείνες τις γόνιμες μέρες“ [those fruitful days]
stemmed.[2]
It is
interesting to note that the formation of the
trio was not a foregone conclusion. A series of
twists of fate was required. Without them the
history of Greek popular music might have been
quite different.
The story begins in 1957
with the poet Yiannis Ritsos sending a copy of
the second edition of his small collection of
poems Epitaphios
to Theodorakis in
France, where he was studying classical music at
the Conservatoire de Paris.[3]
Theodorakis selected eight of the twenty poems
in the booklet and set them to music, which he
then sent to Manos Hatzidakis (in 1958), but
nothing came of that initiative.[4]
In mid-1960 Theodorakis was
back in Greece for the staging of
The Phoenician Women
at Epidauros by the
National Theatre using his music. With that job
done, he was getting ready to return to France
with his family and continue his classical music
career when a reunion with a friend from his
EPON days, Dimitris Despotidis, set him on a
different path.
At Despotidis’
request, the two went to see Manos Hatzidakis
(also formerly of EPON) to ask him to speak to
Prime Minister Konstantinos Karamanlis about the
plight of left-wing political prisoners. When
they raised the subject…
Manos, at that moment, was
overcome by meanness, and overreacted. “Listen
up now!” He rose from his chair. “I’ve forgotten
all that stuff! I have my passport and I can go
wherever I want. I like it like that!” (Mikis
Theodorakis, translated)[5]
After this disappointing
encounter, the two friends reasoned that it was
Manos Hatzidakis’ success as a songwriter which
gave him access to the mighty, and if
Theodorakis could achieve similar success they
would not need middlemen. Theodorakis informed
his friend that he had a set of songs ready to
be recorded called
Epitaphios, and he
sang some of them to him. Despotidis was
impressed by “Μέρα Μαγιού μού μίσεψες” and urged
Theodorakis to approach Alekos Patsifas, the
head of the Fidelity Record Company. Patsifas
agreed to record
Epitaphios, and when
Theodorakis told him he wanted a
laikos
vocalist, Patsifas offered
Anna Chrysafi.
Nana Mouskouri, who was
with the same record company, heard Theodorakis
rehearsing with Anna Chrysafi and decided that
she wanted to sing
Epitaphios herself.
But for that to happen Hatzidakis had to give
his permission. She was his singer. Hatzidakis
agreed on one condition: “Θα καθορίσω εγώ την
ορχήστρα.” [“I’ll decide the composition of the
orchestra.”][6]
And so the recording of
Epitaphios
began with Hatzidakis at the helm and Nana at
the microphone.
However
Fortune had other ideas, and a series of
coincidences led Theodorakis to a different
record company, Columbia, and to a complete
change of plan and personnel.
The
coincidences began with Nikos Gatsos the poet
being impressed by Myrto, Theodorakis’ wife, and
writing a lyric dedicated to her. Theodorakis
set it to music, and the song “Μυρτιά” was born.
A little known singer,
Giovanna, happened to hear Theodorakis playing
the new song to Patsifas, Hatzidakis and Gatsos,
and offered her services. They auditioned her,
liked what they heard, and recorded her the very
next day.[7]
The day after that Nana was in the studio
working on
Epitaphios, and
Hatzidakis decided that this was a good time to
break the news to her.
… says Manos:
“Let's listen to what we recorded yesterday.”
“What did you
record yesterday?” Mouskouri pipes up.
“You’ll hear,”
Manos replies.
“What are
these songs?”
“Some songs
that Mikis wrote.”
“When did he
write them?”
“Yesterday!”
“And who’s the
woman singing them?”
Suddenly Mouskouri was
gripped by hysteria, she wanted to break
everything around her! There were some enamel
ashtrays. Patsifas was giving them to her:
“Here, take it, Nana dear,” and she was breaking
them one after the other! It could have been a
scene from a movie, a great comedy![8]
Not content with breaking
ash trays, Nana later got Patsifas to agree that
she would never be asked to sing for Theodorakis
again following the completion of
Epitaphios.
Patsifas’ docile submission to Nana’s will
angered Theodorakis, and he abandoned the
Hatzidakis recording of
Epitaphios
and took himself off to the
rival record company Columbia. There Fortune
granted him Manolis Chiotis on bouzouki.
For a singer,
Theodorakis told Columbia that he wanted
Grigoris Bithikotsis. They had met once briefly
in 1948, when Theodorakis was a political
prisoner, and perhaps that meeting was a factor
in his desire to have Bithikotsis sing for him:
In 1948 he [Bithikotsis]
met Mikis Theodorakis completely by chance in
Keratea. There, a truck stopped, which was
transporting political prisoners to Lavrion to
be ferried to Makronisos. There was a drinking
fountain there and one of the soldiers being
transferred filled his water bottle and gave the
prisoners water to drink. That soldier was
Grigoris Bithikotsis.[9]
In 1960 Bithikotsis’ career
was not going so well, and he was on the verge
of emigrating to Canada to take up his former
trade of plumber, but he was found in time, and
the trio was complete. There followed fifteen
days of rehearsals, after which the whole of
Epitaphios
was recorded in just two
days. The result was thrilling indeed!
For these
recordings Bithikotsis sang better than he had
ever sung before. He adopted a pure almost
classical style: laconic, no slurring, no
attempt to overplay the emotion, and yet somehow
highly emotive. Logically the songs call for an
older female voice, but one forgets this
completely listening to Bithikotsis. He becomes
the voice of the mother lamenting her murdered
son, but also of any person mourning a great
loss.
Chiotis played
like a man on fire, making the bouzouki a second
main voice. The sheer freshness and virtuosity
of his playing is irresistible. It is both
powerful and delicate; clean, but also full of
expression; rich with slides, subtle bends, and
rhythmic picking variations. Surely, like Robert
Johnson, he must have sold his soul to the
devil. His playing is divine.
But divine also is the
material he was being asked to play. Theodorakis
is unquestionably the master of melody, but in
addition he is also the master of memorable
instrumental introductions and breaks. These are
a characteristic of most of Theodorakis’ songs,
but on Epitaphios
they come across as
an absolutely integral element, an essential
part of each song’s appeal. And Chiotis plays
them with much verve and, often, when
appropriate, with a punchy almost rock sound.
Nowadays
purists frown at the use of electromagnetic
pick-ups of the kind Chiotis had on his
bouzouki. They prefer a clean acoustic sound,
and Chiotis has fallen out of favour somewhat.
This is foolish. It is akin to wishing that Jimi
Hendrix had played guitar without amplification.
Chiotis is the acknowledged master of his
instrument, and his instrument is the amplified
bouzouki. Many of the expressive effects he
exploited could not have been achieved on a
purely acoustic instrument.
It is said that both
Chiotis and Bithikotsis had doubts about what
they were creating, but I find that hard to
believe. These are not the performances of
musicians who do not have faith in what they are
doing. They must have loved what they were
hearing from the studio monitors or they could
not have performed as well as they did. Perhaps
the knowledge that elsewhere a rival recording
was being made by Hatzidakis, one of the great
composers and arrangers of the time, spurred
them on. They had to be good, if their version
was to stand a chance. Nevertheless all three
would have been concerned that the public might
not appreciate something as ground-breaking as
what they were doing. “Μανώλη, θα
ξεφτιλιστούμε,” Bithikotsis is reported to have
said. [Manolis, we’re going to be a laughing
stock.][10]
We are used to the sound of
early Theodorakis now, and do not realise how
“confronting” it was in 1960. When Theodorakis
first played the recording of
Epitaphios
to a gathering of his
friends (Hatzidakis, Elytis, Gatsos, and
Valaoritis) they burst into laughter before the
first track had finished. The only one who liked
what she had heard was Hatzidakis’ mother, and
she told the assembled company so. Hatzidakis
himself assured her that Mikis was pulling their
leg. He couldn’t possibly be planning to release
what they had just heard.[11]
But he was.
In August 1960, Fidelity
released Hatzidakis’ recording of
Epitaphios,
and the following month Columbia released
Theodorakis’ version. Many preferred the
saccharine sound of Hatzidakis, but over time
the Theodorakis/Bithikotsis/Chiotis version
became the acknowledged classic. For Theodorakis
a great weight was lifted from his soul: the
unprecedented success of
Epitaphios
“created in me a great
well-being, an inner peace, a fullness. I would
say that I have never been as happy as I was in
those years. The acceptance [of my music] by the
people was manifest.”[12]
It was much
more than acceptance; it was infatuation, it was
passionate adoption, it was love.
Part 2: Poetry for the People
“...who do I write music
for? I write for the Greek people.”[13]
Epiphania
One of the primary ways in
which the song cycle
Epitaphios embodied
a musical revolution was in its use of
contemporary poetry to create popular songs.
With those particular poems by Ritsos that was
relatively easy to do because the poems
themselves mimic folk song. They use the
language and regular metre of folk songs, as
well as a traditional and ancient genre of
lament, the
moirologi
(μοιρολόγι), which is still improvised at Greek
funerals by female mourners.
The real test
was to bring erudite poetry like that of Seferis
and Elytis into popular culture through
song—poetry which was for the most part obscure
in meaning, and which used the irregular forms
of free verse.
The opportunity to attempt
this presented itself when Theodorakis met the
poet George Seferis. In his account of the
genesis of the
Epiphania [Epiphany]
song-cycle, Theodorakis describes how he first
met Seferis at the Royal Opera House, London.
This was, according to Theodorakis, in the
autumn of 1960,[14]
when the latter came to the rehearsals for the
ballet Antigone
for which
Theodorakis had written the music. Afterwards
they went back to the Greek Embassy near Hyde
Park on foot at Seferis’ request:[15]
“The way your music has
affected me, I’ll need hours to recover... I’d
rather walk.”[16]
In Theodorakis
conversations with Seferis it transpired that
the poet was thinking along the lines of
collaborating in creating a new ballet, but
Theodorakis had other ideas:
“How about if I write songs
based on your poetry in the meantime?”
“Songs?” [….]
“Next week I will bring
from Paris some examples of my work for you to
listen to. I’d like to believe that [as a
composer] I am not betraying poetry…”
Theodorakis departed from
that encounter with a pile of Seferis’
publications to take back with him to Paris, and
when he returned to London he brought four new
songs and, surprisingly, Hatzidakis’ version of
Epitaphios.
He was afraid that his own recording might not
be well received.
According to Theodorakis,
Seferis liked the recording of
Epitaphios,
but when they were listening to the new songs,
which Theodorakis performed at the piano,
Seferis’ wife laughed “nervously” [νευρικά].
Theodorakis stopped playing.
“What’s going on, Maro?”
Seferis asked sternly.
“Forgive me... But I have
heard this poem [Arnisi]
recited so many times by George, that it seems
really strange to me to hear it with music... I
like it very much.”
When he had finished
singing the four new songs of
Epiphania,
Theodorakis thought he could discern in Seferis’
eyes “the glow of a creator rejoicing in the new
form his poetry was suddenly taking.”[17]
However, we have testimony from Seferis himself
which indicates that he was not entirely happy
with the fruits of Theodorakis’ labours:
I didn’t much like it;
maybe that’s the fault of freezing London.
‘Denial’ [Arnisi]
seems better than the rest which seem to me a
bit garbled, missing the meaning. But even in
‘Denial’, the lack of a pause before the word
‘wrong’ makes nonsense of the last verse.
Unfortunately, Th[eodorakis] thinks he knows
everything . . . forgive me, my dear George
[Savvidis], but I’ve a different idea of the
craftsman.[18]
It is possible that Seferis
changed his mind when he saw how popular
Arnisi
[Denial] became.
Theodorakis describes with satisfaction how one
night he and Seferis, along with George Savvidis
and the younger George Papandreou, wandered
around Plaka from taverna to taverna because
Seferis wanted to see and hear the musicians and
patrons in all the restaurants singing “By the
Secret Seashore” [i.e.,
Arnisi].
Never perhaps had Seferis
become so like a small child. He was laughing,
beaming all over with happiness, and I think
that that night he allowed his so stern heart to
love me. To the extent, of course, permissible
for a diplomat...[19]
For the song-cycle
Epiphania
Theodorakis had picked only
four poems: three from “Notes for a Summer”, the
final section of the publication
Tetradion Gymnasmaton
[Book of Exercises],
and one from Seferis’ first published collection
Strophe
[Turn]. The latter,
Arnisi, was
relatively easy to set to music. It was
comprised of three 4-line verses with a more or
less regular metrical pattern and an ABBA rhyme
scheme. Seferis abandoned such traditional
structures in his subsequent poetry where free
verse is the norm.
It was the
other three poems which presented the challenge
Theodorakis was looking for:
I wanted—precisely because
the verse was so intellectualistic—to bring
Epiphania
to as wide an audience as
possible in popular music attire. After all,
this was the first time that free verse was
aspiring to become simple popular song. That is,
to accompany ordinary people everywhere: the
building sites, the tavernas, on excursions, at
the gathering of friends...[20]
There is no doubt that
Theodorakis achieved that kind of popularity
with the song Arnisi,
which quickly became an extremely popular song
and, in time, a widely acknowledged classic, but
it is the only song of the four which is not in
free verse. Whether the other three songs would
have become popular in the same way—the way
which Theodorakis wanted—without
Arnisi
by their side is open to
question. The lesson one takes away from the
reception of
Epiphania
is that traditional poetic
forms make for more popular songs.
Romiosyni
By a strange coincidence
it was the Epiphany ceremonies of 1966 which
would lead Theodorakis to realise fully his aim
of popularising free verse through song. This
was achieved with the song cycle
Romiosyni.[21]
On 6 January 1966
Theodorakis, now an M.P., found himself at a
celebration of the Epiphany in Piraeus. Two
rival ceremonies were scheduled but massive
crowds had gathered to support George
Papandreou, the P.M. who had been dismissed by
King Constantine, whereas the King’s ceremony
was poorly attended. Furious the police and
their thugs attacked the Papandreou crowd. Being
very tall, Theodorakis stood out, and he was
grabbed, thrown to the ground, and beaten. In
one interview he remembers how he was dragged by
the feet over the asphalt.[22]
Returning home, he avoided
his family because he didn’t want them to see
him covered in blood and dirt. He went into the
room with the piano to clean himself up, and
noticed that somebody had propped Ritsos’ poems
for Romiosyni
up on the piano. He had had
these since 1962 but they had not “spoken” to
him. Today, after his experience of police
brutality, they did speak to him, and the music
poured out of him, by his own account,
effortlessly. In a few hours the task was almost
completed. He had created eight songs from the
free verse of his friend Yiannis Ritsos. The
ninth was added later.
In an interview Theodorakis
describes how the free structure of the music
and the symbolism and imagery posed problems in
the performance of the songs. Grigoris
Bithikotsis found that the songs did not speak
to him,
and he felt he couldn’t sing them. Theodorakis
recorded himself performing the songs so that
Bithikotsis could take the recording home and
listen to it there.
I start to listen. Nothing!
I listen to it all, go and shave, wash, turn the
tape recorder up loud, listen again… Nothing! I
couldn’t get into it at any point... One
evening, after I had finished at the shop and
come home, alone in my room I said to myself,
“You have to sing it, Grigori! It’s like the
ones before:
Epitaphios,
Axion Esti
and these here. It can’t
be—Where’d he get it from? Mars?” … So I lock
myself in. “One song!” I say, “Mother of God!
One song! If I can learn just one song, I’ll get
the sense.” And so I began to sing: “Beneath the
soil, in their folded arms they hold the rope of
the bell [that will signal the resurrection]…”[23]
Similarly getting the
bouzouki players to learn their parts was also a
struggle. They didn’t read music so they had to
memorize the “irregular” parts for all nine
songs. Theodorakis describes in the interview
how it took over a month of rehearsals at his
place to get the bouzouki and guitar players
ready.[24]
When they were ready
Romiosyni
was presented to
enthusiastic audiences all over the country.
Given the political nature of the lyrics and the
rousing martial character of the songs and music
its popularity was assured. These were troubled
stormy times, and the songs touched the hearts
of their intended audience with messages of
resistance and hope. The two most popular (and
rousing) songs of the song cycle, both very
similar, were/are “When They Squeeze Their Hands
[into a fist]” and “The Bells Will Toll”. Both
are anthems confidently anticipating a
“resurrection”.
Here is how
one reviewer, Tasos Vournas, described the
massive concert held at the football stadium in
New Philadelphia, Athens, on 4 July 1966:
The word “μυσταγωγία”[25]
is too cheap and trite to express the public’s
deep satisfaction yesterday. It was a national
liturgy reminiscent of the great musical
outbursts of our People…. Twenty thousand of us
drank with our hearts wide open—we drank sound
and poetry and couldn’t get enough. And when at
the end the verses of Ritsos’
Romiosyni
began to fall, one after
the other, like hammer blows, brought to us as
if they were prayers on the wings of
Theodorakis’ music, then we felt in all its
intensity the pride of being a Greek fighter
devoted to our country, our people and their
future. Twenty thousand people, mostly young,
the enraged offspring of the Resistance,
upright, and with tears in their eyes, cheered
and applauded the poet’s verses as they gushed
forth with the music like a waterfall…[26]
The reference to liturgy brings me to my last
section a brief discussion of…
The Axion Esti
This work preceded
Romiosyni
but it does not represent
the successful utilisation of free verse in
popular song in the way that
Romiosyni
does. Rather it strives for
something new, a combining, or at least a
juxtaposing, of classical, popular, and
religious musical elements.
Elytis’ text
is, in its form and intent, a liturgy, and
Theodorakis understood this well, for he clearly
regarded his task as being to realise the work
as a liturgy, complete with songs, chants, and
readings. These were to be performed by a
classical orchestra and choir, bouzoukis, a
reader, a male soloist, and Bithikotsis.
Despite the
classical colour of much of the work,
Theodorakis wanted the result to be popular—to
be familiar enough to the people so as to speak
to them.
I had to find
a balance so that this work would not be beyond
the sensibility of the people.
[Έπρεπε να
βρω μια ισορροπία, ώστε το έργο αυτό να μην
είναι μακριά από την ευαισθησία του κόσμου.][27]
The first public
performance of the work took place on 19 October
1964 at the Rex theatre. Theodorakis and Elytis
had wanted the ancient Odeon of Herodes Atticus
but the presence of Bithikotsis among the
singers was considered by the authorities
demeaning to the theatre!
This first
performance did not seem to Theodorakis and
Elytis to inspire the enthusiastic reactions
they had hoped for, and it received mixed
reviews, some of them downright petty. However
the playwright Dimitris Psathas wrote that the
performance was an “excellent musical
μυσταγωγία” [that word again] which “captivated
and awed the audience”. The response to the
recorded version was equally encouraging. It was
from the very beginning a massive best seller.
I have to disclose that the
Axion Esti
is one of my favourite
Theodorakis works. Two things in particular
stand out for me. The first is the superb
readings. Elytis’ prose is exceptional but so
too is the voice and diction of Manos Katrakis.
Listening to the readings one cannot help but
think “What a wonderful and noble language is
Greek!” That’s how good the readings are. The
second thing which stands out for me is
Bithikotsis’ singing. How could anybody regard
his singing voice as in any way inferior to
classical singing? Think, for example, of those
glorious moments in “Με το λύχνο του άστρου”
[With the Light of a Star] where his voice cuts
in with that wonderful line “πού να βρω την ψυχή
μου…” [where will I find my soul]. Amplified in
expression and feeling by the contrast with the
choral voices which precede it, Bithikotsis’
voice soars! Without him
Axion Esti
would be a much lesser realisation of
Theodorakis’ crowning achievement.
There is much else one
could say about Mikis Theodorakis. He was a
remarkably energetic and prolific composer and
activist. However space is limited. I will use
what little is left to reveal that, as a
composer myself, I intentionally incorporated an
allusion to Theodorakis in the introduction to
my setting to music of the poem by Michael Pais
“With the Lips of Heartache”.[28]
It was intended as an acknowledgment of my own
debt to him. I have been listening to his songs
since I was a child, and they have become a very
significant part of my cultural world. I will
let him have the last word:
“I lived my life well. What
I wanted to do I did. From here on, I am handing
the baton over to you...”[29]
Part 3: Postscript
The
articles to which this is a postscript were both
written for Antipodes magazine. When planning
the second article/part, I intended to include a
section on the
Romancero Gitano
song cycle, but space did not permit. This
Postscript is my unorthodox solution.
Romancero
Gitano
This too is one of my
favourite works by Theodorakis, particularly the
version recorded by Maria Farandouri and John
Williams for the album
Songs and Guitar Pieces by
Theodorakis.[30]
By a happy coincidence, it was released at a
time when I was learning to play classical
guitar. I never got beyond the novice stage, but
I did learn to appreciate virtuoso playing like
that of John Williams and Julian Bream.
In those years my beloved
wife was studying in Southampton and sharing a
house with two other students. Every Friday
evening I would jump on my motorbike and head
off down the A3 from London to spend the weekend
with her. I must have kept a copy of the LP at
her place because I recall vividly that I would
drive everyone to distraction weekend upon
weekend by playing it on the record player in
the shared living room over and over—I just
couldn’t get enough of it.[31]
The excellence of the
“Seven Songs by Lorca” [Romancero
Gitano]—the main
feature on the album—is not solely down to
Theodorakis. Yes, he did compose superb melodies
for Elytis’ selection and translation of poems
by Federico García Lorca, but his own recording
of these songs is by comparison disappointing.[32]
It was created in Paris during the junta years
when Theodorakis’ performances were often
dominated by forceful drumming and a matching
epic style from the vocalists.[33]
To my mind Maria Farandouri is at her best when
her singing is subtle, rather than stridently
militant, and I don’t think she has ever sung
better than on the John Williams recordings—as
well as, yes, but not better.
In a way the album is a
collaboration with a second composer, Stephen
Dodgson, for it was he who created the classical
guitar accompaniment for Theodorakis’ songs. As
a composer Dodgson devoted particular attention
to the guitar, and he had worked with John
Williams before, on the album
John Williams Plays Two
Guitar Concertos
(1968), which included Dodgson’s “Concerto For
Guitar and Chamber Orchestra”. In short he was
an experienced composer for the guitar.
Unusually,
John Williams also made a compositional
contribution to the guitar part, for at some
points he simplified it, even though, as a rule,
he never changed a score, and regarded Dodgson
as a composer who was very particular.
… when I worked with Maria,
we had to change certain bits of it because some
of it was a bit notey and fussy. In the end, we
simplified certain aspects of the arrangements.
Sometimes you just need to strum a chord![34]
Theodorakis set the poems
from Romancero
Gitano to music at
the request of the Lyra record company, which
wanted them for the singer and guitarist
Arletta, so the songs were probably intended for
voice and guitar from the outset.[35]
They were completed by April 1967, but the junta
years intervened, and a recording by Arletta was
not released until 1978.
It is noteworthy that
Theodorakis was willing to collaborate with a
record company and a singer who were identified
with the neo kyma
[new wave]—a
movement in Greek music which has always seemed
to me a reaction and a rejection—though that may
be too strong a word—of the bouzouki-dominated
popular music championed by Theodorakis. (“Hey,
there are other instruments and other styles
too!”)[36]
Clearly, by 1967, Theodorakis was open to other
ways of presenting his music to the Greek
public.
With the
genesis of the Lorca songs in mind, the
Theodorakis-Dodgson album could itself be seen
as “new wave”, except that, outside of Greece,
it could hardly be considered popular music. In
England there was no attempt that I am aware of
to market the album to a popular music audience.
This was an album intended for the many who
listened to classical music, and the few who
were interested in the music of other cultures.
(World music did not really become an
established sales and marketing category until
the 1980s.) From a communist perspective, it was
not an album for “the working class” or “the
people” as such, but it might have been of
interest to those who were sympathetic to
Theodorakis the activist and his campaign to
encourage opposition to the junta outside of
Greece.
Ironically it seems that,
thanks to the junta, Theodorakis had come full
circle. This album represents Theodorakis (and
friends) creating recordings of έντεχνο λαϊκό
[artistic popular] Greek songs for the
international classical audience—the audience
Theodorakis wrote for before
Epitaphios!
To add to the irony four pieces from
Epitaphios,
arranged for solo classical guitar, are included
on the album.
Having firmly established
the έντεχνο λαϊκό genre, and seen it being taken
up by other Greek composers and dominating the
popular-music market in Greece, the later
Theodorakis was keen and willing to explore
additional areas. This included a return to
classical music—in his later years he even wrote
classical operas, including one where he took up
again the story of Antigone. He also revisited
the Romancero Gitano
twice. In 1981 he created a symphonic setting
for six of the songs with the overall title
Lorca,
and in the mid-90s he used the same melodies to
compose a fine work for guitar and symphony
orchestra—no vocals—with the title
Rhapsodies for Guitar and
Orchestra (Lorca).
However the Theodorakis-Dodgson setting is still
for me the definitive one. When such divine
music has been imprinted on one’s brain by
enthusiastic repeated listening, it is very
difficult for it to be dislodged. I still listen
to that album with awe. However, the new
versions are growing on me...
Pavlos
Andronikos
[1]
Μίκης Θεοδωράκης – Αυτοβιογραφία,
Β' Μερος, Γιώργος & Ηρώ Σγουράκη.
https://youtu.be/kx_4syzj1Fk?t=3380.
All translations
of quotations are by me unless otherwise
stated. Parts 1 and 2 of this study were
first published in
Antipodes
67 and 68 (Melbourne: G.A.C.L.,
2021-2022).
[3]
Γιάννης Ρίτσος,
Επιτάφιος,
2nd edition (Athens: Kedros, 1956).
[7]
Giovanna’s recordings were Theodorakis
first big hit. A single was released
with “Μυρτιά”
on one side and “Aν
θυμηθείς το όνειρο μου”
on the other side.
See
http://www.45cat.com/record/14008
[12]
Μίκης Θεοδωράκης, Πού να βρω την ψυχή
μου,
τ. 1ος (Εκδόσεις Νέα Σύνορα – Λιβάνης,
2002), σελ. 89.
[14]
2.
See Mikis Theodorakis,
Μελοποιημένη ποίηση,
vol. 1 (Ύψιλον,
1997) p. 54. No performance is listed
for Autumn 1960 on the Royal Opera House
Performance Database, but there was a
performance on 11 October 1961 with the
conductor John Lanchbery. (See
https://www.rohcollections.org.uk/Production.aspx?production=4322.
) Either the Database has not listed all
performances or Theodorakis is mistaken
as to the year.
This
cannot have been Theodorakis’ first
meeting with Seferis. The latter
mentions attending a concert in Athens
on 25 August 1960 to hear the Firebird
by Stravinsky and a suite by
Theodorakis. Afterwards he had dinner at
a taverna with a group which included
Theodorakis and Theodorakis’ father.
There is no mention here by Seferis of a
meeting with Theodorakis in London in
the autumn of that year. (Μέρες
Ζ’,
1
Οκτώβρη
1956—27
Δεκέμβρη
1960,
edited by Theano Michaelidou [Athens:
Ίκαρος,
1991] p. 241.) I would like to take this
opportunity to acknowledge the advice
and suggestions of
Theano Michaelidou.
We were students together at Birmingham
University, and she has been my dear
friend and sounding board in Greece for
many years.
[15]
George Seferis was the Ambassador of
Greece to the UK at the time.
[16]
Quoted in “Μίκης
-
Σεφέρης:
«Προσοχή
στην άνω τελεία»”
by Angela Kotti (Πολιτισμός
2 Sept. 2021). This reference also
applies to the two quotes below.
[18]
From a letter to George Savvidis, 19
January 1962, quoted in translation by
Roderick Beaton in
George Seferis:
Waiting for the Angel: A Biography
(New Haven & London: Yale University
Press, 2003) p. 362.
[19]
Quoted in “Μίκης
-
Σεφέρης:
«Προσοχή
στην άνω τελεία»”
by Angela Kotti (Πολιτισμός
2 Sept. 2021).
[21]
The term Romiosyni is untranslatable.
Its root is the name “Rome” and it
refers to the Eastern Roman Empire
[mistakenly called Byzantine in English]
and its world. In modern Greek it refers
to Greece and the Greek world.
[25]
The word “μυσταγωγία”
could mean an initiation into sacred
mysteries, the mysteries themselves; or
the ecstasy experienced by the
spectator/listener of an exceptional
musical or theatrical work. It could
also refer to a work which has the power
to evoke such an experience.
[27]
Quoted in “Άξιον
Εστί: Η μνημειώδης συνεργασία Μίκη
Θεοδωράκη και Οδυσσέα Ελύτη” by Yiannis
Diamantis in
Ta Nea
(Greece) 2 Sept. 2021.
[29]
«Εγώ έζησα ωραία
την ζωή μου. Εκείνο που ήθελα να κάνω το
έκανα. Από εδώ και πέρα σας παραδίδω τη
σκυτάλη…» From the ERT documentary
Τραγούδια
που έγραψαν ιστορία: Ρωμιοσύνη.
Directed by George
Zervas. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fARYsW-S1qM
).
[30]
Songs and Guitar
Pieces by Theodorakis,
UK, 1971 (CBS – S 72947).
[31]
Bear in mind that I was the only Greek
speaker in the house. I was subjecting
the other residents and visitors to
songs in a language alien to them. They
took it remarkably well.
[32]
In
Theodorakis Conducts Theodorakis vol. 2
(1970, Polydor – 2489 054). Theodorakis
was released by the Junta in April 1970
and allowed to leave the country. The
recording sounds like a live performance
but there are no audience sounds. Its
sound quality is poor.
[33]
Theodorakis’ music immediately after his
release was markedly rough-sounding. It
is possible that following his
experience of intimidation, torture, and
helplessness at the hands of the Junta’s
fascist thugs Theodorakis found forceful
drumming and a martial style of singing
particularly appealing–hence the
arrangements and performances of those
years. Let’s not forget that it was the
experience of violence against his
person that put him in the right frame
of mind to compose
Romiosyni.
His suffering definitely affected his
music
[34]
Quoted in O'Toole, Michael,
John Williams: An
Evaluation of His Impact Upon the
Culture of the Classical Guitar
(Doctoral thesis), Technological
University Dublin, 2018, pp. 171-2.
[36]
See “Νέο Κύμα του
ελληνικού τραγουδιού” in the Greek
Wikipedia.
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