Vinicio Capossela
Rebetiko Gymnastas

THE REVIEW

Enchanter, captivate us, delve into fantasy, but don’t forget the essentials. And ignite, ignite the soul with true things, which are few and always the same. Hide with us in the great alcoholic night where the music finds the way to the heart almost as wine does to the throat.

Taste the safe haven of the tavern, the sacred space that the wise call the whale's belly and the melancholic a shadowy corner. Where everyone is alone, and even if there's a knowing glance, well, that glance is the universal seal of bad luck. And no one teaches anything and everything is true, from the knife pointed at oneself to the last illusion under the shoes. So here it is, the most sensational drunken song in history, “a lament sung in chorus and danced alone.” A vortex of tension and absence ended “in the deepest abyss.”

Moreover, you had already discovered that the real rock'n'roll was this fiery and lively folk coming from the east. It was the Kocani era with concerts that started on stage and ended on the street like in Emir Kusturica’s “Underground.” By then, you only missed the blues of the Hellenes; the deadly pallor of Anestis Delias, the lump in the throat of Marcos Vamvakaris, the timeless beauty of Rosa Eskenazi. With one significant difference, the force was no longer centrifugal, but centripetal. The music no longer ignited the world, it ignited the heart.

As for me, I remember a blue/white island always swept by the wind and two guys playing rebetiko one evening, “Poli varì” said a local goddess. “Poli varì,” meaning very heavy. “But what’s it about?” “He says he goes to the tavern, then to the smokehouse, then goes home as high as a kite.” “Ah, okay.”

Back then, I didn’t know that music was a lot of things: the first corner you found yourself in, the first time the world opened to you, the first time it closed, the first sip of alcohol with the soul running. Between daze and real-life assaults, one presence: that of exile. We’re all where we shouldn’t be.

Do you remember Vinicio when during “Modì” times you’d spell out the word boheme for us? And when Agostino would tell you: “you are an old soul”? And what can an old soul do if not be a southern soul? The melancholy facing the sea, all that water “full of blood and sperm,” the sudden tilt of a sunbeam in a shadow area, the joy of living despite everything. Sing of misfortune if you want to avoid misfortune.

In this record, expertly mixed in the rebetiko cauldron, are all the music genres that are close relatives to rebetiko: tangos, milongas, morna, and so on. With that sandy voice of yours as if it were kneaded in the coffee grounds where destiny is written, crackling like an old and dusty 78 rpm record, childishly romantic, wonderfully alive.

Anarchy of feelings, sweet/bitter of the unreconciled soul, rebetiko means rebel, but also a wandering thing. And so, yes, enchanter, captivate us, delve into fantasy, but don’t forget the essentials. And ignite, ignite the soul with true things, which are few and always the same. Until...

Until “Atahualpa or some other god tells you move aside nino, I’ll continue...”

Athens, 2012...