Raining on Poor People’s Streets
On the abject homes, in narrow alleys.
And it rains too, in my heart.
A handsome man, seriously drunk and overwhelmed with inner pain, stumbles into the taverna. He empties his pockets to the musicians in the small Greek orchestra. The belly dancer seats him, treating him with respect and tenderness. The singer, the great Grigoris Bithikotsis, sings the song about heartbreak and poor people’s streets. It is not a song of shallow cheerfulness, but an acknowledgement that we live in this darkness together. And so they did: Greeks expelled from Turkey, around 1922, where they had lived for thousands of years. They settled in Piraeus, the port of Athens, where they lived as outcasts. Their variant Greek language was not accepted. Nor was their music, Rembetika, their prime instrument, the bouzouki, or their enjoyment of hashish. Now, wherever in the world there are tiny, upstairs cafes with older Greeks, Rembetika is beloved as a main stream in their national repertoire. As is drinking Ouzo and dancing Zeimbekiko.
Poor peoples’ music rises from every culture like the fragrance of earth. Drawn from the wellspring of poverty, oppression and the struggle to live, it transforms anguish to joy. Lullabies. Songs of lovers to each other alone. Dances on the farmhouse kitchen floor. Expressions of joy, sorrow, protest and the shared sense of what is sacred. The poor workers of Paris danced to Musette. Gypsies transcended poverty through intense musical expression in Hungary, Spain, Russia, and almost everywhere else. Like the Gypsies, poor Jews adapted their Klezmer and Sephardic music to the countries they lived in. Poor blacks in Cuba were a fountainhead of musical inventiveness. Like this Bolero, born from the dust of the street or descendants of slaves in Brazil and Peru.
I have played poor people’s music, for half a century, on my accordion, a poor people's instrument. I love being a vehicle for the emotion, meaning and energy in the music. And I am touched when people address me in the language of the song I have just played. I play it at the Archtop Café, in Bolton, every Sunday from 10 a.m. to early afternoon.
I invite you to join me, other musicians and lovers of poor peoples’ music, for good coffee, food, music and conversation.
Stephen Slutsky