My father bought an old upright
piano when I was five or six years old. He couldn’t play and never tried to
learn, but he encouraged me to try.
To his delight and mine, it
didn’t take long before I could hunt and peck my way through my favorite nursery-rhyme
tunes. By Christmas, I had Jingle Bells pretty much nailed, although some of
the jingle got a bit jangled.
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| Joe Zeytoonian and Myriam Eli at St. John's |
The result so encouraged my
parents that they bought a new piano as a present for my seventh birthday. I
took lessons well into my teens but I never really learned to read music.
For years, I was proud that I
could play so well by ear that most people didn’t know I was musically
illiterate. I even faked my way through middle-school band. Best of all, my father seemed pleased that I
could play the melodies from his Armenian recordings.
What else mattered?
Actually, it all mattered when I began
to think about pursuing music seriously. It was clear that I’d have to start over and work incredibly hard just
to learn the basics that I’d skimmed over. By then, I was already on my way
to mastering the simpler ABCs of English, so it was much easier to commit to working
with words.
I have no regrets about my career choice, but I still love music so
much that I occasionally experience wistful what-ifs while listening to friends
who not only have real talent but who dedicated themselves to developing it.
Joe Zeytoonian, for instance.
Joe and I didn’t know each other growing
up but we experienced parallel childhoods as first-generation American sons of
Armenian Genocide survivors. My father was a dry cleaner, his was a cobbler.
Mine sang Armenian and Turkish songs while playing 78-rpm phonograph records.
His father sang Armenian and Turkish songs while playing the oud.
“That music really pulled me in,”
Joe says. “It became part of me.”
The growing affinity alarmed
Joe’s father, who worried that teaching his youngest son to play might set him
on a path to becoming a professional musician. In his old-world view, that
wasn’t a sufficiently high aspiration.
As a result, Joe didn’t start
playing the oud until his mid-teens. He figured it out on his own. I don’t play
the oud but I know enough to be awed by the idea. An oud is a lute without frets.
Imagine a piano without keys and you’ll get an idea of the challenge this
presents.
When I sat down at my piano keyboard, I at least had a
one-in-thirteen chance of hitting the right note every time. But like the human
voice, the oud’s is infinitely variable.
An oudist doesn’t just play
notes, he shapes them and expresses himself through them. As a result, the oud
is hauntingly evocative—an instrument peculiarly suited to a people whose music
conveys a long, rich but often painful history.
Joe played with local bands at
Armenian dances while earning a mathematics degree at Boston University. For
years, he worked days as a computer programmer while playing his music at night
and on weekends. He was in his mid-thirties when he made the life-changing
decision to commit to music full time.
In 1981, Joe moved to Margate,
Florida with his life-and-music partner Myriam Eli. Together they formed the Harmonic Motion Music and Dance Theater. Myriam is an exceptionally versatile dancer who
also plays percussion instruments. Joe sings as well as plays the oud.
Often joined by other performers,
they showcase an array of musical styles from different cultures. They’ve recorded and performed with
many top Near and Middle Eastern musicians, as well as mainstream artists such
as Shakira and Gloria Estefan. It adds up to a long resume, matched by an
impressive list of honors.
I’ve always enjoyed their performances,
so I was particularly excited as well as a bit surprised when Joe called a few
weeks ago and invited me to participate in an event on Miami Beach.
Joe read my memoir and was struck
by similarities in our experiences. He asked me to read a few selections during
a music-and-dance program at St. John’s United Methodist Church. The church
wanted to expose its community to Armenian culture while acknowledging the
100-year remembrance of the Armenian Genocide.
I was intrigued when Joe
suggested I speak in three segments interspersed with music and dance. I’m used
to working solo, and I was unsure whether I’d be intruding on the program. But
Joe assured me the arrangement would work well, and I trusted him.
He was right, of course.
The program called Hye Doun
(Armenian Home) drew a mostly non-Armenian crowd from throughout South Florida.
Joe and Myriam were joined by Iranian-American musician Reza Filsoofi and
vocalist Alique Mazmanian. You can see a sample by clicking here.
The reaction of the audience and
our hosts from St. John’s was truly rewarding. Several people said they’d known
little about Armenians or the Genocide but came away feeling strongly about the
Armenian experience and thanked us for enlightening them.
I felt a real sense of
accomplishment. I’m thankful to Joe and Myriam for giving me the chance to try something
different: telling the Armenian story in a collaborative effort of words and
music. It would be fascinating to explore more ways to do that.
I also came away with a deeper
appreciation of their artistry after getting an up-close look at the discipline
and effort behind the music. Clearly, I had the easy part, which made me at
least a bit less wistful about my abandoned piano.
