Reunion with Rufus and Martha Wainwright

Neither fame nor fortune can change those born with goodness in their hearts and  a soul full of family love.

There are some things that happen to you that only the goddess of surprise can arrange. N.S.

 Such is the stuff that fills this anecdote. About 29 years ago, shortly after I moved to Montreal from England, I gave a one-hour/one-time piano lesson at a private school across the street in Westmount. I recall 10 hands of kids were at the keyboard playing at the same time; it was a group lesson. I never did ask the names of the kids. I teach privately, so this lesson resembled a Barnaby Circus act.

That evening, I received a call from a woman named Kate McGarrigle. I had no idea who she was, but was taken aback when she revealed that her son, Rufus knew my first name and kept talking about me. I was waiting for a litany of complaints to spew out of her; as mentioned – that piano lesson was anything but impressive. Kate McGarrigle asked me to come and live in her home while she went on tour with her sisters. Kate told me she was a singer and often performed in Canada with her sister Anna. They were and still are a family of artistic genius that unites.

 Of course, I apologized for never having heard of her, and offered some lame excuse that I was a nerdy newcomer to Montreal – a piano teacher who was out of touch with the Montreal folk scene. I love children, and she seemed to be serious about this, so I consented. I felt honoured by her trust in me.

 So, I ended up living in her home and doing all the things she instructed me to do, including giving Rufus some piano lessons on their grand piano, and ensuring both children were fed, and got off to school ok. I enjoyed my time with these adorable children. I recall that the tour seemed longer than two weeks; it was in the early 80s. It was so long ago.

There was one gaff though that sticks out in my memory.

One day, a man came to the door wanting to be let in. But Kate was adamant that I let no one in other than her sisters.

Through the door, I told the man in a loud voice that I was not given permission to allow him entry or anyone else.

When he yelled, it’s their father, Loudon Wainright, and Rufus immediately assured me it was ok, I did. I suspect no one ever treated Mr. Wainwright in such a brusque manner. But I was just doing my “job.” Still, I felt rather ashamed.

What a joy it was for me to see Rufus and Martha again,  over three decades later – both  enjoying their stunning careers – both astoundingly original artists, and both still bonded  as sister and brother. (This was evident at the festival press conference). I had the great pleasure to hear them perform in their own concerts at this time.

Their stage presence, unique voices and compositions (Rufus presented segments of his beautiful opera, Prima Donna and sang as well – his piano playing is wizardly wonderful); Martha astounded me with the various tonal textures in her voice, her confidence and passion. I recall she was a shy little girl. Her half-sister Lucy also sang with her. So beautiful, one realizes this is a family born into music and the legacy continues. I feel humbled by having seen a side of these artists – short as the time was - when they were children.

Neither fame nor fortune can change those born with goodness in their hearts and a soul full of family love.

Whether they remembered me or not (Rufus seemed to recall it, mentioned the street), I really do not know; nor do I care – to be frank. What generosity they have; they were so gracious and kind when I spoke to them after their interview. Fame had not changed them.

Some reading this may accuse me of name dropping, trying to pluff up my own writing career even my sporadic singing performances.  Not so! We often forget that artists are human beings who are not averse to speaking to those of us who plod along, living normal humdrum lives, seeing again people you haven’t seen in ages brings a distinctly unique feeling of both joy and nostalgia. I felt humbled and happy to see how successful they had become without losing their home-spun gentleness and generosity – surely inherited from their late mother who had shown me her gentle trusting way those many, many years ago in more ways than one: upon returning from the tour, she insisted on giving me front row tickets to their concert, and she invited me to one of their rehearsals at another home. I felt so awkward and shy.

And to think that this all came about because of a single piano lesson with five kids playing at the same time!

AZOGIRES: Crete’s answer to the X-files

Azogires: one more bizarre name, one more tiny little village lost somewhere in the Cretan mountains in Southwest Crete high above Paleochora – a beautiful seaside town in Chania Prefecture.

 

 

Azogires is a village that will not attract your attention when looking at the map, but if you go, avoid doing so at night when there’s a full moon: fairies anticipate the coming of visitors; they will enchant you but also steal your their voice.

Azogires is an eerie village. Locals can’t  tell you for sure how many people really live in Azogires. The population census ranges between 40 and 400, depending on if you include the doves that carry the souls of the 99 Holy Fathers that lived here some centuries ago, or the flying cows that carry out their flights in the sky every night at 9.p.m.

It isn’t surprising that Azogires is known for its supernatural occurrences. After all, this is where St. John the Hermit lived. You can visit the cave he occupied for most of his life.

St. John wasn’t completely alone in his wide-mouthed hermit cave. Azogires was also blessed with the saint’s followers: 98 Holy Fathers came here to follow the teachings of their saintly hermit leader. One suspects that each of these fathers possessed powers beyond the ability of most ordinary folk. Ponder this: how many people are capable of living in a cave for more than a night?

The bones of the 99 Holy Fathers are kept in this box and they are supposed to have healing powers. These Holy Fathers spent their lives in a cave when not performing religious deeds on lower ground at Azogires. Those wishing to feel their presence can visit their cavernous domain.

As you behold the entrance to the dwelling where these great spiritual men once lived some 700 years ago, you must know this story: though the corporal beings of these 98 Fathers have vanished, their souls haven’t.
Azogires inhabitants attest to their spiritual presence in the afterlife in the form of 98 doves. These feathered friends appeared right after the death of the Fathers and continue to inhabit the cave. With your imagination in high gear, and your feet high above the village, it is not difficult to believe all the bizarre stories that float around Azogires.

Haunted Houses and Flying Cows

 

Are there 40 or 400 inhabitants of Azogires? The number seems to change depending on whom you ask. Evidently, Azogires residents are as elusive as the ghosts that circulate within in village areas.
There is no such thing as an ordinary stream, an ordinary valley or an ordinary house.
One house in particular has a ghost that prevents all women from bearing children, and if a family moves in their kids die. Azogires folk say this really happened.
Others claim to see in the forest near the monastery flying creatures that resemble cows. They supposedly appear every night at 9:00.

The Naiades’ Pool in Azogires. Can you see any?

About five minutes on foot past Azogire’s Alfa Kafenion, you’ll see on the left side of the road a path leading to Anidri village, and alongside this path, you’ll hear rushing water.

Descend to the watery spring that tumbles over rocks and creates successive pools for dipping into. You may feel you are quite alone, but if you go there at midnight, other eyes may be watching you.
They are not those of other bathers, for you are alone – or so you think. In fact, the bewitching midnight hour in Azogires brings Naiades to this little river in which you are bathing. You must not look for them or at them. Nor should you speak to one, for they will steal your voice. (Perhaps that is why the Holy Fathers used to gather here to pray before night descended).

These river nymphs adore freshwater and though they were chosen by the goddess Artemis – hunter and protector of nature – unlike her, they are immortal. The 20 that flit about Azogires’ little river knew grand company. They used to sit in on the Greek Gods’ discussions on Mount Olympus. So being in such illustrious company cannot be all that bad.
There is a fairy-like feel to this watery nook. I felt inconspicuous, pleasantly odd – like a little nymph myself swimming there. No one in Azogires will admit to having seen one of these five different types of Naiades, but isn’t it strange that some people in Azogires never speak. They nod, smile, frown and offer food without a word. Could it be the Naiades, not the cat got their tongue?! But can you see a fairy?

To Believe or Not to Believe

I was a non-believer for the first few days in Azogires. But something so uncanny, truly bizarre occurred, that from that moment on, I began to rethink all the haunts I had visited in the past few days.
Were those dragon flies by the nymph stream really turquoise and emerald green or was it my sun glasses? Were the bees really that big and why are they brown? Why did that brown animal that was half goat and deer suddenly appear at my side when I got lost on a mountain path? What about that really weird yellow bulbous flower that looked like an inanimate alien?

No need for Raki wine to get high in Azogires

I thought I was imagining things – maybe I had too much raki, too much sun, too many stories. Then the strangest event happened in a heartbeat. After making the dangerous ascent with a friend up to the Holy Fathers Cave, we both took reprieve, standing on a safe flat area to enjoy the panoramic view of Azogires’s awesome nature – most notably the dramatic promontories pounded with boulders in the form of humongous human faces! 

 

I felt elated. We were finally above it all. We felt powerful yet inspired. My companion took my hand, and I dared to let a strange idea enter my head. “What a lovely place to get married. It would be nice to bring a priest up here if ever the time comes,” I thought to myself.
Just then, in an instant, both us collapsed to the ground, falling exactly at the same time both on our rear ends in the exact same position, feet aligned with one another. We could have been a single entity. It was as if one of the Holy Fathers had pushed us full force from behind. We fell quickly and simultaneously without any warning. There we were standing silently and comfortably on the safest part one moment – then pulled down the next moment – dashed to the ground. We were humbled and spooked.
No doubt, you too will have your own story to tell after you visit Azogires. Take your pick: how about haunted houses, flying cows and Holy men long gone, but still remaining!

Our Little Sister *** (directed by Hirokazu Koreeda)

                                                               

Although the intimacy of nature in the seaside Japanese village of Kamakura reflects the beauty of the three sisters’ bond in director's Hirokazu Koreeda’s 2015 film, it suffers from sentimentality; the story is soaked in syrupy scenes and flawed unlikely events.

Deep scars have carved some bitterness in Sachi, the oldest sister (stoically acted by Haruka Ayase) who has assumed the den mother role. The father, now passed had left his daughters for another woman, and their own mother then abandoned the children (this part of the plot is revealed in a confusing manner). The father had Suzu, another daughter who is about 14 when the film opens up. At her father’s funeral, Sachi invites her to come live with the sisters, and she does.

Sweet and idyllic, their life unfolds, and reconciliation has its final rewards when the sisters’ mother suddenly appears on the scene to attend a family friend’s funeral.

The film was based on the manga series; the story’s delivery is surely entrancing in magnificent manga animation from, but as a realistic film, it moves as slowly as the caterpillars in the plum trees by their seaside house.

Relationship films without credible and pithy drama risk the telescope effect – we stare out  at the screen, waiting for something exciting to happen. An interior-looking piece of majestic beauty with lovely music, it nevertheless lacks punch. Not a tear or chuckle was shed by the audience during its press screening in Montreal. Although I like plum wine, it spilleth over too much in this film too much was much in the ffilm. But it did receive a five-star rating when selected to compete for the Palme d’Or at last year’s Cannes Film Festival. 

Lanaudière Festival gets off to a Tempestuous Start

                                                     

What a pity that the rain came down opening night of the Lanaudière Festival as it kicked off its 37^th season on July 9. Perhaps, God simply wanted to get in on the “act”: the performance started with La Tempête, Fantaisie symphonique, op.18 by Tchaikovsky. 

 

Conducted by Gregory Vajda, the Lanaudière Festival Orchestra displayed a great sensitivity for the composition. Wondrous images of the sea and the elements above came flooding into our imagination; such was the brilliant nuances delivered by his conducting and the musicians. So many varied conditions of the sea played before us.

Mr. Alain Lefèvre then took to the ivories on the grand Yamaha piano to perform surely one of the most difficult concerts ever written: Tchaikovsky’s Concerto for piano No 1 in B Flat minor, op. 23. 

 

Mr. Lefèvre’s passion was expressed to its fullest; something few artists can do with this whirl-wind work. Staggering, near impossible feats of hyper-rapid ascending and descending octaves, along with the sudden quick cross-over of hands – just to mention two of the many super human demands made upon any pianist. And no matter his/her finger dexterity, few pianists are able to triumphantly master such inherent technical terror.

In fact, when the composer first presented it to the conductor, Nicolai Rubenstein on Christmas Eve, 1874, his response was: “It’s unplayable.” He also said: “worthless”. 

 

Of course, the entire world disagrees with that comment, and how lucky we all were to hear the great last night with Mr. Lefèvre giving it such extraordinary exuberance with Herculean technical prowess.

Intermission brought us the composer’s Romeo and Juliette overture-fantasy played with great feeling by the Lanaudière Festival Orchestra. 

Finally, Ottorino Respighi’s Feste Romaines offered a panoply of percussive and varied instrumental excitement as the work conjured up the clatter of public events: Circus Maximus, celebrations, the hunt during October and the cacophony and roar of the night with street life vendors and a rustic atmosphere of rudimentary goings-on. Even the barrel-organ has its “say” in this incredibly dashingly frantic piece.

After his performance, as Artistic ambassador of the festival, Mr. Lefêvre stated he was touched that we all came out in the rain to attend the opening night. I wouldn’t have missed it – rain or shine.

Crédit photos : Festival de Lanaudière©Christina Alonso