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ANNIVERSARY OF MARKOS’ DEATH

2/8/2016

Comments

 
It's 44 years to the day since Markos died, 8th Feb 1972. He always said the bouzouki would reach the moon. The pages of the TLS (Times Literary Supplement) where his Autobiography has been reviewed this week, would have seemed to him even more remote than the moon. '"Markos", says the reviewer, 'is to street culture what Kazantzakis is to its fiction ... though outside the country he remains virtually unknown.' Well, the comments we see on the book’s Facebook page from Alaska, Canada, USA, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Brazil, Argentina, not to mention England, France, Italy, Spain, Germany, the Netherlands and Baltic states might seem to indicate otherwise.  
At any rate, here's a fine song from 1949 that celebrates the two things Markos loved most in life: women and bouzouki.  But what he said about this song reveals the pragmatism of an older, wiser hard-working man who had responsibilities:
'The ‘road’ is hidjaskiar. The bohemian life is the rackety life, you know, dancing, partying, all that sort of thing. But of course a guy has to work first and then he’ll do the bohemian life, because if he doesn’t work, how’s it going to happen? With work there’ll be the money and everything he needs to lead this kind of life ....' 

A Crazy Blue-Eyed Blonde
 
A girl with blue eyes, crazy blonde
Who’s full of youth and beauty
Sits every night up front and makes
Me melt she’s such a cutie!
 
So slinky and provocative
She comes here every night.
Give up your tricks you naughty blonde
Embrace me hold me tight!
 
You’ve got me all confused and you
Don’t care I droop with pain.
You tease! I cannot bear it as
The pain I try to hide’s insane
Ξανθιά Τρελή Γαλανομάτα
 
Μια ξανθιά τρελή γαλανομάτα,
που `ναι όλο ομορφιά και νιάτα,
κάθε βράδυ κάθεται μπροστά μου
κι έλιωσε τα φύλλα της καρδιάςμου.
 
Κάθε βράδυ πάντα μ’ ανταμώνει,
με τα νάζια της πώς με πεισμώνει,
Άφησε ξανθιά την απονιά σου,
βάλε με μέσα στην αγκαλιά σου.
 
Μ’ έχεις μπερδεμένο δε σε νοιάζει,
Πώς πονώ για σε κι έχω μαράζι.
Δεν μπορώ ν’αντέξω παιχνιδιάρα,
κρύβω μέσα μου για σε λαχτάρα.
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