By StanleySobari, Adapted from a story that originally appeared
in the Dutch edition of Traveler, where Pancras Dijk is a senior writer.
#accordian, viola,
double bass, violin: Members of the Szaszcsavas Band head for a gig in the
Translyvanian village of Ceuas | Following the kings of gypsy music straight
into the heart of Romania |Music making is as natural as breathing in Zece
Prajini, where a villager plays accordion in a bedroom. Visiting music fans can
stay at a Roma-style guesthouse
UNDER A STARLESS
NIGHT SKY, THE MUSICIANS ARE GATHERING. FOR THE PAST SIX HOURS, THEY’VE BEEN
PLAYING AT A PARTY IN this small Gypsy, or Roma, village in the Moldavia
region of Romania. But now, with solemn expressions on their sweaty faces, the
12 men have one more, important task to fulfill: to pay tribute to a
60-year-old fellow villager who earlier in the day took his last breath.
At exactly midnight, they enter the large front yard of a
traditionally built dwelling of clay. They take their positions between some
bent fruit trees and a wood fire heating a big kettle of cabbage. Tubas on the
right, baritone horns in the middle, trumpets and clarinet on the left. Firmly
filling their lungs with air, the men known as Fanfare Ciocarla-having
performed in more than 60 countries on five continents and enjoying a worldwide
reputation for being the fastest and wildest Gypsy brass band around-begin
playing a farewell march to their neighbor.
Searching for the roots of Roma music in a nation on
Europe’s edge has led me to this melancholy yard. Fifteen years ago, I followed
my Romanian girlfriend to this country and since then have shared many joys as
well as a loss or two, so I’m somewhat familiar with Romanian mourning habits:
I spill some drops of the homemade wine, which the relatives of the deceased
had passed around ,then raise my glass in acknowledgement of their grief. But
my spontaneous libation isn’t repeated by anyone else, I notice. I feel as if
I’ve entered a parallel life, its sound track playing right in front of me. It
becomes obvious to me: This is a different Romania, not the same country I have
visited more than a dozen times in the past decade. Welcome to the world of the
Roma.
THE VILLAGE OF ZECE
PRAJINI is one of a kind-and not just because of the many excellent
musicians among its 400-some inhabitants. It is said to be the only Romanian
village with a 100 percent Roma population; the church, built a decade ago
entirely with donations by members of Fanfare Ciocarlia, claims to be the only
Roma Easter Orthodox church in the world. Next to the church, Costel Cantea has
a bar. He generously serves a sweet visinata
de casa to visitors he happens to like. As he fills my glass a second time
with this high-proof, house made sour cherry liquor, he notices me looking for
an ashtray. “Pancreas,” Costel says, mispronouncing my name, “please, just
throw it on the floor. Dirt makes a bar look lively. You can’t have fun in a
clean bar. Or what do you think, pancreas?”
Romania has the largest population of Roma in eastern
Europe, estimated unofficially by the European Commission at 1.85 million.
Here, as elsewhere in Europe and the U.S., Roma are often viewed unfavorably.
While enjoying a beer in a second village bar, I catch a TV new report about
400 Roma who are about to be deported from Italy to Romania.
The reality of this Roma village contrasts markedly wit h
what the news anchors report about the miserable conditions in which the Roma
live in Italy, France, and other western picking apples fro ma tree had offered
me a handful of them when I passed her yard “Have some more,” she said, after I
remarked that they tasted very sweet and juicy.
Zece Parjini, meaning “ten acres,” has been breathing music
for over a century-quite literally, because unlike any other Roma community,
the inhabitants play brass instruments, with the odd woodwind or percussion
instrument thrown in. despite its small population, Zece Pajini counts for brass
bands: Ciorcarlia, Ciucar, Shavale, and Zece Prajini-with all shades of rivalry
between them.
“Look at my hands,” says Lazar Raduclescu, a trumpet player
and senior member of Franfare Ciocarlia. “They’re way too big and coarse to
play something as delicate as a violin. We play brass.” That’s been the
tradition since the 1860s, when slavery was abolished and each Roma family here
was ten acres by a landlord.
Radulescu, in his 60s, remembers his childhood as being full
of brass music, and he’s confident that
the future will be no different. “Lots of our kids play instruments, too.
They’re eager, but also they see what prosperity it has brought us.” The
youngest generation of lautari, or
musicians, differs from the older ones in one main aspect: They are taught at
music schools in the nearby city or Roman, and they are able to read music. So
how did you learn it? I asked several older musicians. Their answers were
always the same: “With the ears, from my father and grandfather.”
I SAY GOODBYE to
Moldavia and follow a route that crosses the Carpathian Mountains at Cheile
Bicazului, a spectacular, 3.7-mile stretch of road through a startlingly narrow
pass, flanked with walls of rock stretching 1,148 feet up to the sky. Halfway
through, in a spot where the canyon offers a bit more air and is suddenly wide
enough for more than just a two-lane road, souvenir sellers display their
wares, some of which are worth the money: fine fabrics, wooden toys, decorated
pottery. Dozens of plastic Dracula tchotchkes make it clear I’ve reached the region of Transylvania.
But I am going to meet God, not a vampire. With a worn-out
violin held loosely in one of his hands, he arrives right between the welcoming
glasses of strong horinca, plum
brandy, and the chunks of meat with salad and potatoes that compose my dinner
in the village of Ceuas, or Szaszcasavas, as they call it in Hungarian, the
dominant language in parts of Transylvania. The mustachioed, stren-looking
dumneszue (God) has brought three of his disciples. Together they make up the
Szaszcsavas Band, a string ensemble that plays old-style Hungarian and Romanian
Gypsy music: a frantic rhythm with up to four melody lines, weaving complex
lyrical patterns. “At age four I held my first violin,” says Dumnezeu, the
nickname that star violin player Stefan Iambor goes by. He formed his first
ensemble at 13.
“Your violin looks pretty old and maltreated,” I tell him,
but he tells me it is only two years old. “It was custom-made for me in
Bucharest,” he says. Due to the intense way he plays, his instruments don’t
grow old with him. “Music is an essential element of our identity in this
region. Far away from Western influences, we were able to preserve the
traditional, Hungarian style Roma music. Even in Hungarian you won’t find
anyone playing this kind of music anymore.”
I FOLLOW THE MUSIC to the other side of the Prahova Valley,
through the Carpathian crescent separating Transylvania and the historic region
of Walachia. In the far south, near the Bulgarian border, I reach the village of
Clejani. The landscape has flattened out here, with cornfields reaching as far
as the eye can see. Clejani is the birthplace of the band that gave me my first
taste or Roma music: Taraf de haidouks. More than ten years ago, I experienced
the group performing live in a packed venue in Amsterdam. They were impressive
on stage as well as off; after the show ended, they played on and didn’t
hesitate to ask the audience for some extra money. I was sold, for good.
The musicians making up the Taraf de Haidouks ensemble
happen to return home from a concert in Switzerland during my first day in the
village. One by one, they get out of various taxis, dressed in shiny black
hair. They seen the odd ones out, here in this dusty village. In fact, they
hold this place together. For many in Clejani, the groups’ international fame
is their main source of pride.
The current star of Taraf de Haidouks is Caliu, a violin
player with talents one could describe as either divine or diabolic. In the
evening some of the best Clejani musicians show off their skills in a long
concert on the porch of a house that is still under construction, like so many
in this rapidly developing country.
The music the Roma play in this village, epitomizing a very
Romanian musical style, is characterized by the use of the accordion and the
cimbalom, a hammer dulcimer, played here at incredible speeds.
During a break, I sit down next to the ensemble’s singer,
the nationally famous Vasile Dinu. While he wipes the sweat from his forehead
with a white handkerchief, he has to endure perhaps the stupidest question ever
posed to him: “What are your lyrics about” I ask. The old man frowns and says,
“Despre dragoste-About love.” What
else could one possibly sing about, his tones implies.
As we’re chatting, some Roma women serve sarmale, spiced minced meat wrapped in
cabbage. ‘We’ve been rolling them for two days,” one of the ladies playfully
complains.
Clejani is close to the capital city of Bucharest, where, on
the next evening, I decide to visit Club Fabrica, a trendy underground bar in
the heart of the old city. While DJ Vasile (real name: Lucian Stan) pumps his
21st-century dance beats into the cramped club, my thoughts go back
to the master violinists in Clejani and Ceuas, and the brass players in Zece
Prajini. Those last guys definitely generate more beats per minute than this DJ
Vasile has added a sample of what seems to be a sweet Roma melody. Two paralle
universes sharing the same heartbeat collide into one.
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