Music and Memory
The luxurious Pearson Convention Centre on the outskirts of Toronto in the winter of 2024 houses my body but my heart and soul are in the downtown Vendome Nightclub in Damascus of 1989. We have waited through the two warm-up singers and a bland chicken dinner for this moment.
The musicians start playing the melodies we all recognize and swoon to as a train of people on either side of the stage join together a wall of black fabric. Behind the wall we hear a few notes from that one-of-a-kind voice we all yearn for. Finally, the curtain is dismantled and our precious George Wassouf is slumped over in a sturdy white chair centre stage. The crowd explodes on their feet, roaring with love, hands on high.
Weeks ago my two students, Penny and Liz, sent me a Whatsapp message that read “George Wassouf, Feb 24, interested?” Without hesitation I typed back “YES!” I am the one who introduced them, years ago, to the classic songs of George Wassouf and the voice that cracks your heart open. Now the moment had arrived.
Thirteen hundred people were bopping and swaying. Synapses were crashing as joy, grief, excitement and heartbreak all collided into each other. The joyful audio backdrop of days in Syria, the grief of those days long gone, the excitement of finally seeing George in person and the heartbreak of witnessing his diminished state of health.
“George is a disaster, a train crash” some reviewed.
Tonight, we sang his songs for him as he was only able to squeak out a note here and there. We stood up and danced for him as he could no longer walk. George’s gift of artistry that he blessed us with for 40 years was now a conduit for the glorious memories we all shared together. And we were eager to return his gift with boundless love.
Between songs the audience expressed the intimacy and respect they felt by chanting “Abu Wadih”, “Father of Wadih”. Wadih is George’s son who died last year. Women dressed to the ninths, husbands adoring their wives. So many smiles and hugs in all directions. So much love in the room. When we heard George’s voice almost accomplish a note the room quietened with anticipation.
I am disappointed that I never got to listen to that full unique voice in person. But I did get to be in the same room as him and his master musicians who are as old as him. I was able to bathe in the songs that were the backdrop to my years in Syria. These were the songs I danced to and the ones the singers belted out as I awaited my turn to perform.
When they covered the stage again to take him away I hoped no one would notice my tears but then hands on my shoulder and hugs drove me to sobbing. Still this morning, I am a boiling stew of emotion. I cried because I did not want the music to end. I did not want George to go away, and with him, my memories of Syria.