Tonight, George Wassouf

Waking up this sunny winter day in Toronto, my body is frozen stiff, then kicking off the covers as heat flares up. Tonight is the night. It was planned weeks ago when I imagined a beatific joyous event with live music and glamour. But now is only frozen anxiety of what to wear. Will I run into people I have not seen in 20, 30, 40 years? How can I shrink my age in 10 hours?

Rarely, if ever, do I go to these concerts but when I heard the name George Wassouf my heart filled with dancing and rapture. At first George’s vocals baffled me. He sounded like a kid getting over the flu. He was petite like a kid. “Cocaine stunted his development” was the explanation repeated to me. But oh, how he can make a note wave and weave with meaning that melts away your every fibre. When he sings “the goodbye day” or “the people say” or “love is a sultan”, his pain dispels my own.

I have never been in the same room at the same time as George, but we grew up together in our world of art. We hit the scene around the same time. We are the same age. Our pace ran parallel as he would perform down the street in Damascus. Then his artistic gift shot him out of the stratosphere. Sometimes I was his warm-up act and then off to the next gig before he arrived.

My ride for tonight tells me “this may well be that last time George will cross the Atlantic”. So when she offered the ticket I pounced. I must feel the vibrations of George’s voice in person, before he dies, before I die.

And now that will happen tonight. I am frozen while sweating, eating then not eating, running a bath then giving up. Hopefully 10 hours is enough to sort myself out.