مشاهدة جميع الاصدارات : Memo

29-01-2007, 15:13
Well known in the Balkan.

A curcuna Ussak song, this time in Greek with a lot of Turkish words.

Curcuna = 3 + 2 + 2 + 3 = 10/8

I will have more info about the singer soon.


Anton Efendi
30-01-2007, 05:02
from what i understand, curcuna is 10/16, no?

30-01-2007, 12:44
In theory (and in Ottoman Music Theory book) it is 10/16, however for practical reasons, it is much easier to put on notation as 10/8. So the way I noted it was 10 croches per bar.

I did that and our Turkish vilonist did the same. Although when you listen to it it is quite fast and it does sound like 10 double-croches per bar, but when you come to notations it is easier to put that way.

Also there are many unofficial sites on the net that they put it as 10/8, so I think I'm safe :-)

But as always ya Affandi you have a very valid point there!

23-10-2007, 16:22
This song hasn’t any greek lyrics it's all sung in turkish.:) However it seems that it’s a smyrnean song. Dido Sotiriou who wrote one of the biggest best-seller in Greece (Farewell Anatolia – Matomena Homata) in 1962 (The true story of Manolis Axiotis a Greek from Anatolia), tells us a legend about the composition of this song:

« I will never forget the characters I met at Louloudias' inn. But the one who most fired my imagination was Ogdondakis, the singer. What a story he had to tell. He was a tall,-slender young man with smooth, almost feminine skin, warm black eyes and a voice that could calm a raging beast. When he stopped off at the inn and Louloudias succeeded in coaxing him to sing, why, this was no idle merry-making, it was a liturgy. Everybody closed their eyes as if at prayer, and Yannakos, pale and tight-lipped, crushed his wine glass in his bare hand. Every so often he would reach into his purse, pull out a
gold sovereign and paste it to the singer's forehead. Long may you live, Ogdondakis! Long life to you, nightingale of Anatolia!"
But one day, there was bad news. The Turks had jailed Ogdondakis. A love-starved hanum had fallen for him, but he had spurned her. To gain revenge, she had two officers whip up terrible accusations of espionage.
When Louloudias heard the news he was stunned. “Either I shall go to jail myself, or by tomorrow Ogdondakis will be on his way to Englezonissi in my steam cutter ...”
But things were not so simple. Days passed and we feared for the worst. We learned that Ogdondakis had been condemned to death without trial, and that the gallows was being built.
Imagine our astonishment when, toward evening on the very day he was to die, the door opened and who should appear before us but Ogdondakis, pale and wild- eyed, as if he had just returned from Hades. He collapsed into Louloudias' arms. The women broke into tears, crying: "The saints protected you, the saints."
"It was only an hour ago that they released me," said Ogdondakis, sitting down dizzily in a chair.
Louloudias gulped down a couple of glasses of raki, wiped his tear-filled eyes with the back of his hand, filled Ogdondakis' cup, and in a solemn voice, asked:
"How did it happen?"
"Yesterday, late in the afternoon," began the young man, "Mehmet, the prison guard, came into my cell with food and raki." 'Here, mate,' he said, as if embarrassed. 'I have bad news for you, but I don't want you to get mad at me ... Tomorrow morning, you lose your head.' I shuddered, but tried to hide it. Maybe he's joking, I'll make a joke of it. 'Life, my friend Mehmet, is no laughing matter. Any Christian killed by a Turk goes straight to heaven.' No sooner did the guard leave than anguish overcame me. I drank the raki, all of it, trying to brace myself, then I felt the heartache welling up inside me and I began to sing. Just at that instant who should be passing through the prison yard than Suleiman Pasha, the warden. He stopped short beneath my cell window. 'Vay, vay! What is this? Who could be singing like that?' The song had nailed him to the spot; he could not move. In a few minutes they took me to his office. 'Where did you learn to sing so beautifully, gavur?' he asked. 'Songs are my soul,' I answered. 'And before I part with it, I'm letting it sing, bidding the world farewell.' 'Just a minute, young fellow, sit down there and sing for me. Sing, let me listen, and don't stop.' I sang, and I could Bee the eyes of the beast sweetening, overcome with longing. I said to myself, 'Sing, Ogdondakis, sing, and maybe we shall outsmart Death.' And that is what happened, I swear by the holy cross. The pasha had turned into a tender lamb. 'I am giving you your life,' he said. 'It would be a sin for a voice like that to be stilled. Tomorrow I am having a celebration, I will bring you along to sing. Leave the rest to me.' They took me to the konak in chains. Pashas and beys were eating and drinking in a large room. I sang, I sang like I never sang before, brothers. I almost melted away. When the servant came and unlocked my shackles and whispered to me: 'Leave! Leave!' I could not believe my ears. Should I go? Was it true, or were they playing with my pain and shoot me down no sooner than I made a move? The servant dragged me along behind him down to the gate and told me: 'Get out,
Ogdondakis; be on your way! If YOU love Your life, stay away from Smyrna for awhile. That's the pasha's message ..."'
That same evening Louloudias bundled Ogdondakis onto a boat and deposited him on the island of Samos. But the song that had stolen Suleiman Pasha's heart
was soon on all Smyrna's lips:
Aman Memo, Sekerim Memo, Cilvelim Memo »

It’s interesting to point out that a certain Ogdondaki (real name Ioannis Dragatsis) well known in Greece in the 1920’s has recorded a lot of songs in 78rpm discs…