Mythos

Listening to D‘Un Bleu Tres Noir, with its scattered moments of melodramatic fury and bitter contemplation, I thought about the kind of fleeting, insignificant memories that still hurt so much when they are remembered. I saw the snow-covered mountains of Turkey, which I would glimpse whenever the school bus made an abrupt turn on the northern tip of Rodos. I smelled the greasy cheese pies an old, toothless lady would sell in the schoolyard. I remembered the stuffed two-headed goat displayed with pride at the island’s aquarium, the one that, in later years, was taken away because it was ”too intense a spectacle for the youngsters of Rodos.“ I saw the face of Koula, a pretty classmate with big, dark eyes who died of cancer when we were both 12. I heard the bells of the Orthodox church on the narrow working-class street where I used to live. I touched the soft fur of a scrawny black cat who would come to my yard looking for the bits of sesame bread dipped in oil I‘d leave for him on empty cans of sardines. Finally, I saw the silhouette of the slim, tall neighborhood girl, the one with the proud smile and the thick eyebrows, the one for whom I’d stand for hours in front of my window, waiting for her to walk by so that I could pretend that I was just standing there, as if by chance, and our eyes just happened to meet.

The thing is, you don‘t need to understand Greek in order to appreciate the darkness in Ionatos’ music. It‘s like the blues, really -- even if you don’t pay attention to the words, the message is loud and clear. Same with Ionatos. Her voice is stormy and unpredictable, her music solemn and hypnotic. Her ferocious sense of drama leaves you feeling light and airy.