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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 20 | volume IV | April-May, 2001



                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 20April-May, 2001
Sound Reviews

Djivan Gasparian: Heavenly Armenian

p. 1
Ljupčo Jolevski

    “Before every performance I drink a glass of vodka, or two, or three… to warm myself and then I give myself to imagination. I let my heart guide me!” – said, through his wide smile, maestro Djivan Gasparian. And then, delighted with the mood from his second concert in Macedonia, he doesn’t spare his time to satisfy the journalists’ curiosity. In the next article we offer a big interview, and here we spread the facts and emotions. We fulfill the wish of the living legend of the Armenian music: “The interviews are good, and I’ve done countless, I never run away from them. But what’s important to me is how you experienced the concert, did the music take you somewhere far away, did you take my outstreched hand…”
    Skopje, April 9 2001. The rain doesn’t stop. Its springtime. With all the features. A drop of luck for the thirsty soil and a chance to wash away the sins of men. It is a historical event, if there’s place for that concept in this shitty reality. The Universal Hall resembles a beehive. The usual people, sick of the news, affairs, the Balkan madness, who dream of short escape from our part of hell, are there and waiting. They have come to hear Gasparian, to be sweetened by his heavenly sounds, to feel “the unbearable lightness of the music,” to feel and give love – simple, human. The longing for the flow from the last-years summer’s night in Kurshumli An is incere and deep. The faces are doubtless. It is left for the plunging in the night and the everyday that follows. The concert, as usual, starts late. “Skopje’s Scheme.” At last, many people here seem incapable of learning what is, and when is the beginning of a cultural event. Although it is very simple. Just read the ticket. Dressed in their picturesque traditional mantles, the Big Master and his companions Armen Sargasijan and Levon Arshukuni come to the stage. The magic begins. The first notes from the duduk start the story. You can picture a boy from Solag, a town next to Erevan (the capitol of Armenia), who carefully watched by a strict gaze tries to repeat the mellody on his father’s instrument. And right afterwards you can see him run around, picking litter, and his words echo in your ears: “I collected monety to but my first duduk from collecting

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