Heartbeatgoa.memories -BEGIN THE BEGUINE:THE MUSIC OF "EL DOURAD" - Francis Rodrigues, Toronto

BEGIN THE BEGUINE: THE MUSIC OF "EL DOURAD"By Francis Rodrigues"When they begin...the beguine....,It brings back the sound...of music so tender...,It brings back a night...of tropical splendor...,Tt brings back a mem--ory of green......"[Cole Porter - 1935]*A rich rain roars outside, roiling red rivers of recollection....His hands were marble-veined leather, the fingers squat andspatulate. When his husky bow rose to their bidding, rosinedstrings sang in powdered counterpoint to his giggling gaggleof solfeggio students, who fled before its wrath. But with mehe was gentleness itself, and when he raised his belovedAmati to pour out those liquid notes of molten metal, I couldnaught but christen him my "El Dourad". I knew him really for just a couple of years, but what a magical time it was -- and coming across Keith Antao's tribute on Goanet [http://tinyurl.com/aqh94n] last Sunday, for a moment the mists of memory melted and Martinho Dourado smiled at me again. Three decades ago; and yet surely it was yesterday?The rain thunders down, and a late seventies' memory comesalive....I slipped from the stage to the hearty embrace of gushing,raucous, nubile teenies, most flown out from England for acousin's wedding. Moments before I'd struggled back-upharmony with a couple of them who insisted on singing thelatest pop hit onstage with Johnson (and His Jolly Boys),unannounced and unrehearsed.Clube Nacional reeled before their gawky gung-ho, but theypressed ahead with more gumption than rhythm, andtriumphantly finished two glorious bars ahead of the JollyBoys. I squirmed, and gasped. Johnson was livid. "These, these, this...!" he spluttered, his dark tan purpling. "If you don't know.... timing... aaaaargh, you, you..!" He never finished.I sank onto a warm lap, nosed into another's rich tresses, asthe belles laughed uproariously at Johnson. Then I saw Martinho."Of all people.... you, Franchic, how could you allowthem....to do this to Joaozinho?" I hadn't noticed Martin wasa wedding-guest too.For a moment, two dozen invitees at adjoining tables froze,then a couple of stifled guffaws escaped. In a furiouswhisper, I tried to indicate to Martinho he was ruining me inthe eyes of these lovelies, but his lips whitened, and hurteyes glistened."You are ashamed of us... old musicians... and me.. your oldfriend???" That did it. My bravado melted and I untangled myself, walked over and put my arms around his broad shoulders. No longer did I hear the laughter. We were back together, the two of us, just like old times. Bound by the abiding love for jazz, inculcated in me by this wise and wonderful man. There would be other, softer girls.And he, who was this enigmatic fiddler, Martinho FilipeDourado?Lightning sizzles through the rain-sheets in a pyrotechnicdisplay.Last Sunday I went down to the San Francisco Conservatory ofMusic, six floors of terracotta splendour on Oak Street, offVan Ness. A Goan lad (he co-founded the Goa Guitar Guild) isstudying conducting there. The hour was late, we'd beenpartying all afternoon at the waterfront, and by the time weclimbed Oak, Devang Mehta had left."I'm sorry," the security girl quivered, "He did wait anhour....">From the vestibule, faint stirrings of melancholy stringscarried on the still air, so we tarried awhile and slippedinto the hall off the foyer. A small orchestra was rehearsingthe Bruch G minor violin concerto, but it was the soloist whowas attracting attention. Compact and concise, his sinews rippled as the great Westphalian's score yielded to his facile technique. Smoky eyes flashed beneath tendril overhangs of dark hair, and catching his swarthy Armenian complexion, it suddenly struck me what the young "Dourad" must have been like, for here was an incarnation of similar temperament."Without technique," Martinho often remonstrated, "You arenothing!"That image stayed with me for the next few days though avague sense of unease lingered, simmered and grew as I flewon back to Toronto, reminding me of a companion flight fouryears ago when I touched down at Pearson on New Year's Day2006 to a similar foreboding, only to learn that my belovedmentor and muse was no more."Dourad," my mother's dulcet tones crackled across thetransatlantic lines, "Passed away the night before. Thefuneral's Friday."The rain grumbles, globules glisten, gather and glide downthe pane.... I'd spent most of my early education abroad, where I was born. Then a decade of forays into and out of India, "enriching my perspective"! Goa mostly, lots of Bombay. And much wandering of the subcontinent."Travel toughens the timid," my father said, "And hones the haunches!"A medical man, he was a fine violinist, passing on hisburnished Strad (a copy of course) to me, and a love for theart. So I had lots of music. And girls. Which is how thestory begins -- of Martin and the beguine.Fr. Camilo Xavier taught me the classical guitar in the lateseventies at Margao's musty Escola Da Musica -- which iswhere I met mando magus, Fordham's Jose Pereira -- bermudas,rucksack et al, in one of his yogic incarnations. But Idigress. To pry me out of a torridly escalating romance hedisapproved of (the siren was a 'mistis' mix), Fr. Camilodespatched me to meet a brilliant young pianiste, all of 21,who'd just arrived from Kuala Lumpur. Pure Goan too, he stressed.At a distance of three decades, I have to apologise to Tracy-- the chemistry just wasn't there, though she did try. And Iwas horrid. She came from Majorda, to teach young neophytesin Froilano Machado's cavernous basement on Mangor Hill inVasco, where the "Chocolate Highway" band practised. Mydriver had no difficulty locating it."The chick is chikna" he reported back irreverently, "And juicy!"If he thought I would drool, he was mistaken. And besides,Tracy already had the coveted piano LRSM diploma, which I wasstill two years away from, working with Hyacinth Brown atDadar's Five Gardens. But we hung and chilled, even as hersoft brown eyes left me cold.The storm gathers momentum, drumming, as it did that basementlong ago. An arresting tone, sensuously keening, wet and smoky in timbre was making its way from the motley gang of solfeggio kids gathered round the table-tennis table -- its author a squat, powerful violinist. We hit it off immediately -- and when everyone had left, Martinho and I started to make music together -- the schmaltzy pop of the day, Abba, The Eagles, The Bee Gees. Ever so slowly he began to edge me outward.Classically-trained, I suspect Martinho was a closet-jazzman,his leanings known to but a few. Yet he introduced me to acool idiom, spectacular in its brilliance. I was fascinated,a moth to a flame. The guile of Gillespie, the elegance ofEllington, the magic of Mingus. Never a great violinist, Idid however know my way around the piano, and from thefigured bass Martinho scored for me, got to play keyboardfoil to his scintillating violin. And so we began.Mondays and Thursdays. And if the piano was otherwiseunavailable, my guitar subbed, to create our version ofReinhardt and Grappelli. Yet, he was never one to be overawedby the the adventurous West. "Many," he elaborated kindly,"Posture, without having even the faintest notions of swing,even bebop! You and I must know better!"The rain is possessed now, screaming, as if mocking Martin's words. I was embarassed. Fats Waller or Thelonius Monk I was not. And then there was the little matter of Dourad's view on interpretation. Right from his favourite, that earthiest of staples, Cole Porter's "Begin The Beguine". Liquid four-four time, opening three notes of the scale bedded in syrupy-sweet chords - C, C6, Cmaj7, Dmin7, G11."It's meant to be swung, not bent... out of shape!" Douradraged.It's a blenchingly trite melody that rises above its originsand mutates often into compound and irregular time avatars --much to Dourad's dismay, despite the apparent commonality ofrhythm. Physics teaches us the entropy of a system isinviolate, and this was the crux of Dourad's views on jazzinterpretation, as it were."Syncopate the swing as far as you dare" he said, "But not ahalf-beat more, nor less! Listen to 'Atishoo' to hear howit's done!"'Atishoo' of course was the peerless Artie Shaw, whosemagical 1938 clarinet recording of "Begin The Beguine" hasenthralled generations. And so he began to write arrangements for me -- violin and piano parts, painstakingly by hand, in his beautiful script. One every week, for almost three years -- loosely-bound together in an elegant manuscript. A veritable gold-mine of jazz arrangements in all genres. El Dourado!"L. Dourado you call me?" he grinned wryly, "But really, I"mM. Dourado!"A light vapour rises from the rain, a seductive mist tinglingof Circe.Allied to his eclectic tastes, we shared a love for theRomantic Latin. We spent gorgeous hours exploring Pablo deSaraste's Spanish Dances, Op. 22, exquisitely scored by thatvirtuoso, for violin and pianoforte."When I am going, Franchic," he smiled pensively once, "Ishould like to hear this one -- number three -- the RomanzaAndalusia. In my last moments on earth, I can think ofnothing so beautifully moving."Of course I understood. Despite its virtuosic nature, theRomanza Andalusia was deeply heartfelt, if overly lush. Thewonderfully expressive bass opening statement leads into theearly and later middle sections that describe not merelyIberia, but our lilting Goa even. The challengingdouble-stops voicing our ladainhas, step directly into agorgeous mando-like dance section, before tackling theethereal harmonic-laden finale, so celestially evocative. Despite his equanimity, I never knew (nor enquired) of his antecedents. There were allusions to a film/recording industry past, hotel/big-band years. A murmur that he had recently arrived from Calcutta to retire. He spoke fondly of four sons, and I did meet his delightful wife once.Soft snow cottons the raindrops now, and that forgottenEaster returns....Sister Dolores, a vivacious organist friend from Karwar,visiting her nunnery in Majorda, invited me over for Easterlunch. I took "Goldie" along. Nelson "Goldfish" Rodrigues --that sobriquet bestowed on him by Vasco beauty queen NormaDias -- gaped at the sight of any pretty face, blowing widebubbles to reveal serrated chalky canines.I enjoyed his brazen effrontery -- once performing as his owncomposition (on All India Radio), a tear-drenched soliloquy"While My Guitar Gently Weeps", and subsequently expoundingat length to the unknowing A.I.R. interviewer Mr. Subramonyon the angst that inspired this gem! Never mind that fourlads from Liverpool actually 'stole' this from Goldie earlier!We got off the chuffy rail at Majorda, walked to Martinho'spretty place at Utorda. Antonette, gracious and charming,invited us in, but Martin's presence had been requested atthe convent. Sister was thrilled, and we made merry mayhem ofBach and Verdi. At lunch, Goldie surpassed himself."Oh my God! "giggled Sister hysterically, "It's SomersetMaugham's 'The Luncheon' all over again! Do you rememberFrancis?" Do I remember???"I'm sorry Sister, I can only eat a tiny morsel, I've apigeon's stomach!" was Goldie's gargantuan refrain throughfour courses, a sparkling port and two desserts. One can onlyhope Goldie, a Gulf ad agency exec today, has exceededMaugham's protagonist's twenty-one stone. Martin was traumatized."Pigeon's stomach???" he gurgled in disbelief, "Mhunis haathimere saathi!" Six months later I was gone, a lawyer now, through a wet Europe, past sunny African ports teeming with dark mercenaries. Left behind was the priceless manuscript and a whirlpool of memories. I visited often, but never met Martin.The rain is murmuring now, eddying and tugging at mydelinquent conscience.A dozen years later, my father was stricken. I flew back tosee him at the Port Trust Hospital. His face bound up, he washeavily sedated and there was barely a glimmer ofrecognition. My old driver drove me morosely back through theteeming streets of Vasco. Suddenly he slowed."Do you know?" his face lit up, "Dourad teaches violin at thePort Institute?"We parked and ambled slowly to the little billiard-hallannexe from which was emerging once again, fainter butunfaltering, that smoky, tangy tone. The years had beenkinder to me than most. I'd lost the Lennon glasses andMagnum moustache, and, bronzed, muscled and jeaned, looked inmy teens.My driver shuffled in to enquire of violin lessons for "Bab".An instant of recognition, animated conversation. Martinlooked out tentatively, withdrew."Ah, this is the younger one...," I heard him say, "Oh my,you remember the older one... he was so talented, what heplayed!" I was numbed, mortified.>From the corridor outside, I began to warble softly, in slowsyncopation. "Doh-doh-re-mi-sohhhh... mi-mi-re-mi...doh-doh-re-mi-lahhhh" I held the note. "When they begin.. thebeguine... it brings back the sound... of music so tender.."The door creaked, the student chatter dimmed. Martinappeared, teary. "Is it really you Franchic??" he quavered,"It's been, what, twelve years?!"We waited an hour for him to finish. The unspoken yearssmiled between us, as we drove to my old place where mybeloved Kastner piano still waited. In my bedroom closet, Ifound the yellowed manuscript book, tattily beloved.The decade melted away as the old songs came alive again,even the Kastner valiantly riding through broken strings.Strangely, the "Beguine" was missing, so we improvised. Wemust have played for at least two hours before Martinhorefused my offer of dinner and a ride, to catch the 5:30local to Majorda."You must be with your father!" he insisted firmly, with aglinty foreboding.The soft rain picks up, as though hurrying to a seeminglyinevitable climax. I never saw Martin again. Father passed on early the next morning, the service was hurried, crowded and weepy, and if Dourad was amongst the mourners, I was shielded from all, but family. I flew out immediately and the world changed.It's early spring in Toronto -- the lawns green, bluebirdssing. Unexpectedly, the snow returns for a couple of daysthis week as I write long past midnight, echoing the chill inmy bones. The steady rain has journeyed with me, swirling andtwisting by turn, providing a constant syncopatic refrain tomy keyboard staccato. Thirteen summers have come and gonesince I saw Martinho, and three of those he has spent deepbeneath the earth of the land he loved so dearly. I'm done. The catharsis has been wrenching, but true. Dawn is yet a couple of hours away, and the house is still. A light gleams in the nether regions, so I pad down to the study, and reach up for Father's lovingly-preserved Strad. Affixing the mutes, I reach for the nearest volume..... of course! Sarasate's Spanish Dances, opens quietly again to Romanza Andalusia. Did they remember to play it as they lowered Martinho for the last time? I wasn't there.I lift the Strad and hunt around for the rosin. There is afaint bulge beneath the duster. I reach under and a foldedmanuscript falls out, the script faint, Martin's calligraphystill exquisite in the early dawn... "Begin the Beguine".Outside, the mist steals softly away.--Francis Rodrigues, a young Toronto attorney, divides his timebetween the U.S. and Canada. Having lived around the world,he moved to North America three years ago, where amongstothers, he founded the Goanetters Association of Toronto --who successfully organised the 2008 International GoanConvention. He's currently putting the finishing touches to amuch-awaited seminal work, the "Greatest Konkani Song Hits",a unique resource of sheet-music, etc. His contact:416-510-1347 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting 416-510-1347 end_of_the_skype_highlighting / 647-232-6014 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting 647-232-6014 end_of_the_skype_highlighting (Toronto); 408-256-6923 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting 408-256-6923 end_of_the_skype_highlighting (San Jose).