At the age of seven I had a playdate at my schoolmate’s family apartment that clearly marked the beginning of my music interest. They had an upright piano and my friend Adriana was already taking classes at a local public music school. They also had a gramophone (LP player) so in addition to hearing my friend play the piano, I got to hear a soundtrack from the Russian movie Gypsies Are Found Near Heaven (yes, that’s how the movie title “Gypsies are on the way to heaven” was translated into English, as if the destination was exclusive and completely inaccessible to certain people.) I heard the music and was entirely enchanted by the sounds of the instruments and the raw natural vocals.
I walked home floating on air with the lamenting violin playing in my head and asked my
parents to sign me up for piano. That did not go very well because pianos were a fortune in
(then) communist Czechoslovakia. There was no such thing as buying instruments second hand. I begged and cried my eyes out until my dad took mercy on me and agreed to take me to the entry exams at a local music school. I clearly recall stepping in front of three teachers sitting behind a long table and was asked to reproduce clapping rhythm patterns and sing a song to demonstrate that I had a sense of beat and could carry a tune. Going to music school was a big commitment. Once I started lessons, I practiced for a year at the school my mom was teaching at, and then my parents borrowed money from my maternal grandfather who was not only a musician back in his day who played in a real (ethnic) gypsy band (they called him a white gypsy) but also repaired and made instruments, specifically the cimbalom.
Now fast forward to when I was in my early thirties during my second stage of American life
(post-divorce). I was roaming the coffee shops and songwriter showcases with a guitar on my back, playing songs from my first CD (a collection of self-therapy songs that I recorded on my annual summer trips to Slovakia) when on one ordinary work day morning, in the shower, a songs from the gypsy album popped in my head. As I was singing it in high spirits totally faking the words (I do not speak gypsy language), I started toying with replacing the gibberish with English words and phrases that would fit the cadence of the tune. Then to my utter amazement the lyrics came flowing out matching my image of a solitary lady dancing around the fire. I bolted out of the tub nearly breaking my limbs to get the first pen and paper so I could find and write down the lyrics to the song I entitled “Gypsy Heaven”, pretty much in one shot.
PS: Just in case you wondered what the original title of the song was, it was Nane cocha which translates as I have not shirt. Imagine if I would have used that title! And that is why you cannot rely on online robots translating art.
