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My village is lost somewhere between Beograd
and Baghdad. At times, it stays still for a few
hours - or a few centuries, but then always ends
up moving elsewhere. Our mayor is a tuba bass
player and our priest a chicken thief imam. In
our village lives a crazy singer. His name is
Tony Hanna.
Tony was born and raised in
a small village in the Lebanese mountains where
people still ride donkeys and horses, raise goats
and chicken. Then, after spending 5 years in London,
he went to live in Detroit where he stayed for
20 years. But when he heard about the joyful fanfare
of our beautiful village, he came back and settled
here, leaving his family behind in the sadness
of civilization. His voice is powerful like the
mountain springs that carry rocks into the Lebanese
"jord" (Lebanese mountains' rocky deserts)
and his muscles are shaped like the roots of a
cedar tree.
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Tony was the biggest Arabic youth
star back in the early seventies. He sold thousands,
earned millions and spent even more, distributing tips
of hundreds of dollars to waiters, parking valets… Beggars
took holidays after his passage, Elvis Presley's tailor
fashioned his suits, palaces were his houses, and the
latest sports cars were pushed to their limit by his
crazy driving. He changed cars as often as one changes
socks. He was -and still is- very handsome. His moustache
was a trademark insured for an incredible amount; "an
eagle can rest on it" once said the "Lebanese
Dali" as a British journalist called Tony. The
professional "dabke" dancers in his band (dabke
is traditional mid eastern dance) looked amateurish
when he was dancing, girls were screaming like crazy
at his appearances, in world tours that took him to
all the capitals of the Arab world, US cities, as well
as to Paris, London, Australia, Brazil, Venezuela, Argentine…
But overnight, at the height of his career, Tony Hanna
stopped. It was one of the biggest mysteries of showbiz.
When asked about the reasons behind this professional
suicide, Tony never answered. When I offered for him
to play with the Yugoslavian Gypsy Brass Band, he said,
after watching one of their filmed performances: "I
agree", and added: "they sound so much fun,
so unpretentious, so… so true…" The lack of truth
had made him leave this business. When I got to know
him, I discovered that his life was guided by truth
and trust: he wants to be trusted just like he trusts.
He is the only established artist who signed a management
and production contract without reading it. The other
party begged him to read the fine print but he refused.
I know this story is true: the second party is me!
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