Moreover / The ineffable charm of Charles
By Gideon Levy

Ha’aretz, Israel
March 24 2005

French singer Charles Aznavour steals the show at the Leipzig book
fair.

Saturday afternoon, Leipzig: Pure delight

A short old man, with sparse gray hair and dated attire, ascends the
stage with the blue couch – the central interview site in the
entrance hall of the book fair. Yesterday and the day before, this
couch was sat upon – separately – by David Grossman, Yoram Kaniuk and
Amos Oz, whose attire wasn’t all that spiffy either, and they also
attracted a sizable crowd, but nothing like this man has. He looks
like the elderly neighbor from across the hall, in his holiday best,
with his blue jacket and gray trousers and shiny shoes, like one of
the most charming images from our childhood.

The crowd cheers. He waves to them as one of his immortal songs plays
in the background. A chill goes up the audience’s collective spine as
all eyes watch him sit down on the sofa – flesh and blood, in arm’s
reach. The interviewer asked her questions in German, he answered in
his Armenian French, and the translator of his book, which was just
published in German, translated into the local language. Ladies and
gentlemen, Charles Aznavour.

No setting would be more incongruous in which to encounter this giant
of song, the last great avatar of the chanson, than this sprawling
book fair in Germany’s Saxony region. Writers have given a thousand
readings here, but his appearance was the emotional high point.
Brassens, Montand, Brel and Piaf have all been gone for some time.
Only he is left, like a rare bird from an endangered species. He will
turn 81 next month and he is as vital and charming as ever; his deep,
throaty voice unchanged, making him instantly identifiable even when
he’s not singing.

His relationship with Piaf was something “between love and
friendship” and his dependence on her was “a willful dependence.” His
father used to wake him up every morning when he came home totally
drunk from his nights on the town – it was a warm and loving family.
The “operation on his hair” – a hair implant or something like that –
changed his life, and he felt the need to share the experience with
everyone. He displays the piece of hair that goes from back of his
head to the front, still covering for what’s no longer there.

He once appeared at the Moscow opera house and all the tickets were
given to Communist party hacks. There wasn’t a seat left for his
grandmother. Outside, the Soviet masses wrote graffiti: “The concert
belongs to the party but Aznavour is ours.” Aznavour wanted his
grandmother. He asked the organizers from the Kremlin: “Do you know
how to sing? My grandmother knows.” And the concert didn’t start
until his grandmother was there.

Yes, he smoked and drank a lot his whole life, but only cigarettes
and only whiskey. That’s why he’s had such a long life. Does he have
any regrets – to echo Piaf’s immortal song? “I haven’t thought about
that question yet,” he says. “I’ve had such a wonderful life. I was
poor, but I was never miserable.”

In April, Nana Mouskouri will perform in nearby Dresden, as part of
her World Farewell Tour. The posters are already up around the once
devastated and now beautifully rebuilt city, and in December, the
bassist from Queen, another scion of an endangered species, is due to
perform there, too. And we’ve got Eurovision songstress Shiri Maimon
(autobiography coming soon).