I have uploaded a digitalisation of my deceased father Daniel Desimone’s 1968 record, playing a piece attributed to Russian composer Scriabin. It’s on Spotify, Youtube Premium & other services. Daniel studied piano at the same conservatory as Martha Argerich, Bruno Gelber, and Enrique Barenboim, under Vicente Scaramuzza in Buenos Aires, gave concerts at Teatro Colón as a child, and toured within South America as a teenager and young adult. Events compelled him to flee his country in late 1970’s, especially after he witnessed police executions of other musicians. He went to live with my grandfather, Rómulo, then a successful jazz & swing saxophonist working in the Caribbean (in the band of the first hotel opened on Aruba, the Golden Tulip) but Daniel could not continue a classical music profession there in a Caribbean context. This is in no way attempting to vindicate Daniel (since my grandparents were more parental) However, I believe the music should be preserved, and can send you the recording with an emailed link to the online services. (I used a Danish website called “Digital Music Distribution” to this effect) The vinyl appeared with Fermata, the no longer extant record label of Ben Molar (Moshe Brenner) famous for having promoted tango recordings in Argentina. The record got him into a scholarship program for young musicians in Paris for two years, where I believe (but am not sure, have to confirm) that his instructor there may have been Nadia Boulanger. Feel free to contact me if you have either questions, or more information as to the context of this enigmatic music piece from Argentina. My Spanish translation of this text soon on its way here.
Publicación de mi relato “Don Suleiman, El Imprescindible” en la revista Trasdemar para literatura por escritores provenientes de islas. El cuento se localiza de Túnez, y es uno de los primeros relatos que escribo en el español – por mayor parte he sido anglófono, remitiéndome al inglés para poesía tanto como prosa y he sido traducido al español. Gracias a los editores de Trasdemar.
Eminence becomes you. Now when the rock is struck
your young sardonic voice which broke on beauty
floats amid incense and speaks oracles
as though a god
utters from Russell Square and condescends,
high in the solemn cathedral of the air,
his holy octaves to a million radios.
I am not one accepted in your parish.
Bleistein is my relative and I share
the protozoic slime of Shylock, a page
in Sturmer, and, underneath the cities,
a billet somewhat lower than the rats.
Blood in the sewers. Pieces of our flesh
float with the ordure on the Vistula.
You had a sermon but it was not this.
It would seem, then, yours is a voice
remote, singing another river
and the gilded wreck of princes only
for Time’s ruin. It is hard to kneel
when knees are stiff.
But London Semite Russian Pale, you will say Heaven…