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      “We have only this evening,” the musicians sing.
      As I watch the short very round man I realize that he is the grandfather of the fat little baby boy who started the dancing. 
      When the song finishes, the man sits down, and the band takes a short break. A new musician makes his way through the crowd, and squeezes a seat and a microphone in between Elvis and the oud player, who are drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. The new musician is young, thin and ascetic looking, and moves very carefully. Were it not for his smile and his eyes, he might be mistaken for an accountant, but it’s obvious this guy’s as baked as any old time rembetica musician, and that he’s about to do something very special.
      Elvis pulls the microphone in close to his mouth, and introduces the new member of the group with great reverence. “This is Stavros,” he says. “And he’s the real thing.” Then he puts down his bouzouki, adjusts the mike for Stavros, takes a sip of beer and settles back in his chair … content to be in the background. When Elvis lets someone else take the spotlight, you know he’s got to be good.
      With a slight smirk, as if he’s secretly aware of just how much he’s going to affect us, Stavros opens a small black case and takes out an instrument that looks something like a very small, blonde, violin. He perches it on his knee and bows it like a miniature cello. From the first note, it’s obvious that the boy can bend time. The instrument is a Cretan Lyra, and its sound sweeps us way back somewhere into ancient history with a rich wailing tone that talks of the sadness, wildness, and joy of the world, but most of all, it’s about love and lust and the call of the night.
      For a while, the new musician plays instrumentals that drive the wind from the mountains and cause it to howl across our tables and lift napkins into the air and glasses onto the floor.

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