I liked the Greek Guys. If you were one of the fifty billion people tuning into the Eurovision Song Contest, you know what I’m talking about. The Greek Guys wore tight white jump suits and dangerous-looking black leather boots, and stomped all over the stage yelling “OPA!” while flames shot up behind them. The song itself was nothing more than an odd meter Greek hootenanny with machine-gun-fire percussion, and the lead singer was more of a lead shouter, but in the hot-blooded macho entertainment category, they certainly got my vote.
"OPA means 'hole' in English," said my son. I think he must have made that up. I can't imagine that the Eurovision censors would have allowed those guys to stomp around screaming "HOLE!"
“Moldova is the one to watch,” said my pal Sharon Reamer, a long-time Eurovision fan. “They always get everyone in the entire country up onstage, including someone’s grandmother.” This year’s Moldova entry didn’t include a grandmother, but instead featured a hip-thrusting alto saxophone player in a blue sparkle jumpsuit, a Moldovan Lady Gaga clone, and a man who looked like a pipe cleaner but sounded just like Tom Jones.
Armenia’s selection, “Apricot Stone,” took up the grandmother slack by plopping an ancient babushka-clad woman in the middle of an Armenian historical drama. A man wearing burlap knickers back-flipped over the grandmother. Not that anyone noticed. All eyes were on singer Eva Rivas’s cleavage. Most male viewers, I’m sure, were wondering where she was hiding that Apricot Stone. When I suggested it might be tangled in her hair extensions my son called me a poor sport.
I was drawn to Romania and their song “Playing with Fire.” In spite of the S&M outfits and the Las Vegas-inspired Plexiglas double keyboard, Paula Seling and Ovi at least knew how to sing. Paula looked nasty, in a good way. Ovi did his best to keep up with her, but he could have used few lessons from the Greek Guys.
Spain’s entry, Daniel Diges singing “Algo Pequeñito,” had a Felini meets Cirque du Soleil vibe. All those acrobatic clowns gave me nightmares, but I liked Daniel’s hair a lot. He looked like Malcolm Gladwell in a windstorm. Denmark, who obviously couldn’t decide if they wanted to copy Abba or The Police, turned in a performance right out of the eighties, complete with Captain and Tennille military jackets.
What about Turkey with that stripping robot? And Georgia’s Sopho Nizharadze belting out an F# in her chest voice while standing on her head?And England with the Disco Duck does Donna Summer number? I loved them all.
Iceland offered a woman with a voice that may well have caused the volcano, Ireland presented a good singer having a bad hair day, and Azerbijan made a big splash with a Celine Dion-influenced “Drip Drop” song. France’s entry? It was more like France’s exit. Monsieur Matador’s derriere was music for my eyes.
Germany’s performer, the Lolita-inspired Lena, looked really cute in her Brit-suave black dress, but danced like she was in need of a trip to the nearest Australian potty—her fake English accent had the undesired effect of making her sound like a sheep-herder. She brought the house down. But my very favorite was the Belgian Tom Dice, who stood alone onstage with his guitar and sang a song about a man standing alone onstage with his guitar. I actually phoned the number and voted for him, because I’m a sucker for singer-songwriters. Then again, I’m fifty-two, and remember that music should be about something.
By the end of the show, I decided that all of the Eurovision performances, even the worst of them, were about something bigger than the song, the singer, or the country. In that same odd way the Olympics and the World Cup unite us, so does Eurovision. We might wave a flag for the home team, but we revel in the joy of the event, regardless of the winner.
As the jury tabulated votes, the Norwegian producers of the show broadcast a dancing segment. Huge crowds of amateur dancers from all corners of the continent, who had learned specific choreography in advance, waved their arms and kicked their legs in time to an upbeat anthem intended to unite us all with the power of music. We witnessed a funky collage of real people making their own fun and for a few glorious minutes in TV land, the world celebrated not the music itself, but the act of creating it. When we praise art, we praise life. Some of us carry apricot stones and have Eastern Block dialects when we sing. Others boast a Western pop-savvy and a fondness for over-played licks and grooves. Another group prefers weird choreography and unusual time signatures. Still, we are all pretty much the same. We want peace, prosperity, and good dose of joy, and we want our neighbors to have these things, too.
OPA!
