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Frankfurt 2001

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He was so wonderful

And I had a perfect seat

And took my first photos and heard songs I'd never heard

And met the Club members - the Club was well represented!

And I don't want to come out of the clouds just yet...

Full report to follow!

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Hi Geeske,

yes, in fact, he was great.

Frankly spoken the first part was a bit different to

what I expected, but beautiful music and (for me)

new voices made good that Dalaras were only 20 min.


The second part - my goodness - was absolutely

great! Did you see how happy he was to get such

an applause?

After the show - I guess - some of you also got

autographs. I made some pics but they are not yet


My Dalaras autograph you can see here:

An unforgettable evening! And the voice... marvellous.

By the way, who was the lady who sang the second voice

with D.???

I am looking forward to your report.


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Dear members,

Here a short report of the concert of Dalaras in Frankfurt.

The band who was playing last night was a Polish band.

The first part two songs of Joanne Faulkner great.

Dalaras three songs his voice had to get warm.

Some words out of Icathica.

Second part only Dalaras with mainly songs from the Auditorium cd with the Israeli Orchestra. Only 45 minutes too short of course for so much money and the audience was very quiet only at the end when he started playing the old songs. This concert was in the spirit of the Buchmesse, but to be honest as one of the biggest fan of Dalaras in the Netherlands, I was a little disappointed about the short concert all together with all the singers only one hour and half.



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Well, I looked on my watch:

1st part: 20 min. on stage and singing

2nd part: 1 h on stage

The name of the dark-skinned female singer is Joan Faulkner

( She is very popular in the

Frankfurt area.

But who was the lady who sang the second voice?

All in all you are right. All who came expected MORE Dalaras and LESS the others.

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Dear all,

as promised, I will give you a full and exhaustive report on the Frankfurt concert.

I'm warning you though, it's very personal story, so if that irritates you, I'd rather you skipped it!

I never hope to go to a Dalaras concert in a more emotionally charged state of mind.

Here's how my week looked, before the concert:

Monday : a 14 hour car journey, after a week spent walking in the woods of Sweden, shutting my mouth and thinking

hard - and a decision has been taken.

Tuesday : a long day spent rearranging the flat that has been serving as my office; then go to this man I've been in love

with for ten years, living with for eight years, and tell him I am leaving for good.

Wednesday : bring case after case of my books out of the flat that was ours, and is now his; load them into the 27 year

old van called Ματακια, which was ours and is now mine; and unload them again in what was my office and is now my


Thursday, October 11th, 2001: here we go...

I felt Tuesday was a black anniversary, 4 weeks exactly, of my finding my ten years' loving a corpse, and of the civilized

world grievously wounded and bleeding.

Today is the 11th again, one month later and the day may still look black, because the sun has not risen yet, but it feels

white, it feels golden, it feels like a rainbow.

5.26. I open my eyes (the alarm is set for 5.30). It is dark outside, high wind, thick cloud cover, but no rain. I lie still for

a minute, then extricate myself from my sleeping bag, light the lamp, check the Club messenger, put the kettle on, head

for the shower. In the silence of the house I can hear that one voice in my ear, singing, singing.

Make tea. Put on my brand new pants. Iron the shirt. Dressing the part is part of the fun, is getting into the spirit... Pack

bag. Deutschmarks, passport, camera, apple, cigarettes...

6.30. I'm on my bicycle, on my way.

The road is dark and windy, across the flattest marshiest bit of this flat marshy land. The occasional car swerves to

avoid me and sometimes honks or blinks... but no bicycle light functions for more than two days for me and anyway,

today no accident can befall me, no harm.

But I can (and do) take a wrong turning in this chessboard maze of narrow roads and narrow canals all at right angles,

all the same. So I ride into Heteren five minutes late. I have told Henk to pick me up here, at the petrol station, where he

will only have to hop off the motorway and on again.

I am not late. All is deserted, dark en silent. I chain the bike to a tree, light a cigarette and stand on the kerb, waiting. I

raise my hand to throw away the smoked fag - and change the gesture to a hail and greeting, as a smallish dark blue

car bobs into sight. Perfect timing. That's the kind of day this is.

7.20. Henk gets out: all 194 cm of him! One of the biggest Dalaras fans in Holland, as he says. And Yvonne is there too.

They've been up since five and want a cigarette too. It's fascinating to meet people one "knows without knowing them".

7.25. We get in the car. Henk is driving. He has the radio on. Bombs are falling. This is not right. I say: "Shall we turn off

this bloody war and put on some appropriate music? You promised to bring some Dalaras I haven't heard yet..." He

puts on Καλος τους and I am in heaven.

It's getting light. The sun climbs higher and the clouds break. I discover that the CD has a booklet with the Greek lyrics

and decipher them in the dim light. I can't make any real sense of them without the dictionary, but they fascinate me

anyway. Ισουν θεος really gets me. I must translate that someday soon. Now it's the Attikon concert. The car stereo is

excellent, better than my poor old tape! Now that one is singing Αυγουστος. I melt.

We stop for coffee, huge mugs of pale weak stuff among sleepy-eyed German and Polish truck drivers. Then Yvonne is

driving and playing her favorite: Sfakianakis. The sun is shining. We are entering the hills. They not very high but

extremely steep, covered in fir with beech trees in patches and rows in between, whose dark green is just beginning to

be touched with red, shining under the glass clear sky. The Autobahn plunges up and down the steep inclines. Birds of

prey wheel overhead. What a day.

Henk says : I know what the concert is going to be, probably mostly the same as.... then he puts on the Mann auditorium

record! (I have never heard that either). And, oh glory, the booklet has lyrics and translations too, and I listen with

fervor and study and aim getting at least a chorus or two into my thick head, just for starters. To some people it does

not matter, but to me the words are an important part of the music.

14.00. We are near Frankfurt now. Get a little lost, find the way again.

Uncharacteristically for the worrier I am, I have made no arrangements whatsoever for after the concert. Get there at

all, against all odds... and after that - I haven't asked. Hard to think of behavior more unlike me, in fact. Curl up on

Henk's back seat (at least 120 cm wide) and get a ride back in the morning? Hang around nightly Frankfurt waiting for

the first train, or, better, the cheap Eurolines coach at eight in the morning, for which I have no reservation - what,

Geeske travelling without a reservation? So what? Trust. No fear. Just this one day... Dalaras magic.

I must be turning into a bird. I feel as though my bones are hollow and filled with trembling air, αερας, ready to lift me

up μεσ' τον ουρανο. I am under a blessing today, I need have no worry, no fear, I have none. For these precious hours, I

am free to be entirely, selfishly happy. Today is Forgiveness Day. Σ' ελουγημενη μερα.

1500. We drive into town

When reach the underground parking of the Alte Oper, it says there are nine spaces free, and soon we are parked. We

climb out into the glorious sunlight, the blue sky, the weird, ungainly, overdecorated, comical old opera house, with a

big square with a fountain and small caf?s in front, and a big green park opposite, and behind that, as a counterweight

to the squat old yellow theatre, two soaring silver sky scrapers.

I am not at all used to skyscrapers. There aren't any around where I live. I look at them with a strange feeling.

We sit down in one of the cafe's, outside, in the sun. Henk and Yvonne order beer, I have coffee. Eat? Are you kidding? I

watch the people passing by, noticing how many of the Germans are well-dressed, as in 'with care' and even 'with

taste' (the Dutch are very sloppy about clothes, always in ill-fitting badly made things - barring exceptions!).

I'm floating. In my ear someone is singing "ισουν θεος..." and I can't remember any words, but the sound of the voice,

the tune, whispering, singing.

Who is that passing by? This short, round, black woman, with an amazing head of straightened black hair with a big

white tuft on top? She's dressed in purple and walks with a magnificent freedom, a bounce in her step that puts the

whole world at her feet. I think it must be Joan Faulkner. I smile at her and say nothing.

16.00. Henk has spotted Anna approaching. We meet, we greet, now another forum member has a face for me as well

as a personality (very nice face, too). Anna has the dreamy look of one whose mind is on the coming night. She has

brought her photo's of the Herodion concert, the magnificent ancient theatre, the sunshine so blinding even on glossy

paper, and him, of course, him singing, him smiling, him taking bows...

While we admire then, another arrival: Olga, from Cracow in Poland, seventeen hours on a bus to get to the concert and

the same to go back. She talks very fast, in a high, nervous voice. She is not on the forum - yet!

Ηταν πεντε. Two more arrivals: Kate Francis from London, and her Swiss friend Elisabeth, who is not a fan yet but must

be converted. Kate is indeed, as Nikolas posted, a beautiful person. More drinks, more talk. Somehow, everyone seems

to keep lapsing into private silences. Dreamy looks and quiet anticipation...

Ηταν εξι. We go look for a place to eat. There don't seem to be many Greek restaurants in the neighborhood, but Anna

has an address. We walk., and there is the restaurant: with a poster for the concert under the entry, but they won't

open for another half hour. A young man, obviously Greek, comes to the door: come back half an hour? fifteen minutes?

But we will be late for the concert, we say, with a nod at the poster. He smiles and opens the door wide. Ouzaki?

It is a pretty, comfortable, yellow and blue restaurant. Not particularly greekishly greek, but very nice. I drink the ouzo,

cautiously, ouzo on an empty belly... it goes well. Small pieces of bread with things to put on them, a black paste that

proves to be olives, so delicious that I cry out in surprise.

Suddenly I lift my head to listen, this is not inside my head, it's for all to hear: that one voice! They've put it on specially

for us. The waiters, the dark-haired young men, smile to see us pleased. Then the food comes, I have something with

gamba's and saffron sauce, it comes on an immense blue glass plate, so funny, I laugh like a child. The food must be

more than excellent, for I actually eat it, with pleasure, when I thought I could not swallow. Is it me, always so shy and

ill at ease in restaurants, who is sitting there all happy and smiling?

Κι εγινε επτα. No one wants any dessert. We have coffee, very black, very hot. I go to pee, and find there is a full length

mirror there. How do I look? Thin, but no longer sickly. Burning eyes. Blush. Having no make-up, I smooth the shirt,

tighten my belt and shake my hair. Ready for anything!

19.30. We are back in the square before the Alte Oper. The squat building looms over us, heavy with statues in niches

and useless bits of columns and things. We go in. The inside is like the outside, but a refurbishing has added a lot of

modern mirrors and brass railings all over the place, a weird contrast, so tasteless as to become quite acceptable.

Only the big hall is in use tonight, none of the smaller ones, so, despite the size of the audience, the cloakrooms, halls

and foyers are uncrowded. People are dressed up, rather quiet. A proper theatre crowd, this, not rowdy concert-goers.

I fancy hear about as much Greek as German spoken around me.

A short young man with a big tray hanging atop his round paunch is selling programmes and a few books and a half

dozen CD's from it. Since I have to get rid of my Deutschmarks before the Euro comes in January, I blow some on two

compilations I have not: "The Greek Spirit" and "With the Israel Philarmonic".

We all lose sight of each other in the foyers, find each other again. I try a camera trick in a mirror. Retarding the

moment, the moment of going in... I go in. A huge hall, as big as the opera house in Amsterdam. It is entirely pannelled in

wood, dark red wood like steamed beech or something, very smooth and shining. The stage is ready, harsh lights

sparking off all the metal bits. There are several stands for singers, but I can see where he will be: a step or two left

from the center, where, beside the singer's microphone, there is one for a guitar. Or a baglama. Or whatever.

Parterre. Row 6. Seat 13. Dead center!!!! I can't believe my luck! By some freak of ticketing luck, Anna is in front of me,

one seat to the left, with Henk and Yvonne to the left of her. Kate is at the end of that row, Olga way over to the right

beyond the alley. Next to me is a small Greek man, round and fat and bald, very like a seal, and he breathes like one,

heavily, almost snoring. His wife is Dutch. They ask, am I here for the Buchmesse, or for the concert. I say, fiercely: 'For

Dalaras' and they looked coldly disapproving. Anna points out to me Alexandros Karozas, the composer. Time has gone

sticky like syrup.

I sit up straight and quiet. Have to laugh at myself a little. My mouth has gone bone dry. My heart is beating like mad.

After a while, I dig my watch out of my pocket and count. Pulse 126/mn. I hope he is more composed! (He doesn't seem

to get stage-fright much, does he?).

At last. The lights dim (not all the way though, it was weird having so much light on the audience). Here comes the

orchestra: they are from Poland, called Sinfonia Baltica. Serious round slavic faces, neat swallow-tail coats, black

skirts, white shirts. Here comes the conductor, an Englishman, a long thin red-headed young man with a wide grin. I

can just see the top of the head of the piano player, a very curious sight, for his head is utterly bald and shines a

brightly white as the grand piano shines black, it's like the moon rising over a dark sea.

The first half is to be an 'Hommage ? Kavafis', music by Karozas, with recitations.

First: an instrumental piece. Something symphonic. I don't hear it, really. I play around with the camera and wait.

Then: a man comes in, according to the programme booklet, he is the actor who dubs the voice parts of Robert de Niro

for the German versions of the movies! He starts reciting, or possibly reading, very solemnly but not too clearly, a

German translation of Kavafis' famous poem, Ithaca. I can't pay attention. These distractions!

A woman comes in, henna hair and a golden dress, she must be Rose-Marie Kipreou. She sings something highly

operatic, which I can't remember. The orchestra seems rather slow and sleepy.

More recitation. Can I manage to find them annoying? Normally, I would - but I can't, not tonight. I can't be 'expecting

Dalaras' and 'annoyed' at the same time.

Here's Joan Faulkner! I recognize her: and it really was her I have seen crossing the square this afternoon, how funny!

She is magnificent, a short, wide, broad, big-chested black woman. Her dress is black too, but her hair has this big

white tuft on top, standing on end, and her mouth is very, very red. She has this spring in her step and an eager,

energetic smile. And when she sings, the poor orchestra is just drowned, left behind, snuffed like a candle. This is

blues indeed! She raises her beautiful small hands, opens her throat and - blows us all out of our seats... First 'Voices',

then one I didn't know - and couldn't put a title to of course. Magnificent!

More recitation. Just wait. Just wait.

My guess is that since his mike is to the left, he will enter by the left stage-door. I watch it.

Now I hate false starts of applause in concerts, I find them annoying and embarrassing. So I always wait to be sure

who I clap for when someone makes an entrance. But (as far as I can tell, and as far as my ear can reach), it was me

who saw him first, and me who led off the applause. There, now who's boasting, and of how silly a feat? Go on. laugh at


The door opens. Here he comes. Here he comes! My heart leaps, the air inside my bones whirls, the air in my lungs

escapes in a hurry. He smiles, shakes some hands, takes his stand. Neat black suit, right hand on the microphone, the

ring on his left glinting, a slow spark, as he raises his hand.

He sings. One song, two, three. The only one I recognize is Φονες, and I am thankful I just heard the translation before,

and secretly hope Joan Faulkner will come back to sing with him. She doesn't but then again what does it matter? He is

enough for me.

Now they are all moving off-stage. End of first part! (Yvonne tries to pull our Legrand, saying it's the end of the concert -

we don't buy it though...) The foyer of the parterre is the smoker's area, and it's overcrowded and blue with smoke, a

thick mist even tough the ceiling may well be ten meters high. The corridors and the other foyers are very quiet. Are all

Dalaras fans smokers? Surely the majority.

I wander around a bit, rather aimlessly. Cigarette. Bell. Go back. Sit down. Wait.

The second part is to be Greek songs. Wait. Orchestra. Conductor. Female vocalist (more henna hair, thin and straight,

tight dress, pointy breasts like a forties pin-up... a rather ugly young woman, but a very lucky one). Then three real

musicians, some expert will have to name them but I know a bouzouki when I see one and the applause for them is of a

totally different order! These are the guys we were waiting for...

Then, last, him. At last.

A slapstick interval. My neighbor, the little seal-like fellow, turns to me and asks (you're not going to want to believe

this, but I swear it's the truth): "Could you please clap rather less loudly? My ear hurts". I don't have any attention to

spare, so I just mumble something vague.

Ready? Ready. Ασπρο Περιστερι. Henk says he heard missed notes - honestly, I didn't. I was enchanted, enraptured,

taken away, spell-bound. And you know what? I think I'm the lucky one. I find I am singing, singing, not a sound comes

out (or poor Anna would go deaf for certain) but my throat, my mouth, my whole body is singing.

Now come songs I recognize from the CD with the Israel Philarmonic - how glad I am that I have looked up the lyrics

this afternoon! I can't really follow the words, but at least I have some bits to go on.

ο ουρανος φευγει βαρυς. Shaking me like a leaf in the wind. Oh, I want to cry! He has been singing this for as long as

I've been alive, and he sings it now as if he'd just invented it!

Then a surprise: Canzone arrabiata. Canto per chi non a fortuna, I sing for those who have no wealth, for those who are

rich and do not know it... Not at all Greek, but so very appropriate these days.

And then he plays, he embraces the baglamas and plays it, with such fervor, such enjoyment, it radiates off him like

heat and I bask in it like a lizard in the sun. And the cello players, as they play their bow gently, gently, they glance at

him, past the conductor, the serious round Slavic faces so intent, with something very much like awe. Poor sleepy

orchestra... This man is out of your league!

And then he sings.

Θεος αν ειναι.... I say, κι αν δεν ειναι, at least we have him! He's giving it to us, giving it all, all the way.

And he plays the tzoura.

And he sings.

And he sings a song I have never heard, I can't know what it's about, I catch a word - δρομοι - I think... Frustration!!! But

I can't really feel that, the song is too beautiful. Discovery, enchantment...

And he plays the guitar - sings El Emigrante, the other song I had never heard before, he is enjoying himself so much!

And I, and I, I was flying... How he loves to play!

And the other guitarist, please someone tell me who it is, he must be an old friend - here they are, playing this perfect

duet on Spanish guitars, sparks flying off every note, while he sits two paces *behind* Dalaras! They can't see each

other play at all! This is impossible!! How do they do it? Read minds?

I sit so close, I can see his face, his frown, his smile, his rapture, I can see his hands (not as he plays though, the

music stand is in the way). I can't take my eyes off him, and then when I think 'I want a picture of this' I haven't the

camera in my hand. Taking pictures distracts me, I don't want to be distracted but I do want the pictures! And the

stupid mike keeps getting in the way. And he sings, and I forget to press the button.

Oh, it's SO hard to describe!

I live in words, the story of my life is written in words, but here he comes with music and strikes dumb not just my pen,

not just my mouth, but my thoughts as well, they become wordless, music. Memory functions differently. Description

does not seem to function at all. I must try though. In vain? Perhaps not quite? What I can, I am sending you now.

Suddenly, it's over. But it can't be! The applause becomes stormy, for the first time (it's a rather overcivilized

audience, no singing, only once or twice calling from the balcony). No, it can't be the end, he hasn't sung Μη μου


And yes, he comes back. And he sings, you know what he sings, he sings Ολα καλα κι ολα ωρεια, and at last, at last we

get to give tongue a little. Sitting so far forward, I can't hear very well, but I think very few people are singing. Well I am.

I let go. This song, I could sing it in my sleep (and no one here to hear it). And the other Club member sing too!

Then he sings Μη μου θυμονεις. And I know it's over.

We manage to get him back just one more time, he does the White Dove again, so strong, so sweet, where does it all

come from? How is it possible? And then. And then he goes.

He is gone.

The little seal and his wife have left two songs before the end. Un-be-fucking-lievable.

Henk is speaking his disappointment about the dull orchestra.

Anna is walking on air about a foot above the floor.

Kate is nowhere near the ground at all.

My bones are filled with air and my shoulders are wings, black wings, μαυρο μου φτρερο.

Sleepwalking, or is it sleepflying, I get my bag from the cloak room, walk out. Henk and Yvonne are having coffee at the

table where we were this afternoon. It's past eleven, it's October, and I sit out in my shirtsleeves. Drinking capuccino.

One by one, the others come out, join us.

24.00. Thursday becomes Friday and we are leaving.

I ask Henk to put on καλως τους again. He does. I lean back and give myself up to the voice. Once we're out of town, I let

my head slip sideways beside the backseat's headrest, my face against the window, turned up, and gaze at the stars.

The Bear is almost ahead, the Pole star higher up, Cassiοpea overhead... I can recognize only one other constellation,

one we see here only in winter. Is he up yet? I turn around: yes, Orion, the hunter, is over the horizon.

Then the moon rises, a small moon, σαν πορτοκαλι, the shape, the color are exactly that of a piece of orange! It is lying

on it's back in the Eastern sky, right atop the wooded hill, and rises very very slowly.

Time is very slow. Henk is driving fast on the empty roads 150, 160 km per hour. Here is the border already - from here,

it is only 50 km to my home.

03.45. Heteren. Say good-bye, thank you, see you in two weeks. Henk and Yvonne have another 150 km to go - I hope

they get home all right. In the wind, in the silence, nothing seems quite real. Unchain the bike. Ride.

The sky is clear but shreds of mist hang over the fields. No wrong turns this time. Soon I turn onto the long straight

road along the main canal. The moon is directly ahead, silver white now and much higher, she lights my way, the stars

are brilliantly clear. I always loved these night rides by bike! That one voice is singing in my ear again.

4.20. Home at last. Dump the bike in the bathroom, the shed is too far to walk. Get the computer. Turn on the light. Put

the kettle on. Get to the messenger. Hey! What happened to the forum! Weird fonts, odd error messages... I don't care,

so long as I get through. It takes a little while, but I get through. Now I can go to bed.

05.00. I turn off the light. Realize I forgot to make, let alone drink, the tea. Or brush my teeth. Or even take that new

record to bed with me. But what matter? That voice is in my head.

The moral of this story is:

Dalaras magic is just that - magic. NO question, NO doubt. Joy.

Count the days to Amsterdam. It's to be in the Stadschouwburg, a really beautiful old theatre. Only one hour, he gets

only one hour - Αχ! No. A whole hour. He'll play for a whole hour. And I will be there.

I'm not apologizing for the length of this post... Anything to re-live that magic day. And my thanks to all who made it so.

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You should be a writer!!!!  I lived it with you.

If he does read this forum and reads that post then he will definitely know that it's worth it, the pleasure that his singing gives us.

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Geeske, I'm so happy you enjoyed the concert. I haven't heard from Anna and Kate yet but I'm sure they share your enthousiam.

I just discovered I've a chance to go to Amsterdam but haven't been able to get a ticket yet. How did you do it ? I tried on the website, no luck, telephone, no luck, a friend in Holland has said she will try but I haven't heard anyting yet ! I have sent desperate messages to Henk, no luck either...I'm getting very impatient and worried I shan't make it after all!!!!

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What can I add, as Geeske's information is absolutely detailed!! Thank you very much, Geeske!

Maybe some more information: the 2 bouzouki players were Manolis Karandinis and Giorgos Kondoyannis, the singer with Dalaras in the 2nd part was Maria Iakobou, the same who accompanied him at the Greek tour this year.

Geeske wrote, after the concert I was walking on air! Yes, and why? They annouced for the second part songs of Theodorakis, Hatzidakis and other Greek composers. I never thought I would hear 'Theos an einai' this evening.

But Dalaras played and sung it, and once again more than marvellous!! Meanwhile the intro he's doing with the tsoura is really long and after the 1st seconds there's always a smile on his face, enjoying this instrumental part!

What else?

The night before there was the opening evening event for Greece as main part of the bookfair. Agnes Baltsa was singing at Alte Oper. Dalaras and his wife left the place almost unnoticed. What a difference this evening!! I think there were 40 - 50 fans waiting for getting autograph! And Dalaras was very busy!!

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I'll try to add a photo from Frankfurt!

Always the same story: Dalaras and his beautiful female accompanies, this one is Maria Iakobou and her beautiful dress from the back! But you see, Dalaras doesn't see!!


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After the welcome, trying to concentrated!

And he's not in a church, it's Alte Oper!

Micki, no I prefer to sit in the audience and try to sing there with Dalaras!


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Now it's o.k. with the thank you's!!!

I'll only tried to do my best. Geeske, please develope yours!! You never know!!

And here's the last for tonight.


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Hi there,

I would like to post some photos I made after the Frankfurt

concert, but how?

I have it on my hard disk, not yet online.

Is this possible?

If I use "File Attachments", it is searching and finding

the pic, but is not uploading it...

Thanks for your help.


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Sabine, everyone else can so you can as well

Add a reply to the topic, find the file in your drive and then hit on the button "Add reply" that is just below the Browse button. It should work for you.

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To συγκεκριμένο topic βέβαια,δεν αναφέρεται στη  συναυλία της περιοδείας,με τον Στόκα και τον Κατσιμίχα αλλά σε αυτή τη συναυλία που πραγματοποιηθηκε τον Οκτώβρη του 2001!


Παρόλα αυτά,σ ευχαριστούμε πολύ για τις φωτογραφίες! Είναι υπεροχες! :D

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Ευχαριστώ για την επισήμανση,Νίκο.Αβλεψία μου.Θα το διορθώσω.

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