Jo Corbeau: The Armenian Voice of French Reggae

Now let’s talk about your song in Armenian. I believe it was the first time an Armenian born in France had written a song in Armenian, wasn’t it?

I believe so, at least chronologically. More importantly, it was written in a style completely unrelated to traditional Armenian music, since it was reggae. Reggae has an entirely different rhythm. I was inspired by the great Jamaican artists — Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, Jimmy Cliff and many others. This culture reached Europe only later and initially flourished mainly within Afro-Caribbean communities.

I incorporated this music into my own cultural identity. The song is called Arévin Tsaïn (The Voice of the Sun). One day I told myself that I absolutely had to write a song in Armenian. But to do that, I needed inspiration from Armenia itself. I spent an entire night listening to the Armenian records I had at home immersed in those sounds of liturgical chants, the Divine Liturgy, music by ashoughs, zurna music… At dawn, the sun rose and filled my room with light. At that very moment, the song came to me all by itself. It was extraordinary because, in truth, I speak Armenian very poorly and have never really mastered it. Yet something profoundly mystical happened. When I saw the sun, I thought of Jah. In the Rastafari philosophy — I would call it more a philosophy than a religion — Jah is the name of God. The Rastafari movement emerged in Jamaica under the influence of Emperor Haile Selassie I of Ethiopia, who at his coronation received the titles King of Kings. That is why, in my song, I sing: “Jah…” After that, the words simply flowed. I was writing almost without thinking. All of this came spontaneously, as though inspired by something greater than myself.

I composed Arévin Tsaïn in 1989, which I performed at a benefit concert for the victims of the Armenian earthquake.

Please tell us a little about your family.

My father’s name was Dikran and my mother’s was Haigoui. On my father’s side, the Ohannessians came from Ordu, on the Black Sea coast in the Pontus region. My mother, née Tchakerian, came from an entirely different area — Gürin, near Sivas, in Anatolia. During the Armenian Genocide, all of my grandparents were killed. On my father’s side, only my father managed to escape. His entire family had been arrested, but he got away alone. He was still just a boy, probably 14-15 years old. He reached Constantinople and then managed to leave using papers issued by the French consulate. Eventually he arrived in Marseille, like thousands of other Armenians.

On my mother’s side, the family owned major silk businesses. They produced large silk scarves. The Turks took everything and looted it all. My grandfather was massacred, while my grandmother fled with my mother and my uncle Agop into the Syrian Desert. She died there. My own mother buried her somewhere in that desert. Then my mother and her younger brother were taken in at Aleppo. They were later placed in an orphanage in Damascus before being transferred to Jerusalem. It was from there that she was finally able to leave for France and settle in Marseille.

My parents came from completely different regions. Had there been no Armenian Genocide, they would never have met, and, in truth, I would never have been born. They met a few years later in Marseille and got married. My brother Onnig was born first, then my sister Paris (Parisette). I came much later. By the time I was born, my brother was already 18 and my sister 15. You could say I was a bit of an accident. Or rather, as people say, it was God’s will. I was born and raised in Marseille, in a fairly close-knit Armenian community. Families tended to stay among themselves, associating with people from the same region or with relatives and acquaintances they had already known.

Were Armenian traditions preserved in your family?

Yes! The Easter. We dyed eggs red, and I loved that tradition. We also went to church. But I lost my mother when I was only five years old. That is probably why I lost much of my Armenian. Before I turned five, I didn’t even speak French—I spoke only Armenian. When I went to play with the other children in the parks of Marseille, I would come back to my mother saying: “I talk to them, but they don’t answer me.” I didn’t understand that I was speaking Armenian while they were French.

After my mother’s death, my sister took care of me. She was still very young herself. She looked after my father, my brother, and me, before eventually getting married. Little by little, I became integrated into French society. My father was not really involved in Armenian parties or community organizations. We went to church at Christmas and Easter, and that was about it. Of course, I still saw my relatives—my godfather, my uncles, and the rest of the family. But as a child I didn’t particularly enjoy those family gatherings because they were always sad. People spoke only about the Genocide and everything that had been lost. For a child, it was hardly cheerful. That is probably why I integrated into French society so quickly.

I also know that you were related to the writer Zareh Vorpouni.

He was my first cousin. His mother was my father’s sister. So, I knew Zareh very well. He lived in Marseille with his brother Laurent (or Nurhan) and sister Mélanouche. We saw one another frequently, especially at Christmas. We often spent the holidays at their home. Zareh moved to Paris while he was still young. Within the family, people regarded him as something of an eccentric. His brother, on the other hand, was very business-minded and owned a furniture manufacturing company. I saw Zareh often, but at the time I had no idea that he was a writer. I only discovered this later, when I moved to Paris to continue my studies at around the age of twenty. He welcomed me into his home together with his wife, Lily, who was from Alsace. They were both extraordinary people.

Zareh had opened the first macrobiotic restaurant in France. He was a disciple of the Japanese master George Ohsawa, the founder of a dietary philosophy based largely on grains and vegetarian food. The restaurant was located in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés district of Paris. I visited them very often. They welcomed me with great generosity, and it was there that I truly came to know them.

Both Zareh and Lily were deeply engaged in a spiritual quest, and towards the end of their lives they became close to the Baháʼí Faith. I knew Zareh until his final days. He was an exceptionally kind man. But since he wrote exclusively in Armenian, I never really knew what he was writing. It was only recently, thanks to Houri Varjabédian’s translations, that I was finally able to discover his literary world. Only then did I realize how modern his thinking had been.

I also vividly remember their apartment in Paris, right in the heart of the Latin Quarter. You had to climb a long staircase to reach the attic. Up there, beneath the roof, there were books everywhere. Lily painted constantly, and the walls were covered with her artwork.

I also know that Zareh had been a prisoner in Germany during the Second World War, just like his brother Laurent. During his captivity, Laurent had a relationship with a German woman, and they had a son whom I also came to know.

How did Armenian traditions — or the Armenian spirit — return to your life?

It happened much later. I think it really began during Sergei Parajanov’s trial. In France there was a great deal of support for him, with demonstrations and various campaigns. I joined that movement because I had seen his films, and they had deeply influenced me as an artist. Sayat Nova (The Color of Pomegranates) affected me profoundly. That was when I first began discovering the legendary troubadour Sayat-Nova. From then on, I became much more seriously interested in Armenian culture.

At the same time, there was also an extraordinary group called Zartonk. They performed Armenian pop music, and I found it absolutely fascinating. Suddenly, I felt myself drawing closer to my cultural roots. My sister also played an important role in that process. She was much more involved than I was. She had learned to read and write Armenian and was taking Armenian courses at university. Every time I visited her, she deliberately spoke Armenian with me to help me understand it. Little by little, I began to recover the language.

Do you think you have passed this Armenian spirit on to your children?

Of course. My wife is of Moroccan descent on her mother’s side and Senegalese on her father’s. She is not particularly religious, but she has a deeply spiritual outlook. Both of us have a very universal vision of spirituality. My children do not speak Armenian. They know a few words, but that’s all. Yet fate had it that both of my sons-in-law are Armenian. I had absolutely nothing to do with it. My daughters never attended an Armenian school or really took part in community life. My younger daughter, Ornella, attended Armenian language classes at the Armenian church for a while on Wednesdays, but she was far more interested in horseback riding, so it didn’t last very long. One day my daughter Anastasia told me, “I’d like you to meet my boyfriend.” It was Missak, a wonderful young man. Later, for Anastasia’s birthday, Missak invited several friends, including Maxime. Today, Maxime is the father of my grandson Billy. As for Missak and Anastasia, they have a little boy named Yeraz. What’s truly remarkable is that there has been a connection between our families for a long time. Maxime’s grandfather was my brother Onnig’s best friend when they were young, so I already knew his family. His great-aunt was also a very close friend of my sister. They were the Kazarian family, with whom we had always been close.

This is your second visit to Armenia, isn’t it?

The first time I came was in 2004, as part of a delegation from the Regional Council of Marseille, invited as an Armenian. I represented the artists in the delegation. We brought many positive things to Armenia. Among other initiatives, we donated equipment to the fire service, supported tourism, and helped with numerous projects. For me, it was an opportunity to visit Armenia for the first time. This time is different. My children, together with my son-in-law and his wife, gave me this trip as a gift because I’ll be turning eighty in December. So, this was my birthday present. I am fortunate to have Missak with me. He is an extraordinary guide. He organized everything, day by day. We rented a car, and he drove nearly 1,200 kilometers. Thanks to him, we discovered absolutely magical places.

My visit to the Matenadaran deeply moved me. It is so beautiful… I left it filled with wonder. It was also there that I became even more interested in Armenian culture.

I was deeply moved by the beauty of Armenia’s monasteries. Even during my first visit, Etchmiadzin and the khachkars had left a lasting impression on me. I have enormous admiration for this architecture, its beauty, and its powerful spirituality. At Tatev, I experienced an immense, deeply moving emotion. We also visited a place that I had dreamed of seeing for a long time. I had discovered it on the Internet, and it had fascinated me for years. We travelled all the way to Syunik to visit Karahunj. There, I was captivated. This ancient site is like a universal testimony to humanity’s past. Throughout the world, we find these great megalithic monuments. It reminds me of Stonehenge in Britain and the Carnac alignments in Brittany.

Finally, what probably surprised me most was the extraordinary diversity of Armenia’s landscapes. These immense gorges, the mountains, the rocks that sometimes resemble natural sculptures… It was there that I truly understood the meaning of the proverb: “We are our mountains.”