Yanni Anthony Haddad

I was about nine when I watched the PBS special "Yanni: Live at the Acropolis" with my extended family. My parents said Yanni was a piano virtuoso, for whatever that was worth to a nine year older. As I awaited in 'enthusiastic anticipation', our virtuoso finally came out-neatly tamed afro, 'pizzeria man' moustache, and white tuxedo-assuming the piano in a decrescendo of the uproarious applause marking his antecedent arrival. "Good music" my uncle critiqued; I agreed, nodding my head vigorously as I examined the interwoven fibers of my couch seat. It was good music though, and the aggressive verve of the second piece compelled me to look up-there was Yanni, but what had happened to him? He slammed on the keys, cocked his head back slowly, closed his eyes, smiled, jolted his head forward creasing his eyebrows angrily, and repeated this cycle with a variation of facial disfigurations. Did he have Parkinson's or was he simply suffering a temporary spasm attack? The very thought of this caused me to laugh boorishly; I attempted to explain my apparently unappreciated conduct between my cackles. Disappointed, my mother frowned at me saying, "It's because he feels with the music"....