The following is an adapted version of an article written by Gergely Sámson, originally published in Magyar Krónika.

Her journey took her from Sajókaza through Budapest to Lisbon, where she finally found the genre of fado. Magyar Krónika spoke to singer Diána Petkovics about Portuguese–Hungarian passion, music, and cross-cultural feelings.

Fado is a Portuguese musical style that is mainly associated with Lisbon, Portugal. It is part of the UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage. It is usually performed by a fado singer—either a male or female—accompanied by classical and Portuguese guitar. At one point in the evening, in the old town of Lisbon, in casas de fado (fado houses) and tabernas (taverns), the following phrase can be heard: ‘Silêncio que se vai cantar o fado!’, that is, they ask for silence because from now on they will sing fado. At this moment, everyone puts down their cutlery and waits for the performance with bated breath.

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What moves you when you go on stage?

I never sing as a decoration or background musician. When I’m on stage, I’m not only giving music, but I’m also transmitting culture. Before each song, I tell the audience how it was written, who sang it before, what the lyrics mean, and why it is associated with a Hungarian song. How, for example, ‘Grito’ (Scream), the last song by Amália Rodrigues, relates to the Hungarian song ‘Szomorú Vasárnap’ (Sad Sunday). I have always been interested only in deep, almost lethargic, yet uplifting music with meaning. I’m not attracted to pop. I want to do something meaningful, which is why I avoid TV shows, for example. Because there, in that situation, you can’t get away without monkeying around.

Where did you grow up?

In Borsod County. I had a lovely but poor childhood. I grew up in simple circumstances but in a free and loving environment, playing in the fields of Borsod until dusk. On Sundays we had lunch together, and my grandmother took me to church every week. Christmas and Easter were always celebrated beautifully, and faith in God has always been important to me ever since, regardless of religion or denomination. My childhood was peaceful but not without its problems. However, there was never any question in our family that we loved each other.

What do you mean it was not problem-free?

For example, we used to fetch water from a wheeled well in front of the house, which has its romanticism, but at the same time, we didn’t have a bathroom until I was eleven. When we did, my mum told us not to brag about it at school. We didn’t understand why. I didn’t realize we were poor until then. My mother used to sew the curtains with her own hands, and often our clothes too. Even the gym bag, which of course was not Disney-patterned—and children can be cruel.

In other words, you were ostracized?

Yes. But I was lonely largely because I have always been very different from everyone else. I didn’t fit into any group.

But you found your place on the stage early on.

I have been on stage from the age of nine. The Sajókaza drama group was regionally famous at home. We had 50 performances a year all over the country, which gave me a significant cultural base and stage skills. A few years ago, when I went back to give a concert, my childhood mentor and role model listened to me in tears and was so moved.

‘I am different. I came to terms with this reality and made art out of it’

I understand there is a song that is very close to you.

‘Ederlezi’ is about a strange, inexpressible loneliness. It is a melodic expression of a feeling that has always been familiar to me. (Editor’s note: Ederlezi is an important Balkan Roma holiday on 6 May, which coincides with St George’s Day for the Orthodox. A Gypsy lament with a similar title, which has become a cult song, was also covered by Goran Bregović, among others.) I always sang it a cappella, and it took my breath away. You know, it is the feeling when you stop singing and for at least 15 seconds there’s no applause, just silence. ‘Ederlezi’ is about being alone forever.

I’ve felt alone all my life. I was ostracized as a child. I didn’t fit in as a young worker either. Over time, I understood that it was because I am different. I came to terms with this reality and made art out of it.

To which music provides the framework. How did you go from performing on stage to having a singing career?

I wanted to be a drama teacher, but I needed a degree in humanities, so I ended up at ELTE, majoring in Literature and Communication. I have been working since I was 17. Apart from the microwave oven my parents gave me, I bought everything for myself. Sometimes I was a hostess, other times I grilled fish at six in the morning. Later, I became an office manager, then started working in sales. The latter went well: I became the salesperson of the year at the company right at the beginning. That’s how I bought my first car. I was successful, it was an important time in my life—meanwhile, I was performing on stage. Networking events often ended up at the former Kispipacs bar. It was the gathering place of the wealthy elite of Budapest: politicians, businessmen—and, of course, criminals. As soon as you entered this bar, you were in another world. That was my world, an old world, a cultural environment reminiscent of the 50s. There was Uncle Gabi, the bar pianist—Gábor Fűzy, who describes himself as a ‘soldier of music’—working there, and there was a microphone, too, so sometimes I was asked to sing something. Then, with time, they wanted more and more. That’s how singing took over my life.

Then you have taken it to the next level, a solo concert?

That’s right. After the pianist I was preparing with let me down a couple of weeks before the concert, I contacted Richárd Révész, who I think is the best Latin jazz pianist in Hungary. We had met before, and he remembered me. It was a great thing that he said yes because he was already a known artist while I was a nobody. The concert was a success. It was then, in 2016, that I sang fado for the first time, ‘Meu Fado’ by Mariza. After the performance, Ricsi said it was very good, so from there on, there were two ways: if I didn’t want to take it seriously, I should call him other times too, and he would be happy to accompany me if he had time. But if I was serious,  I should call the number he gave me to reach a singing teacher.

That must have hurt. Blue or red pill?

I was against it—I didn’t want my voice to be cleaned up, to be regulated. I had been to a singing teacher before; it was a bad experience. All the same, I called the number I got from Ricsi: it was Endre Dékány’s, who I knew was the best. I wouldn’t even call him a teacher, but rather a singing master: a master of bel canto, that is, beautiful singing, the most classical training. I told him that I got his number from Ricsi Révész. ‘Well, Diána, there are 36 stage artists on the waiting list at the moment,’ he responded, to which I said: ‘No problem, I’m not sure if I want to learn singing anyway, because I don’t want my voice to be totally “polished”, and I actually know a singer who goes to you, and I don’t like the way she sings as I consider her voice practically chemically pure.’ ‘You’re absolutely right, that’s why I’m teaching her, she’s just started coming to me,’ Endre Dékány answered. After all, the conversation ended with the conclusion that we would meet at three o’clock the next afternoon. It was the beginning of a beautiful connection with Mr Dékány. I cried in the first class. It was rather psychology training, not vocal training. He was the greatest mentor of my life. I spent two and a half years with him until he died at the age of 73. His picture has been hanging on my wall ever since.

On your wall in Lisbon. But how did you end up in Lisbon?

I had never planned to move abroad, but my mother told me afterward that she had sensed years earlier that I would not be staying. My career was just starting to take off after several sold-out concerts at Kispipacs when Lisbon came my way. It was like everything was set; little miracles kept happening to me. It was like the red carpet was rolled out in front of me. The second day, I went to the Mesa de Frades fado bar. The burly São Toméan security guard said it would be 30 euros. ‘But I’m a singer,’ I said. Then he let me in: ‘This way, please.’ An hour later, on stage, with five guitarists behind me, I was singing in Portuguese, even though all I knew in Portuguese was obrigada.

There were clear signs from God that I had to stay. On the fourth day I was sitting on the banks of Tejo, tears streaming down my face.

‘Why are you crying?’ my friend asked. ‘I see no point in going home, even though I had a good life in Budapest,’ I answered. ‘Then stay!’ she burst out. I came for four days and stayed for six weeks. After that, I went home, packed all my things, sang at Gábor Fűzy’s 50th-anniversary concert, then got in the car and drove back to Portugal.

‘There were clear signs from God that I had to stay’

What was your first real encounter with fado like?

It was as if I had always known it, as if it had been invented for me. It wasn’t the form, it was the emotion packed into it that was so familiar. Sad and accepting: suffering is part of life. Fado takes pain to an artistic level and turns it into a blessing.

A recurring element in fado, and in Portuguese art as a whole, is the ‘saudade’, which is nostalgia, longing, a sense of absence, and even more than that. What does it mean to you?

We can not only miss what we can put into words. I grew up missing something that I don’t even know what it is. I was an eternal seeker; I was preoccupied with the meaning of existence from an early age. Fado is a genre that asks big questions. It is Portuguese, but what it is about is universal.

You sing fado for Portuguese audiences on their home turf. How is it received?

With their mouth open. They can’t place it. The Portuguese are proud of their culture. They’re happy when someone sings fado, but they have to do it well. I only know three other foreign fado singers who have passed the probation, and they really are good singers.

And how do you cope with starting from a disadvantage compared to the singers who grew up in Alfama and Mouraria?

When I went to the fado bar, I was always told that they had already prepared the mop because I was crying so much. I was sobbing because I felt like this was my genre, but I’ll never be that good because I wasn’t born here. When a young nurse who sits next to you all night opens her mouth at five in the morning, you realize you will never in your life sing like her…Yet she doesn’t even really care about it; she just grew up in it.

For someone who’s just starting to learn about fado, who do you recommend they listen to?

My personal favourite is Amália Rodrigues. Besides, among contemporary artists, I would definitely mention Sara Correia as well. Mariza is fantastic, too. The little Mozambican girl started five blocks from here, and then she became the one introducing fado to the world, that is, a popularized version of it.

Your own project, FadHúngaro, unites the two worlds you come from and where you are now. What makes a Hungarian and a Portuguese song work together?

When I sing a Hungarian folk song a cappella in the fado bar, the audience says it’s fado. It’s not, but it is. And I am both—in me, the two worlds meet. Endre Dékány said that we humans are 70 per cent the same. That is why we can find harmony, and the rest is what makes us interesting to each other.

‘When I sing a Hungarian folk song a cappella in the fado bar, the audience says it’s fado…I am both—in me, the two worlds meet’

You know both Budapest and Lisbon well. What do you think the two twin cities have in common?

I’m still the same Hungarian girl here, but when I go back to Hungary, I feel like I’ve maxed it out—like when there are no more mushrooms left in Super Mario. Even though I consider Budapest an outstanding place. In terms of lifestyle, I think Budapest and Lisbon are the two best European cities. The only difference is that Budapest lacks sunshine and the ocean. It gets into your soul in both good and bad ways.

For example, if we look at work ethic or the amount of smiling?

My former boss told me not to trust anyone who comes from a place where you can survive in shorts. Suffering, work, and directness are more in the Hungarian soul for historical and environmental reasons. For different reasons, but both peoples complain a lot: life is hard for us. That’s why I don’t make friends with either Hungarians or Portuguese. (Laughing)

How are the Portuguese different?

They are much softer because they could be softer. Like when someone was beaten as a child, and someone wasn’t. You can measure the emotional health of a nation by pop music. Hungarian pop music is rich as well, but Portuguese pop music has more softness. Portuguese people are nice and polite. But will they let you into their own social circle? No. However, if you leave them alone, they leave you alone, too. Plus, they don’t always feel the need to judge others.

And did they let you in?

No. But I didn’t want to be let in. At some point in my life, I accepted that the most important thing was to belong to myself.

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