Remembering Greta: A Certain Kind of Soul Music

by Karen Kohler

The doors close, the lights dim, the room talk dies in the fading light Center stage, a spotlight frames a lonely microphone. A baby grand piano stands to the left against a curtain drenched in a teal green. The figure silhouetted there begins to play. From the darkness she emerges and comes to center, softly, in high-heeled sandals and a long black velvet gown. Loose sleeves cascade around her wrists. Her hair, a deep autumnal red, is cut to the shoulder. She lifts her face into an almost bashful smile, and begins to sing about her childhood and a street corner where the neighborhood thugs would come and fight, where today in a cafe, a woman sells her flowers to lovers,

Je me souviens d’un coin de rue
Aujourd’hui disparu
Mon enfance jouait par là
Je me souviens de cela
Il y avait une palissade
Un taillis d’embuscades
Les voyous de mon quartier
Venaient s’y batailler
À présent, il y a un café
Un comptoir tout neuf qui fait de l’effet
Une fleuriste qui vend
Ses fleurs aux amants

Rapt, we sit in a world she has created in a mere few minutes. As the music changes, she turns her gaze from the far wall to arrive fully in the room, her smile warm and welcoming as she extends her open palms out in front of her. From her youth to this moment, she has crossed a lifetime. Her voice is strong and assured as she continues her medley of “Yesterday, When I was Young” (Charles Aznavour/Herbert Kretzmer) and “Coin de Rue” (Charles Trenet),

Yesterday the moon was blue
And every crazy day brought something new to do
I used my magic age as if it were a wand
And never saw the waste and the emptiness beyond
The game of love I played with arrogance and pride
And every flame I lit too quickly, quickly died
The friends I made all seemed somehow to drift away
And only I am left on stage to end the play
There are so many songs in me that won’t be sung
The time has come for me to pay
For yesterday when I was young

Greta Avedesian was heiress to a lineage of French chanteuses that began with Yvette Guilbert in late 19th century Paris and would in time include Lucienne Boyer, Edith Piaf, Juliette Greco, Dalida, and more recently, Patricia Kaas and Lara Fabian. Like
her colleague Barbara, she chose to shorten her stage name to simply, Greta.

In such a constellation, the universe of the chanson has lost one of its most magnificent stars. Her fame may not have been that of these other artistes, but in the nightlife scene of 1980s, ‘90s and early 21st century New York, Greta was every bit their equal when measured by her command of herself, and her commitment to her songs and to the life she fervidly lived to express through them. In her domain of songs of passion, love, lust, and loss, she was a musical sorceress and spellcaster, as anyone who saw and heard her knew.

I knew. I was her producer, director, colleague and most especially, her friend.

It was a snowy evening in southern Vermont the night I was invited to perform a short set at a benefit for a local art gallery and was asked to include a few words about cabaret’s European roots. Normally, I speak briefly about Paris as the birthplace of the cabaret art form before moving on to my specialty, Berlin, where cabaret would peak in all its forms during the Weimar era. But on this night, January 18, 2025, I found myself speaking far longer than usual about Paris. The next day, I learned that Greta had passed away.

At age 91, her death was not unexpected, and still I was heartbroken. We had only recently spoken and seen each other not too long ago. I phoned her son, Peter Avedisian, for details and what he shared gave me chills. Greta had passed away peacefully at the senior-care facility near her daughter Darine Avedisian in Connecticut, sometime between 7:00 and 7:30pm, precisely when I was singing and speaking about Paris. “You know that Greta’s spirit surely made a stop at the gallery on her way out of this realm,” Peter said. Even now, as I write this, I can believe it.

I’m guided by a signal in the heavens
I’m guided by this birthmark on my skin
I’m guided by the beauty of our weapons
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin
~ “First We Take Manhattan” (Leonard Cohen)

Greta was born Greta Garabedian on June 20, 1932 in Paris where her Armenian parents, Maritza and Berg, had settled after fleeing their homeland during the massacre of Armenians by the Turks that began in 1915. As an only child in France, she was supported by relatives after her parents moved to New York. Here Maritza established herself as an art dealer representing Swiss publisher and gallery owner, Pierre Cailler, and Berg would become a well-known oriental rug trader. When Greta was seven years old, she joined her parents in New York, where she later met and married Jack Avedisian and gave birth to a son and a daughter.

“My mother always loved music,” Peter wrote to me. “As a child, music and especially classical music, would move her deeply, washing over her and opening her up to empathy and, even at that age, an expanded consciousness.” Greta discovered her musical talents and nurtured them. While raising her family in Westchester, she performed in operettas such as The Student Prince and Die Fledermaus. “But the music of my native Paris haunted me,” she said. “It was the language of love, passion, pain, and romance. The music of Brel, Aznavour, and Piaf burnt into my heart, lived in my soul, and inspired me.” Singing in French, English, and German, her eclectic repertoire included songs by Kurt Weill, Friedrich Hollaender, Gilbert Becaud, Charles Dumont, Leslie Bricusse, Serge Lama, Sting, Bryan Ferry, Leonard Cohen, and many more.

Greta’s career took a leap forward when she began a collaboration with friend and fellow Armenian-American composer and piano savant, Avo Uvazian. Together, they travelled to Australia for the grand opening of the luxurious Hayman Resort on the Great Barrier Reef and a six-week residency there, to the Palmas Del Mar in Puerto Rico where they sang annually for years, and to concerts in Caracas, the Caribbean, Europe, and throughout the U.S. Their collaboration culminated in a sold-out concert at The Town Hall in New York in 1972.

Rêvons, rêvons des plus beaux jour
Aimons, la vie est là pour nous
Ensemble, on pourra toujours vivre
Gardons cet amour vif
Jusqu’à la fin des jour

Let’s dream, let’s dream of the most beautiful days
Let’s love, life is pure for us
Together, we can always live
Let’s keep this love alive
Until the end of the day
~ “Toi et Moi” (Avo Uvesian, Greta)

During the 1980s and ‘90s, Greta had other rewarding collaborations with such musical directors as Jon Andersson, Daryl Kojak, Ross Patterson, and Dean X. Johnson. Together, they played Freddie’s Supper Club, the Latin Quarter, Les Mouches, Mickey’s, Don’t Tell Mama, The Copacabana, Tavern on The Green, and the St. Regis, where Tony Bennett became an instant fan. Large posters of her face graced New York City bus stops, with “GRETA” printed on top in bold, dignified letters, advertising her upcoming shows. She kept one of these to hang in her apartment on the Upper East Side, where it wowed every visitor.

Condensing a few review highlights from this time would read something like this: “Proving herself one of the very best of her craft, Greta’s fiery and transcendent performance is a must-see, must-hear for anyone who loves passion and soul-wrenching songs. As always, she chooses her material carefully and wisely, with songs that ache with an unparalleled drama so unique on the club scene. She is at her best when she sings with an angry defiance. Without leaving a single emotion untouched, she caresses her songs and then tears them wide open. It takes a certain feeling, a certain sensibility—a certain period of living and losing—to really understand the passion, the edge, the danger of these songs. For me this is Soul Music!”

Quand tu t’en iras
Comme ces grands oiseaux frileux
Qui vont au loin chercher le bleu
Va, ne me mens pas
Je sais très bien que quelquefois
Tu es déjà très loin de moi
Va, suis ton chemin
Et je saurais de mon côté
Suivre le mien
Le monde continuera
La terre ne s’arrêtera pas
Quand tu t’en iras
Ni toi, ni moi n’allons mourir pour ça

When you leave,
Like those great birds who spiral
Too high in search of the blue
Go, don’t lie to me
I know very well that sometimes
You are already very far from me
Go, follow your path
And I will know how to follow mine
The world will go on
The earth will not stop turning
When you go away
Neither you nor I will cry or die over this
~ “Quand Tu T’en Iras” (Alberto Testa, Eros Sciorilli, Jacques Plante)

Greta’s commitment to her own artistry was forged in discipline and love, with a good deal of playfulness tossed in. She had a wonderful sense of humor, and an easy laugh that itself was musical.

Stanley Zareff, whose improv acting class Greta took in the 1990s, became a good friend and sent me this tribute: “Greta was an electrical, sensual, and soulful force who fearlessly and courageously performed along with successful Broadway and television actors. She had a wicked and naughty sense of humor that kept everyone on their toes. I miss her heart and soul.”

Mexican-born actor Mauricio Bustamante was one of Greta’s classmates in Stanley’s workshop; he sat down for a Zoom call with me to reminisce. “Greta was a wonderful actress. For me, acting was often drummed into my brain in such clinical ways, but with Greta I thought ‘this person doesn’t even act, she’s just the character and she’s having so much fun with it.’ She believed in the imaginary reality, and she was perfectly right in it, wonderfully hilarious because she wasn’t trying to be funny. There was a little genius guiding her. Our scenes together were about no-nonsense, disciplined work, but it didn’t feel like work because it was such pure fun.”

He describes their first improv scene together: “The class was packed with celebrities. I was the only non-famous person there. Greta and I started working on a scene from La Ronde, where she is the actress and I am the bishop. La Ronde is a series of scenes about people screwing, so the actress and the bishop are going to screw. It’s a wonderful little comedy. Finally, near the end of the scene, I drop my pants. She’s on the sofa, and I drop my pants and join her on the sofa. We were rehearsing for hours in her living room. The neighbors across the street were watching us. Of course, they didn’t know we were rehearsing a scene for our play. “These two can’t figure out what the hell they’re doing,” their expressions seemed to say. “He keeps dropping his pants, over and over again.” And of course, we were in stitches and having so much fun. With Greta, you were with someone you revered, someone you held in high esteem because of the way she conducted herself at every moment of the day and night. Greta’s presence invited you to grow. You wanted to be your best. Not her best, your best. Once she welcomed you into her life, you were welcome, just as you are. End of story. You knew you were with someone magnificent and special, and of course, how much more beautiful could she have possibly been. If you could imagine an even more elegant version of Greta, that was her mother Maritza. And, by the way, both Greta and her mother were brilliant in the kitchen. They knew how to cook, with a spatula in one hand and dressed to kill.”

Known best for her dramatic ballads, Greta let her sense of humor loose in her cabaret shows as well. From a review in Variety: “Greta typifies the tradition of Paris’ Piaf, who built a career dedicated to suffering and love gone sour. However, unlike Piaf, Greta entices with rich, deep chest tones and a dark, even fiery vibrato to underline emotion. Such songs as “Je Vais t’aime,r, “ J’attendrai,” and “Le Droit d’aimer” throb with that interior pain so honored and used by French thrushes. Greta pierces the heavy emotional clouds with several rays of good-natured, if cynical, fun. “Money, Money, Money” and “Après la revolution” reflect a worldly-wise sense of humor toward material values.”

Après la révolution
All of the workers will cheer.
We’ll lie in bed eating frogs legs
Until they jump out of our ears.
There’ll be Gruyere and Camembert, partridge and quail,
Fresh croissants and coffee each day.
With a passion and power we’ll turn the great Eiffel Tower
Into a phallus for Jean Genet
~ “Après la révolution” (John Ewbank)

Many of Greta’s summers were spent in the south of France where she kept an apartment situated on a hill overlooking the Mediterranean in Cagnes Sur Mer. One stood on her terrace and saw Nice to the left, Cannes to the right, and down below a horse track. Friends who visited her there were of a common mindset: Here you entered a whole other magical world with Greta, where she was the queen. In France, they didn’t know her as a performer. She was just “the Lady.” It was her femininity, her personality, and star quality that they loved. When they heard you were Greta’s guest, you were taken care of like royalty everywhere you went. Adventures were amazing as she knew the little, tiny places like the glassblower’s shop, or some other little treasure of a town. Seeing things from her point of view was magical.

The words reverence and respect come up frequently in conversations with those who knew and loved her. Her humanity stood out, as did her values. “Greta was a sensitive, empathetic person with a keen sense of justice and a great internal compass for discerning right from wrong,” Peter tells me. “She held personal integrity as the most important value a person could have.” Friends Jaren and Ruh Lamb shared their view on her obit page: “Greta was beyond a doubt one of the most beautiful and caring people who ever walked this planet! Her immense talent and class will be sorely missed, especially in these difficult and divisive times. Whether it was at her intimate evenings with friends on her terrace in the south of France, or singing on stage, her loving presence was all one needed to realize how beautiful life can be!”

It was in the late 1980s that Greta met the man that I came to know as her soulmate, Connell JJ Chambers. Born in Dublin, he arrived in the U.S. in 1964 and never lost his Irish brogue. He worked for an upscale auto dealership in Manhattan and was already retired when I met him. Connell was a splendid complement to Greta, bringing a puckish sense of humor and his own flair for the dramatic. His style and sensibility recall French chansonnier and nightclub owner Aristide Bruant, the man in the red scarf and black cape in the well-known posters by Toulouse-Lautrec. After knowing them both for a few years, Greta one day announced their upcoming nuptials. Excitedly, I went home and said to my husband: “There’s a wedding in the cabaret community that we’ve been invited to.” “Oh, whose?” he asked. “Greta and Connell’s,” I answered. “What? They’re not married?” When I shared this with Greta, she giggled, “Oh, so Rob didn’t know we were living in sin?”

This was her kind of delicious humor which Connell not only endorsed but fed. He had a devilish grin, expressive eyebrows, and a penetrating glance. An astute observer, he had the Irish gift of gab, as well, seeming to speak gibberish at times when blending philosophy, poetry, and history in his own lyrical way, which Greta loved. Always together, they were quite the pair in their complementary hats, at once classy and bohemian. Connell was a poet and writer who, with Greta’s devoted assistance, published a memoir shortly before his death in 2023. Lovers, friends, and supporters of each other’s passions, I found them easy to be with as they delighted so much in each other’s company and approached everything with curiosity. It was plain to me upon first meeting Connell that he absolutely adored Greta, even worshipped her. “That was the thing that made it so beautiful,” Mauricio says. “We knew Greta had someone who would go to the ends of the earth for her. Whatever he was capable of doing, he would do for her.” Like the rest of us, Greta accepted Connell exactly as he was.

Connell and Greta
Photo by Takako Harkness

Regrettably, though they invited us many times, we never made it to the South of France. Yet countless were the hours that we spent in their purple sanctuary on the Upper East Side, goblets in hand. Their apartment was the perfect dramatic setting. Dimly lit with sumptuous curtains that were rarely open, it was a world unto itself. Walls, ceiling, mirrors, carpets, artwork, a black grand piano, and other furnishings blended in deep aubergine and silver tones, creating an intimate salon where conversations flowed as freely as the vodka and the wine. I remember the time we woke up under the piano after a very indulgent night. Greta, always a late sleeper, came out the next morning, not merely presentable but glamorous. In a back room, a lifetime of performances was documented in posters, recordings, sheet music binders, and memories.

Greta was singular in the openness of her heart and the degree to which her love just flowed out. Naturally, she had her troubles and sorrows, heartbreaks and disappointments, and yet she maintained an inspiring resilience and optimism. For her, difficulties were simply part of life’s journey. “C’est la vie,” she would say, “we must move on.” She was a lover and a giver. It wasn’t just the clothing, it was the manner, the spirit. A true Grande Dame with the mind of a lady and the heart of a voyager.

Like a song
Out of tune and out of time
All I needed was a rhyme for you
C’est la vie
Do you give?
Do you live from day to day?
Is there no song I can play for you?
C’est la vie
~ “C’est la vie” (Gregory Lake, Peter Sinfield)

Among Greta’s professional admirers, two stand out: Erv Raible and Barbara Leavy. Erv, co-founder of the Manhattan Association of Cabarets & Clubs, owned venues from the late 1970s until his death in 2014—the cherished places Don’t Tell Mama, Brandy’s Piano Bar, and The Duplex. In 1988, when he opened Eighty Eights, Greta was among the first artists he booked, and she performed there regularly for over a decade. The last time I saw Erv was at a small dinner party at Greta and Connell’s apartment. He loved the cabaret art form and devoted himself to its practitioners. (Fun fact: In 1989, Erv Raible received the Piaf d’Honneur from the French government for promoting, producing, and directing cabaret internationally.)

Barbara Leavy was a professor of literature, cabaret aficionada, and critic who, along with her husband, Peter (the long-time publisher of Cabaret Scenes), was a fixture on the local scene until her death in 2016 and his in 2024. She was one of the early champions of my vision of preserving the origins of the cabaret artform and keeping the European cabaret tradition alive. As I met European-born artists based in New York, I began dreaming of a community of artists delivering their songbooks with complete authenticity—Piaf and Aznavour in French, Brel in Flemish, Shaffy in Dutch, Weill, Hollaender, and Spoliansky in German, Leander in Swedish, and more. In May of 2003, I produced and directed the inaugural season of the Kabarett Kollektif with four members hailing from Germany and England. Our debut run at The Duplex drew praise from audiences and critics, inspiring me to continue. In 2004, I produced the Kollektif’s second season at Mama Rose’s with nine artists from six countries (Germany, France, England, Belgium, Canada, Holland, and the United States).

Kabarett Kollektif 2006
Photo by Shannon Greer

Barbara reviewed all of our shows, often with Peter at her side. A correspondence between us ensued and in time, a wonderful friendship. A fan of Greta’s work, she recognized a kindred spirit in me and was keen to have us meet. In an email from that time, she remarked on our similar sensibilities as chanson interpreters to seek to interpret an array of material that speaks to the human condition—the beautiful and the ugly—and to deliver it with an economy of movement on stage and of gesture, using patter sparingly in favor of allowing the songs to tell the story through a total emotional connection to the song and to our audience. She invited Greta and Connell to join her for one of my solo concerts.

Greta and I understood each other from the start. It was as though we were continuing a conversation that had begun long ago. As she was nominally retired from the stage, I had not had the chance to hear her sing live but immediately invited her to join the Kollektif. She accepted.

Right away, we envisioned a show that would put our home cities of Paris and Berlin on stage, side by side. We would open with a duet of Cohen’s “First We Take Manhattan” and end with “Le Mur” by Dumont and Vaucaire, and in between, present each our own set of signature French and German chansons. In the spring of 2005, Berlin-Paris Express debuted at The Encore with Bobby Peaco on piano and John Bowen on keyboards/synth. With her huge heart and gracious spirit, Greta was once again in her element. Her voice had matured like fine wine. She delivered her songs with an authority and authenticity that could only come from decades of living with and loving the material. Her fans were thrilled to see her back on the stage. That September, Barbara wrote her cover feature about the Kabarett Kollektif for Cabaret Scenes.

The last time Greta appeared with the group was in 2015 for our centennial celebration of Edith Piaf in Little Sparrow: Kabarett Kollektif Sings Piaf at the DMAC in the East Village. Her last public performance was as a guest in Jean Brassard and Steve Ross’ 2022 Bastille Day celebration, Allons Enfants—Encore une fois!, which also featured cabaret veteran Karen Akers.

Kabarett Kollektiff 2014
Photo by Russ Weatherford

I count myself among those who became more of my authentic self by knowing Greta. I grew as a singer, a director, and a woman. By owning her songs body and soul, she modeled how one’s repertoire can grow and unfold with the years. Watching her made me excited to think about the songs that I would sing one day when I was her age. I felt, in a way, like her musical daughter, and maybe like Connell’s lyrical daughter. Both were very encouraging of my prose and poetry when I first began writing.

Artistically, Greta had very specific ideas for her songs, hearing complete orchestrations in her mind that sometimes proved challenging for pianists to capture. She liked using synthesizers, attempting to recreate the richness of the small orchestras that once accompanied her live performances. She required a microphone on a stand and nothing more. She could be critical or impatient when one wasn’t quite able to see the world she imagined. But in the end, she handed herself over and trusted. I grew from our collaborations, because she freed me to play, to follow my intuition, to trust the muse.

Whenever I shared the stage with Greta, I placed myself to the side and slightly behind her. She was riveting; what and who could follow her? As the elder of our ensemble, she was like the figurehead at the bow of a ship, representing the ship’s spirit, bringing good luck to those sailing it, and guiding them home safely. Leaning always slightly outward into the headwinds while at the same time saying “come to me.”

Musician John Bowen remembers: “When I met Greta it was fandom at first sight. I knew I was in the presence of someone special, not just as a performer but also as a human being. I had the pleasure of playing both piano and keyboards for her and was always impressed by her ability to move her audience by singing with absolute truth and authenticity. I used to call her ‘Greta Superstar.’”

While others warned that singing in French or German would alienate our American audiences, Greta demonstrated that authentic artistic expression transcends linguistic boundaries. Through her interpretations, she showed that when a singer fully embodies a song’s essence—its story, its emotion, its soul—the specific words become secondary to its universality. The great artist that she was, she could reach directly into the heart of a song, make the story sing, and touch the common heart of singer and listener that is, in the end, a wordless conversation. Her voice, having grown more textured with age, carried the authority of experience and the warmth of genuine passion that touched something essential in the human experience.

Greta sang of love, found and lost and found again. Of heartbreak and despair, of hope and resilience. Her voice held the life that she had lived so fully, and the love in whose name she had given her all. These are her words:

In the search for my path
Through the forests of life
Drifting on the seas of love, loneliness and regret
In the passion, ecstasy and triumphs
Music, with its power and spiritual strength,
Has always been a sustaining force
And my constant Companion
Infusing my entire being with song.

Though she’s gone now, Greta’s voice echoes on through the songs she loved. New generations of listeners will be inspired through her recordings, The Other Side of Me and In the Dark of the Night. To have seen her on stage, to have sung beside her, to have directed her, to have simply been wrapped up in her world as a close loved one, is one of the great gifts of my life.

The last time I saw Greta was in May 2024 at Peter’s home here in Vermont. She was frail, but her spirit remained indomitable and her smile, still utterly charming. After that visit, we spoke every other week. The last time was just before Christmas when I sensed that she was winding down her days. “I’m so glad I was an artist,” she told me. “When I used to see people in suits coming and going from their offices, I watched them scurrying and hurrying and I knew I didn’t want a life like that. I didn’t want a normal life.”

To my dear, dear friend, for whom a love letter like this was inevitable, I hear you guiding me with your motherly tone through some of my life’s low points in the last two decades. “Ask the universe for right action, Darling,” you would say. “Give yourself to love. To the end, give your heart. Others may not understand, but you understand. This is who you are, who you have lived to become: a lover. Lover of life. Most of all enjoy it, for it all passes by so quickly.”

Karen Kohler and Greta in “Le Mur”
Photo by Jacqueline Chambord

Cue the lights for the finale. Greta speaks: “We hope you’ve enjoyed our romp through the streets of Paris and Berlin tonight. We close with a song called “Le Mur” written by Charles Dumont and Michel Vaucaire and translated by Earl Shuman. Until we meet again—Bonne Nuit, Gute Nacht, Good Night!”

Draw me no maps, vow me no vows
No vague perhaps, just here-and-nows
Tomorrow’s dream is not my dream
It comes too late and I can’t wait
The river runs with one remark
Get on your way, it’s growing dark
And so I live to have my say
To get and give each burning day
And if in time I find my love
He’ll find that I’m no frightened dove
For all too soon young love is passed
It’s tender leaves fall off too fast
Each rising hill, each falling stream
Cause to fulfill each day’s new dream
Some brighter road to fly along
Some stronger wine, some wilder song
And when I’m gone don’t shed one tear
The world will know that I’ve been here!