The afternoon's work extends into the evening

So it didn't take quite as long as I expected to get around to uploading the recording from this afternoon in the studio with Mohammed Essousi. Here's a link, although the parade of photos were at his request...

Poetry to my ears

The last few days saw a drastic change in the intensity of my work here in Morocco. Of course, this is in a good way, a sudden increase and a return to the way I remember this kind of work going in Morocco. You put in the time, then something clicks (in this case two things), and you're off sprinting.

Earlier this week, I was invited to a wedding, an American man (whom I had never met) marrying a Fessi woman (whom I had also never met). I declined the offer from a mutual friend and well-known local Hamadsha musician. Yet I did go with him as he waited for it to start. We sat at a café and he called one of his friends.

Mohammed Sousi (right) and Abd an-Nabi, the first upright bass player I've spoken with in Fez. He let me touch it. I miss bass.

Shortly thereafter, Mohammed Sousi arrived. He sings a genre of Moroccan music called "malhun," something that I had known of, but never investigated thoroughly. When he explained that many of the texts (qasa'id, poems or stories) come from religious sources, I piqued my interest. Here is a music, considered classical, that includes violins, bass, cello, yet is still sung in Moroccan Arabic. Modern forms are incredibly popular as artists add reggae-ish bass lines, keyboards, and far more electronic sounds than I'm comfortable hearing at one time. Despite my focus on the ritual and religious sounds of Fes' musical life, malhun has the potential to bridge the sacred and secular in a firm, concrete way.

The singer invited me to his house a few days later, asking me to bring my fiddle along. After a long, pleasant walk through my old neighborhood (where I lived in 2006), I found him at an imposing, shiny, oversized café. He grabbed my arm, pulled me along the road reminding me to remember the route, so I can find it again without his help next time. I had to prove my memory to him when we arrived by drawing up a quick map in my notebook. I had passed my first test.

Even in the studio, you're surrounded by the ubiquitous Moroccan tea.

After a terse introduction to his family and the obligatory tea (wasn't I just at a café?), the more important test came. As I prepared my violin, I remembered my endless promises to myself that I'd practice constantly and consistently while in Fes, making it worthwhile for me to bring the instrument along. Since buying a banjo, I had hardly even looked at the poor thing. I had pulled it out a day or two before, just to remember how it works, and hopefully that would be enough to keep from embarrassing myself. It was, thank God! As soon as he started singing and gesturing for me to follow the melodic contour, two long-forgotten parts of my brain flicked on: aural skills and faking. When you spend enough time learning to sight sing, playing in funk bands, and trying to solidify three part harmonies in a bluegrass group, that particular lobe of grey matter kicks into gear quickly. As for faking, I'm still unsure where that dividing line sits between sounding good (legitimately) and doing so because you know how to make it sound like you sound good... Convoluted, eh? Yes. C'est la vie.

Two of the four violinists (kamanji) warm up. Players set the instrument on their knees and play it upright. Instead of changing the angle of the bow to hit different strings, they simply twist the fiddle a bit with a flick of the wrist to move up and down the range.

After our sit, on the floor, of course, he told me to join him tomorrow at the ida'a. (What's the ida'a? It's the ida'a. Oh, ok.) Somehow I found it this morning without losing hours of my life. It was the state recording studio, and I was about to observe a recording of the song that I had just heard for the first time. Luckily, I didn't  have to perform. Yet.

The building had the sense of being just a nudge or two above not-quite-official. Wood paneled walls, oddly arranged rooms, and a general no-longer-white coloration consumed the place. Suddenly, though, the group kicked into gear and they were off. Everyone knew the song, no discussion of form or key, and the communication between musicians added to the lively beat. I made a recording myself, using my pocket-sized gadget, which I will hopefully post someplace useful online in the coming days. It's worth the listen.

Mohammed Sousi at his home showing of a recent gift. Someone had written a favorite poem on an animal skin and framed it.

Si Mohammed invited me back to his house, and thanks to a ride from one of the violinists and the 'ud player, we didn't have to fight for a taxi just before lunchtime. I sat with the family, they each took turns discussing the beauty of the recording, and then, just when I was starting to starve, a plate of fried sardines appeared in the kitchen. They even gave me a gift, a set of light wool pants and shirt that hang loosely and are worn with a tarboush (think "fez") and yellow slippers. The generosity was the result of a slip of the tongue from the day before, when I mentioned that I wanted a pair of pants "like those" at some point in the future.

The afternoon concluded with a return to the recording studio where Mohammed and some of the girls from his ensemble were doing a series of interviews for a local radio problem. I sat with them, understanding the words but not the context, and before I knew it, I was being asked questions about myself, working in Morocco. Yet, instead of discussing music or my work, I was thrown off-guard with a series of interrogations on my favorite Moroccan food. In the moment, of course, I couldn't think of lamb with prunes, and so I just fumbled like a fool, trying to reconcile the situation with my complete surprise. But hey, now I'll be on the radio. Luckily, it'll be at 9am on a Saturday, when hopefully no one is paying attention.

Tomorrow's another day, we'll see where we end up, yes?

As an unrelated aside, headlamps are in. Seems that were the only folks that we know who don't have them. We're stuck living with these two.. Matt and Mitch are our roommates in the new house. Say hi.

Trek to Meknès

Our grand taxi, and the kind man who supplied our tissue needs.

You may remember my summary of expectations, some things I jotted quickly before we went off to Meknès for the moussem. Well, we made the trip and went on our way, but (of course) I forgot to charge my battery beforehand. It's rare for me to be wandering around with the nice one, so I went a bit photo-crazy and ran it out before the actual moussem started. I'll give you what I got.

As for the celebration, we got to Meknès' central square, the Hdima, to find people milling around as if it were any old normal day. Disappointment set in. Then, in the crowd, we saw some flags rise above! Knowing Morocco, we assumed that things would take a few hours to get going, so we took our time and visited a café, strolled through the food market, and Annie even got herself a towel/hat for coming home from the public bath.

Then the crowd got itself going. For about 45 minutes we watched some kids and old men team up to try and lift a giant rug with a 10-foot business card pasted to the front (think of the signs that you sometimes see leading a parade, announcing just which fire department you're watching walk by). The wood-braced carpet followed the six flags and a fella carrying a two-foot wide incense burner. Then you had the 'Assawis who formed a circle and performed their "hadra" ceremony (lots of jumping and swinging, looked pretty fun), and 6 ghaita players sitting atop horses. The ghaita is a double reed, much like an oboe, but far, far, far louder, made for playing in large outdoor spaces such as this. The players maintained winding melodies that cut through the noise of the crowds and reached us as we attempted to snake toward and away from the activity. We retreated to a café sitting along one of the city walls so we could watch from a better viewpoint as the group slowly progressed under us and around a busy corner. Shops and salesmen pulled in their goods, waited for the spectacle to pass, and reset themselves as before as a more typical stroll overcame the streets.

We saw a good friend of mine leading the group, and I need to get a hold of him now that things are settling back down. I have questions, he has answers. PS: no one tried to eat our clothes (we were worried, since a few from our group wore black!).

It feels good to get out of the city every once in a while.

Annie and Carol enjoying the ride out.

The best part of this moderately ridiculous museum was the sunshine.

This was the last photo I took before the battery died. But isn't it a beautiful coffee?

The 'Aissawis of Meknès

Today we're heading to Meknès, a nearby city, for the moussem. Yesterday was the Prophet's birthday, a holiday that sets off a long series of celebrations across the country. The first, and in some ways, most well known, is only a few hours away by taxi. It began yesterday and will continue through tomorrow, so we'll be just in time to catch the height of the celebrations.

Meknès is home to the major shrine to Sheikh al-Kamil, the "patron saint" (if you will) of the 'Aissawa brotherhood. The 'Aissawis are one particular sect of Sufis who I have had the pleasure of working with in the past. Their music is incredibly popular, and the presence of a large group (15 or so  members) is a staple for weddings, naming day celebrations, and other life celebrations. They also perform layla rituals, not completely unlike the Gnawa (the sub-Saharan group that made of the bulk of my past research). They foster relationships with some of the same historical figures, saints, and spirits. Further, the ceremonies heal inflicted individuals (spiritually and physically) and provide baraka (blessing) to the families that are present.

During this moussem, I have been told a bit about what to expect, but of course, when you're dealing with religious topics, foreign languages, and multiple perspectives, you really can't get a grasp on what's coming. It will all be a bit of a surprise.

'Aissawa groups, led by flagbearers, will process from the central square to the shrine of Sheikh al-Kamil. They will be performing segments of the ritual, songs that are known to the crowds, and potentially a few things that invite adepts to fna, literally extinction (of the self into Allah). The groups are large, percussion heavy (mostly hand drums of different sorts), and include a few wind players. They usually have two or three 6-foot long trumpets that play complex and coordinated rhythms between them, creating an unexpectedly tight stereo experience. The ghaita, a relative of the oboe, plays long, winding, ornamented melodies alongside the chanting. Each group, I am told, will have a cow. Upon entering the shrine, there is a sacrifice, and celebration ensues once again.

We were warned that if we wear red or black, people who are trancing might try to eat our clothes. Not sure yet what to make of it, but I'm wearing brown.

After this, the mawsim (moussems) continue in two other cities, taking me on a trek across Morocco as I jump full steam into research. Classes are pretty much finished, and now the real work clicks into gear.

Peace

Al-Ashiya al-Gnawiya

Hamid, Abd ar-Rzaq, and Annie having some pre-ceremony tea.

One week in, and I think my dissertation research is done.

Yesterday we were invited to an Ashiya Gnawiya, a Gnawa afternoon. Now, I'd been to a Gnawa layla before. In fact, the layla (night) ceremony made up a few chapters of my masters thesis. In the layla, people (mostly women) who are possessed by a mluk (spirit) go into trance during the segment of music dedicated to that particular spirit. Some of the mluk are from Islamic history (Moses, Abraham), while some are sub-Saharan (Aisha, Mimun). The maskun (possessed) are covered with cloths matching the color of the spirit and feed on the jawi (incense) to strengthen the possession.

This ashiya (afternoon) was not supposed to have any of this. But it did.

The event was held for a woman who was having trouble breathing. The belief is that these types of health issues can come from an unhappy mluk, or a new one. In order to appease the spirit, the maskun must hold a ceremony. The ashiya, however, is cheaper than a layla, and shorter. After two or three hours (and no possession) we expected the event to end, but then the woman went into a deep trance, screaming, rolling on the ground. People came from around the room to help her, bring her to the incense, and push her into the next stage. Then the layla portion began as the musicians went into the series of songs that bring on each mluk.

If anyone is interested in the specifics of the theology and traditions, let me know. This is hardly the venue for such a conversation.

The big news, though... unlike in the past, the musicians allowed (even requested) me to record the entire thing. In the past, I've taken pictures and recorded the opening portion, but once the trances begin, it's all off limits for obvious reasons. This time, however, they kept asking me for my recorder and putting it prime position between them. If I had to, I could transcribe this event, get the lyrics, and write a paper. Pardon my excitement. Upon later listening, however, it's shocking just how intense and frightening the entire experience is.

The musicians. Abd ar-Rzaq was my teacher during the last few trips, in red. The man to his right is restringing his hajhuj.

Stumbling into Surprises, Last Night in Town

Last full night in Ghana. The plan is to head down to the coast, find someplace to grab a bite, and meet Annie at Bywel's, the same place we heard some high life music when we were here a few weeks back.

That's not at all how the night went down.

While walking through something of a beach town slum, I hear some drumming. Crossing a makeshift bridge, I see some dancing. Surprisingly enough, Accra's oceanside coast is not home to international hotel chains or posh pool bars. Instead, it's a 15 year old corrugated steel Hooverville that sits peacefully, waiting as the tide laps up, just feet away. Just beyond this interconnected maze of propped up housing stands the presidential palace, looking like a fort on a cliff from behind.

The music and dancing that I'm slowly stumbling into is part of a royal drumming school, and 30 or so people are digging into the sound as the sun goes down. I stand, noticed, but untouched, and start passing by the group's concrete stage. Rounding the circular building, I found the head drummers, who invited me in and introduced themselves and their resident white guy, Claas (Klaus).

Gettin' down in the back...

Claas, from Germany, does most of the talking, although his English is staggered and smells of gin. He has been living with Senegal (the royal drummer) and the rest while making a documentary film on the group, who had just performed for the president the previous afternoon. Ghana's royal drummers are chiefs, and they claim authority over the musical/ritual activities of small regions, with Senegal, the leader of the Osu neighborhood, declaring his hierarchical dominance over the rest of Accra.

I'm excitedly pulled into one of the corrugated houses, and I find myself standing in front of a full bar. The English Premier League is playing on a TV set. Everything short of darts. Claas orders a Star beer, asks if I'm interested. No, haven't eaten dinner yet! I change my mind when I see the tasty beverage in front of me. He also gets a "Striker" - about 2 shots of gin in a plastic, sealed pouch. The 'tender has to find the scissors to clip off a corner and fill a glass, along with some lime juice. "Claas, that's my summer drink of choice right there, a gimlet!" He's surprised and gets excited. Later in the night, I have one of my own and we toast my lost wanderings while sitting in a shack/bar looking over the coast.

Claas and Senegal, chillin'  hard. Yes, that is the ocean in the background on the right.

I went back the next day - left my notebook at one of the bars. Claas and Senegal wanted pictures, hundreds of pictures of the school and the young drummers. A guitarist was visiting the night before, he was still there in the afternoon, giving us the chance to jam a bit, playing a bit of reggae and a great "Hey Joe." As a member of Fela Kuti's band, I was a bit star-struck, and he was a fantastic player. Me, I was using an acoustic guitar that was missing a string, forcing me to play as a bass. I'm more comfortable there, anyhow, but when the drummers joined in, my straight reggae lines suddenly felt much, much more difficult. I made it, and didn't make a fool out of myself in the process. In the end, that's all we can hope for, eh?

Lessons from royalty.

Annie and I left that night, Friday. Her boss took us out to a meal of Ghanaian food, complete with fried plantains, spicy sauces, perfectly mixed spiced rice, and large plates of grilled fish. All alongside the local milk stout. Perfect.

Delta, in trying to keep us "safe," took us through 18 checkpoints and consumed the 3 hours that we spent in the airport (good thing we were early!). They let us on, found a place for the kora, and plopped us in our spots. Bam, going home. Two movies, a book, and some TV later, we were in Atlanta.

I finished "On the Road" just as we came home. Felt right.

The drumming and dance school.

Hajuj lessons

It’s a sad time when you finish a good book. There’s a moment of despair, knowing that it’s done, gone. I know, it’s melodramatic. For anyone who’s interested in Fez, though, I recommend some Paul Bowles’ A Spider’s House (a daring move undertaken by few academics).

This evening was a wonderfully spent bit of time with Annie. We walked around the new city after sitting atop Hejji’s carpet/justice house. We had some pizza at our favorite little spot, and then tried to find the old park. It’s in great shape! The king is really knocking out these public works projects. Hassan II looks great, there’s a pair of large fountains, and the park is a pleasant surprise! We passed on the Fez City Clan, a hip hop group, at Ait Skato, and instead took the rare opportunity to just wander the new city. When I got back to Sidi al-Awad, it was hopping! There were sellers through the entire entrance with music, shoes, pants, shirts, etc. on rugs set out on the sidewalk. A good time to come back, it seems.

I bought a hajuj today! After asking over and over again, I was confident that Abd al-Rzaq did, in fact, have another instrument. And in order to secure my lessons, I paid him 700 DH for the instrument (instead of 1000) and offered 100 DH for each 4 lessons. This gets me 12 lessons, an ambitious goal, over the next few weeks. And today was lesson #2! We worked on the bambra, the first song played after everyone sits down at the layla. My finger hurts.

Tomorrow we’re going down to Sefrou for their Cherry festival. It’ll be our first visit to the smaller town, and the first time back in the adventurous Grand Taxi.

The big question from the family

Today I finally got the question from Si Ahmed: Why do you ask about music, about Sufism, etc, but not about Islam? He shared his need to fill the duty that is opening the way for my path into the Muslim life. (I definitely heard the word “shabek,” window, in there somewhere.)

Annie was off from school, so we finally got to spend an entire day together. It was wonderful. After a fantastic lunch here, with the family (lamb, but in some sugary grease?), we went to meet Claudine. But, sadly, it turned into a bit of a goose chase to find her house. Since she didn’t feel like leaving to meet us, it will have to wait.

The concert tonight was impressive. Morocco is doing an outstanding job, adding small details since two years ago. The entrance to Bab Makina, an old armory, was adorned with a series of stalls, each housing representatives from companies: TV5, Century 21, local spas, etc. The performance itself was a collaboration between the Al-Kindi Ensemble and a Byzantine chorus.

Fez has been good to me. The people each time I visit continue to surprise me with their unnecessary generosity, Hassan and, now, Rachel’s family, Si Ahmed in Sa’ada, and now Si Ahmed and his son here in the old city. I met Annie here, we fell for each other on these streets. Well, maybe that was in Chefchaouen or Essouira, but the vast majority of our time together happened in Fez. And now we return. Maybe again next year, and for a full year after that… This place is a large part of my life. Why is that? What made me take Arabic? I wanted to kill time and it quickly (not losing any of that killed time) shifted me into a different place completely. I meet all these people and I can tell, even if they don’t ask, that they wonder the same thing. And so do I. Why study this stuff?

A Night In

(Everything before this is copied from the notebook – forgive the terseness. I’m not good when writing by hand.)

Today had some big moments, but not where they were expected. Early on I went to visit Said, who informed me that Hejji had tried to call yesterday and had arranged a meeting with his Gnawiyya friend. After fixing my phone, we sat with Claudine, who wants to introduce me to Fredric, who is with the Hamadcha Brotherhood. He is a French researcher who performs with the group regularly and has lived in Fez for the last 5 years. She is also a singer and is interested in electronic music (in Paris). My first trip back to that area. In the new city I got to see Annie again!

After pictures and lunch Annie made me talk to Thierry, a photographer at the café with the festival schedule at hand. He agreed to meet me tomorrow for coffee after we talked at some short length on his childhood in Algeria and his life here in Fez since. He returns frequently, but hasn’t found himself ready to try and head back home – a family of his name was recently killed on arrival.

Tonight dinner with the family and Hafid (uncle, brother of Ahmed) broke into song! Stories of the prophets, Allah, and muezzin-esque recitation by Si Ahmed himself! I learned that the family is Tijaniyya and was able to ask many questions on the group’s history and structure. According to Hafid, Tijani was not from Algeria (contrary to some popular beliefs), but from Saudi Arabia. And he scolded Algeria for using the man's legacy for political gains. And get this: their other uncle, the older one who was admonishing Mohammed’s friend yesterday, is the assistant Imam at the Zawia – quite the post, and a retired Arabic teacher. I now understand the significance of last night’s argument.

There’s a Tijaniyya performance with the Sufi Nights this week. I wonder what the family has to say.