Show this Saturday at JCC + Cheikh Mwijo, Lili L'abassi & Shimon Bar Yohai

Come listen to Cheikh Mwijo and others this Sat., May 26th at JCC Manhattan

I'll be spinning rare North African records this Saturday night, May 26th for a set called Sheikh it, Baby! Arabic Music, Jewish Musicians. The set is part of the wonderful Tikkun Leil Shavuot program at the JCC Manhattan. I go on at 12.30 am (technically May 27th) in the 4th floor studio. I'm adding some recent killer finds to the playlist, so bring a friend and come check it out. The full schedule of events can be found here.

Judeo-Arabic song verse in praise of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai
Composed by Albert Suissa and printed in Casablanca (1950s)

Tikkun Leil Shavuot in its current form is a modern twist on an ancient tradition. Shavuot marks the anniversary of the Israelites receiving the Torah from God. One tradition relates that the Israelites prayed and studied for three days and nights in anticipation of receiving the Torah and so, we emulate this all-night regiment to remember and recreate this sacred study session.

Shavuot (meaning weeks in Hebrew) comes seven weeks after Passover. If you've been following the news or my Twitter feed (www.twitter.com/jewishmorocco) lately, you may have noticed an uptick in Jewish pilgrimages (hilloulot in Hebrew) over the last couple weeks in Morocco and Tunisia. These pilgrimages to Rabbi's tombs usually fall on or right around Lag B'Omer, a holiday that occurs 33 days after Passover and which marks the anniversary of the death of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai, a 2nd century Rabbi and disciple of the famed Rabbi Akiva. According to lore, Lag B'Omer is also the date that Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai revealed the Zohar, the foundational text of Kabbalah.

Now the tie-in for all of this is something I've written about before and that is the fascinating convergence of the sacred and secular in North African Jewish music. For example, the melody for Samy Elmaghribi's scandalously secular Kaftanek Mahloul (Blond Blond performs it here) was quickly incorporated into liturgical poetry for the synagogue in 1950s Morocco and beyond (Binyamin Bouzaglo performs El Hay Ram Gadol to the tune of Kaftanek Mahloul here).

I recently discovered another track that made the transition from secular to sacred. Lili L’abassi was born Elie Moyal in Sidi Bel Abbas, Algeria in or around 1909. By his early 20s, he was already being referred to as Cheikh for his mastery of the violin and Arabic song. His popularity rose steadily in the 1930s and 1940s and he can be thought of as the Jewish Hadj Mohammed El Anka in terms of popularizing chaabi music. One of his most popular songs is Wahran El Bahia (Oran the Brilliant/Shining/Beautiful) and is an ode to the city that has produced some of Algeria's greatest musicians, past and present. Wahran El Bahia has become the unofficial anthem of Oran and continues to be sung to this day.

Below is a clip of the song being performed by El Gusto, a Jewish and Muslim orchestra originally formed in Algeria in the 1950s and recently reunited. The musicians of El Gusto, now in their 70s through 90s, had lost touch post-Algerian independence and were brought together over the last few years thanks to the efforts of the filmmaker Safinez Bousbia, who captured this story in her compelling documentary. Make sure you see this film El Gusto, if you haven't already.

Pay close attention to the very animated violinist and singer in this El Gusto concert recording because it is none other than Robert Castel, son of the great Lili L'abassi. To the right, you can also make out Luc (or Lili) Cherki. Play the song in its entirety once or twice, so you get a real feel for the melody.

Check out this 1970s recording by Cheikh Mwijo in Israel. It's called Meron El Bahiya and is a pretty amazing piece about Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai. Mt. Meron (in Israel) is the pilgrimage site for the Lag B'Omer holiday and the burial place of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai. Lag B'Omer and Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai have long been popular song topics for Jewish North African recording artists. One of my most interesting 78s, for example, is a 1950s recording of a Lag B'Omer hilloula in Tlemcen, Algeria. Now take a close listen to the Cheikh Mwijo song below. This is the same melody and refrain as Lili L'abassi's Wahran El Bahiya but with Meron swapped for Oran! The sacred has again adopted the secular.


While you're pondering all of this, I'm going to give another shoutout to my twitter feed and mention that you can like this blog on Facebook (www.facebook.com/jewishmorocco). I'll be posting some exciting news soon...so keep an eye out.

Agouim – November 2

I checked out of my hotel and headed in the wrong direction to the bus station. I turned around annoyed that I wasted so much time. I didn’t know what to expect of the pilgrimage but I expected to spend the night there and hopefully have some sort of accommodation. At the big pilgrimage sites there is usually accommodation although very sparse. The ride through the Atlas Mountains was almost comical. Anything we could fit in the taxi we did and this included a bike on top and sheep in the trunk. My bag sat behind my head. I got out at Agouim and started asking around where the pilgrimage was. It wasn’t exactly in Agouim but a few km past. They would take me for 50 dirhams. Considering I just paid 20 for a much longer ride I knew something was amiss. But what could I do? At that moment a bus pulled up. Some 40 Israelis piled out. Bingo. I went over to approach them. I was cautious as I knew the situation was bound to be confusing. I just wanted to know how much it should cost to the hilloula.

Wait you are Jewish? What are you doing here? Who is he? Check his bags.

All range of emotions were on display from those who wanted me to join them to the hilloula to those who were so frightened by my sudden appearance that they demanded to search me. After checking my bags, my Hebrew, my name, my purpose, my story (over and over again), they put me on their bus to head to the hilloula. Many were still nervous. One sat next to me to make sure I wouldn’t do anything. He again went over my story. At the hilloula we filed out of the bus. I just had to trust that everything would work out. As long as I was sufficiently cautious these types of experiences had made my Morocco experience. The pilgrimage was to an incredibly tiny Berber village. There was a freshly whitewashed Jewish cemetery. Outside candles burned. Dozens of Israelis from the bus and other Jews sang and danced as they prayed. It was a sight I hadn’t seen for a long time. Although totally out of place I was comfortable. An old man started crying. People were joyous. We ate lunch after that. Canned tuna, corn, and bread. They all kept kosher. Something quite difficult to do outside of the major cities here. I sat next to my former interrogator/friend Simon. He offered me anything I could need. The man to the left of me who was probably in his 60s said that today was the first day in his life that he cried. It was the sight of the tomb of R. David u-Moshe that had been the catalyst. He couldn’t eat, he just cried. The man across from me again wanted to know my story. We painstakingly went over every detail as Simon and others came to my defense. But how he kept asking. I didn’t understand what he meant but he basically wanted to know what language I was speaking when I traveled. I said I knew Arabic. This satisfied him. After praying we had some sweets and they poured me a large glass of water.

Drink, drink Gedalia (my Hebrew name).

I drank. It wasn’t water. It was Arak – aniseed liquor. My first alcohol in months. It was officially a celebration.

We headed back to the bus. I didn’t really know where I was heading but I had a day and half to kill. Did I want to go with them to Marrakech? Sure. Ha, another adventure. By now most on the bus had warmed to me. They wanted to know where I was from, everything, what I was doing there. It wasn’t coincidence that we all met today they warned me it was fate. I would be married within the year they said. Simon asked me if I knew why everyone was nervous. I said because they thought I was a terrorist. He said yes and that this reaction was natural. I agreed and understood. But it made me sad. It made me hope for end to the conflict even more. At least so that people can start trusting again.

The bus ride was illuminating. All were of Moroccan origin. Some had been born there, some had been to Morocco before, and for others it was their first time. On the bus they recalled their parents fondly and their parent’s mix of Hebrew and Arabic (Haji l’po and Lisgor et haBab). And then there was a drum. I noticed it when I first got on. For the next two hours there was non-stop singing and drumming. It was beyond festive. It was awesome.