Record Digging, Cassette Collecting, and Musical Memory in Jewish Morocco

Samy Elmaghribi and Salim Halali are still played at the Astor, Fez's last kosher restaurant and bar

Hadj Belaid fresco in Tafraoute (2012)

Some three years after first discovering the magic of musician Haim Botbol in a record store in Casablanca, I returned to Morocco to find his music in cassette stalls across the country. In fact, I got an even deeper sense of the critical importance of music in the Maghreb on this trip. In Tafraoute, in the country’s deep southwest, frescos of musical instruments like the rebab and images of musical standouts from the 1940s like Hadj Belaid adorned walls throughout the region’s ancient villages. At a pizza joint along the Tizi-n-Tichka pass, a banjo on a chair was displayed prominently. When the restaurant’s owner wasn’t making pies, he would strum a few chaabi notes. And in Casablanca, by the former Lincoln Hotel, a cd seller played Samy Elmaghribi’s version of Gheniet Bensoussan for passersby.

After years of collecting Moroccan and then North African music in general, I was interested in not only finding dusty recordings from Tangier to Fez but also to collect musical memories. I was interested in how Moroccans, Jews and Muslims, understood and remembered their Jewish pop icons of yesteryear and so I went looking.

I started in Tangier and found very little. I figured a Mediterranean port city with a once large Jewish community would herald in an auspicious beginning. Being there during Ramadan hampered my efforts in many ways. Most medina shops were closed during the day. A general lethargy had set in. Additionally, Marcel Botbol’s music club, just outside the medina, was closed and I soon learned he was switching venues but wasn’t due to reopen until the following month. Undeterred, I kept searching. Walking up and down medina thoroughfares and side streets, I finally happened on a store selling clocks that a friend had mentioned. A half dozen sun faded Mohammed Abdel Wahab LPs were displayed prominently in the window. He must have had more stock, I thought. He did but he was too tired, he told me. I pressed him but I decided to let it go. Considering that he had been holding on to records for some thirty years past their utility and interest for most people, I could sympathize with his exhaustion. Besides, there would be other opportunities.

The interior of Le Comptoir Marocain de Distribution de Disques (2012)

Where Tangier yielded little, Casablanca was a black gold mine. I returned to the places which had launched this musical journey for me three years ago: Le Comptoir Marocain de Distribution de Disques on Lalla Yacout and Disques Gam in the opposite direction on Boulevard de Paris. At Le Comptoir, also the home to the Tichkaphone label, I snagged a dozen Botbol cassettes. It’s safe to say that Le Comptoir represents one end of the record store spectrum, organized and immaculate, whereas Disques Gam is the other end, chaotic, hot as hell, and magnificent. Gam Boujemma is the store’s proprietor and a repository of musical knowledge. You have to know what you’re looking for here and I did. With every record or cassette he pulled out, I was deluged with hard to come by oral history. Stories of Samy Elmaghribi performing at the nearby Cinema Lux fascinated me. As did his reverence for Albert Suissa. I walked away with a few prize items from his archive including a couple EPs on the N. Sabbah label and Botbol’s only release for Philips.

Two Giants: Albert Suissa on N. Sabbah and Botbol on Philips (2012)

In Morocco, the musical medium of choice corresponds directly to the seller’s knowledge of the industry. Those selling records should be placed at the top of the hierarchy, followed closely by cassette purveyors and CD distributors a distant third. Also, a couple things happened in Morocco in the 1970s that should be noted. One, the music industry was nationalized. Two, cassettes appeared, allowing records to be transferred directly to tape and distributed widely. The era also represents one of the last gasps of the prominence of Jews in the Moroccan music scene.

 Janatte Haddadi's beautiful short on Coq d'Or

The Casa medina was once a musical mecca for Moroccan Jews. It was here where Salim Halali’s club Coq d’Or, now a textile factory, once stood. Albert Suissa continued to live and write music in the mellah until a late age. So I was elated when I stumbled upon one of the remaining few cassette sellers in Casa’s medina. His stall was impossibly tiny. Floor to ceiling tapes lined its walls. With my eyes quickly scanning the now all too familiar artists, I noticed something peculiar. In his collection were dozens of Israeli releases of Moroccan Jewish artists from the Holy Land. While the Zakiphon labels had been removed, these were clearly Jaffa-based releases of Cheikh Mwijo, Raymonde, and Sliman Elmaghrebi. Here was evidence of a fascinating chapter of music moving beyond closed borders.

Found: Samy Elmaghribi in a Casa cassette seller's attic (2012)

I told him what I was looking for and he had everything. I walked away with long sought after Felix El Maghrebi and Zohra El Fassia tapes complete with hand written song titles. On a whim, I asked if he still had records. Without flinching he took a rickety ladder and propped it against a wall of cassettes and started climbing towards his attic. He pulled down two large bags of 45s. I started to comb through them as my heart raced. What would I find? The occasional Samy Elmaghribi EP surfaced as did the odd Botbol cover (including an Algerian release) but unfortunately none of the covers matched the records and none of what he had was what I was looking for. Despite this, I had learned a great deal in this encounter.

Hadj Belaid recording on Baidaphon c. 1940s

Before finally heading to Fez, I spent a week with my girlfriend and friends traveling in the Marrakesh area and to its east. Toward the end of the week, we visited the village of Telouet, home to a breathtaking Glaoui casbah. As we left, it started to drizzle and then pour. A nearby café provided us shelter and piping hot mint tea. On our way in I had noticed a 50s era HiFi system at the entrance. Where there was a record player, I thought, there must be records. I started asking the right questions. Within a moment my hosts informed and then showed me that it still hummed along, in fact, it played beautifully. They put on a couple of Western LPs and then brought out two black plastic bags of 78s. These were all priceless 1940s recordings of Hadj Belaid on Pathé and Baidaphon. We were all having a great time. A waiter took a lighter to one of the records to show me this was no plastic we were dealing with. This was shellac! Handshakes were had all around and then I excused myself to finish my tea.

Le Cristal in Fez, still bustling (2012)

My last few days in Morocco were spent in Fez. For the first time, I stayed in the Ville Nouvelle. I was captivated. For the tourist and the historian, some of the beauty of Morocco, even in its “modern” counterpart to the medina, is the (at least superficially) unchanging landscape and architecture. Thus my hotel in Fez was located right next to the now defunct Astor Cinema, which was next to the still in operation Astor Bar (home to Fez’s remaining kosher restaurant) and a stone’s throw a way from independence era café’s like the Cristal. You quickly started to get a feel for what Jewish Fez must have looked like in the 1950s and 60s.

I was not disappointed by what I found in Fez’s medina. After paying homage to the record-turned-cd label Fassiphone, right outside the old walls, I launched myself into the city’s infamous myriad alleyways. It was not before long before that I located the cassette district. One seller’s stash of Jewish musicians was significantly reduced. About seven tapes were all that remained. He was eager to sell, including what appeared to be his most master-like recordings, but I held off.

Botbol, tea, and towers of tapes in Fez (2012)

A twist and a turn later and I had found my man. “Mohammed” cut a handsome figure against a background of thousands of tapes. He saw me staring and ushered me “in.” A dozen pleasantries later, short introductions, a sip of wormwood infused tea, and the cassettes jumped one after one into the tape deck. Mohammed was a former musician and played often with his Jewish counterparts. His familiarity with the scene was astonishing. When I asked about Botbol, Mohammed mentioned he knew Jacob, the father, and then dutifully put on a recording, which he sang every word to. This pattern of singing along with the uttering of an artist’s name repeated itself with a range of performers from Cheikh Mwijo to Samy Elmaghribi. The mere mention of Zohra El Fassia, the grande dame of Fez, brought a large smile to his face. He started recalling the heyday of places like the Astor and Cristal and others. I couldn’t resist, I bought way too much from him but it was worth it. He then took us to his gorgeous medina home for another cup of tea. His roof view rivaled any in the city. I asked him to see pictures but instead I got his address with a request to keep in touch. I couldn’t have been happier to oblige. Mohammed wasn’t sure if anyone still sold records in Fez but I was happy nonetheless. Not everything has been transferred to CD so getting your hands on tapes is the next best thing.

Prized records including Botbol, bottom row (left) (2012)

Zohra El Fassia on Polyphon c. 1940s (2012)

I took the long way out of the medina and I’m glad I did. A few missteps and backtracks later and I had located what may be Fez’s last record store. The owner, much older than Mohammed, was also a former musician. Hundreds of records were arranged in some of the most creative ways I had ever seen. He displayed his most prized records, including a not-for-sale Botbol, on one side of the store. At his desk were beautiful black-and-white and sepia photos of his former life. Behind him were cassettes of Morocco’s most influential stars including Samy Elmaghribi, whom the proprietor called the best Isra’ili singer in Moroccan history. I painstakingly combed through piles of LPs and EPs and pulled out impossibly difficult to find cuts. As I continued to look high and low for records, which seemed to be hiding everywhere, I saw a dozen 78s in the corner. I gently removed them from the shelf. Sifting through these treasures one by one, my heart skipped a beat. There it was…a 70-year-old recording of Cheikha Zohra El Fassia made for the Polyphon label. I showed it to the owner. He put on his glasses and said zeena (beautiful). Sadly, the record itself was beyond playing condition but its near forgotten presence in this store still sings volumes to me.

Moroccan Grooves, Blogged: Jewish Morocco Featured on Tablet Mag

A sampling of North African 45s.

I had the pleasure of sitting down with Sara Ivry at Tablet Magazine last week to record this piece on a history of Jewish musicians in Morocco, my quest to find their recordings and how my personal musical history fits in to all of this. I digitized some Samy Elmaghribi, Line Monty and Cheikh Mwijo especially for the podcast so I hope everyone enjoys.

Here is the introductory text from Tablet:

By day, Chris Silver works for a Jewish task force trying to raise awareness about civic inequalities facing Israel’s Arab citizens. But he dedicates his free time to Jews in an Arab land, with his blog, Jewish Morocco. Silver created the blog in 2008, while traveling in Morocco, as a way of sharing the stories, photographs, and other artifacts he was collecting to document what Jewish life there had been like in its heyday. Along the way, he developed a particular interest in the country’s Jewish musicians and singers—characters who were beloved by Moroccans of all backgrounds, and to whom he gives ample space on his blog. Silver joins Vox Tablet host Sara Ivry to talk about some of the unique voices he’s discovered, what happened to Jewish Moroccan singers once they left the country in the 1950s and ’60s, and where he gets his missionary zeal (hint: It has to do with Bob Dylan; Mama Cass; Bill Cosby; and Chris’s dad, Roy). [Running time: 25:55.]

Listen to the podcast here: http://www.tabletmag.com/podcasts/101311/moroccan-grooves-blogged

I'll be posting more in a few weeks including some pieces that didn't make it in the final edit - so keep an eye and ear out for fresh posts.

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.

Jo Amar (El Maghribi) Also Sang in Arabic

Jo Amar. 56120. Zakiphon. 1960s. Side 2 - Mssat Ailaya (Mchate Aaliya by Lili Boniche)

Before I begin a DJ set, I often ask the crowd if they are familiar with any North African Jewish singers and the answer inevitably is, “Yes, the great Jo Amar!” Listeners know his Israeli pop hits like Shir hashikor and Barcelona and his liturgical music like Shalom leben dodi but not much else. Sometimes I will even start off a session playing the album he recorded during his famed 1965 Carnegie Hall performance only to illustrate that this is the music we will not be dealing with in the course of our set. People will say that what set Jo Amar apart was his mastery of various styles including Eastern European melodies but for me that misses the point. Simply put his voice was unparalleled and that is what made him great. He sang almost falsetto. His voice could be soft and lilting at times (which made you listen all the more intently) but in a moment he could switch to a commanding crescendo and just grab you. His voice told a story and this was especially vivid when he sang in Arabic.

What fascinates me is that most are unaware of the fact that Jo Amar recorded 78s in Arabic before moving to Israel and that he continued to not only record Arabic Andalusian music in Israel and elsewhere but also chaabi and Francarabe on LP – Mchate aaliya by Lili Boniche is a perfect example. He wrote his own songs in Arabic and he sang the great songs of others and this post is an attempt to put this history back on the map after being omitted by far too many articles and obituaries.

Jewish cemetery in Settat, Morocco (2008)

Jo Amar was born in Settat, Morocco in 1930. By the late 1940s he was recording music in Hebrew and Arabic for Philips. On his Arabic 78s he was known as Jo Amar El Maghribi (Jo Amar the Moroccan) while on his Hebrew 78s he was simply Jo Amar. In 1956 he moved to Israel where he immediately started recording for the Azoulay family – first on 78 on the R. Zaki label and eventually moving to 33 and 45 on Zakiphon.

"Two weeks after I recorded my first song in Israel," recalled Amar in a 2008 interview, "it reached even the most impenetrable Ashkenazi ears." This is one of my all time favorite quotes. You wouldn't expect it from Jo Amar but there he goes again and surprises. By the time Jo Amar arrived in Israel he was a well known entity in the North African community. The Azoulays helped to put him on the musical map in Israel, when no other record label would. The brothers Azoulay apparently sang backup on Shir Hashikor when it was first recorded in Jaffa. Jo Amar would go onto to record for the major Israeli labels as well, on his own Kol Amar label, and on various labels around the world.

Jo Amar El Maghribi. Goulouli fin. Tam Tam. 1960s (Marseilles)

This track is pure Jo Amar. It was recorded in the 1960s for the Tam Tam label out of Marseilles at a time when a number of North African labels were operating there. Goulouli fin is difficult to capture in meaning and in style. It is chaabi-esque as attested to by Tim at Moroccan Tape Stash but it feels like other things are pulling at it. Goulouli fin is Moroccan Arabic for,"Oh tell me where..." There is a sense of longing to the song and it seems to have been paid particular attention to by a number of North African Jewish artists. Below is the cover of a Lili Boniche EP on Dounia where he is performing the same song.

Lili Boniche. Golole fene (Goulouli fin). Dounia. 1960s

Here is a version by my favorite Cheikh Mwijo off of one of his 1980s cassettes. He recorded the song earlier in his career as well.

By 1970 Jo Amar moved to New York – a combination of push and pull factors including the draw of a better career. He eventually became a Cantor and performed in synagogues spanning the Jewish globe. By the late 1980s / early 1990s Amar returned to Israel and throughout the remainder of his life he would finally collect the honors he so deserved. Jo Amar El Maghribi, arguably Settat's most famous singer, died in Woodmere, New York in 2009 at the age of 79.

Articles on Jo Amar:
Jo Amar, Genre-Blending Jewish Singer, Dies at 79 – New York Times – Bruce Webber – July 9, 2009

He opened Israeli ears to Mizrahi songs – Haaretz – Ben Shalev – July 7, 2009 

Jo Amar, acclaimed Sephardic singer, dies – JTA - Ben Harris - June 30, 2009
- Sam Thomas gives an excellent description of what made Jo Amar so unique.

Death of Rabbi Elazar Abuhatzeira, Memories of Tafilalt and Cheikh Mwijo

The new Jewish cemetery in Rissani (2008)

The tragic news of the murder of Rabbi Elazar Abuhatzeira, grandson of the Baba Sali, in Be'er Sheva, Israel last Friday, July 29 brought back memories of my travels in Tafilalt where in a way this story really begins. Tafilalt is the area of southern Morocco that borders the Sahara where the Abuhatzeira dynasty originally hails from. The area includes the shrine of Rabbi Shmuel Abuhatzeira, cousin of the Baba Sali, in Erfoud, the remnants of the historic Jewish communities of Ghirlane and other villages and of course the original home of the Baba Sali in Rissani. I'm going to write more about Erfoud, Ghirlane and Rissani in an upcoming post but first I want to start with the figure of the Baba Sali and some music that will help situate this story.

As you will recall from a post I put up in January, Cheikh Mwijo, the legendary singer from Meknes, and the Abuhatzeira family have long had a history. At the time I recounted the following, "First, it should be noted that Mwijo has a number of songs that exalt Moroccan tzaddiqim. One of these songs is a tribute to Rabbi Yaakov Abu Hasira, the grandfather of the Baba Sali, who died on a pilgrimage to the Land of Israel and was buried in the Nile Delta in Egypt. Abu Hasira’s tomb became a site of pilgrimage and has recently attracted media attention due to local Egyptian opposition to the annual influx of Israelis and Jews. When the Baba Sali caught wind of this song and of Cheikh Mwijo he invited Mwijo to visit him in Netivot in the Negev. Mwijo couldn’t make the journey from Kiryat Ata right away but eventually would come to pay his respects. The Baba Sali couldn’t understand how Mwijo knew so much about his grandfather. Mwijo revealed to the Baba Sali that he was a Meknesi at which point the Baba Sali exclaimed that everything now made sense as Meknes was a city of great torah scholars. To honor Mwijo, Baba Sali asked Mwijo to drink arak from the same cup as Rabbi Y. Abu Hasira, his grandfather (it was unclear whether the cup was used by his grandfather or if the arak had actually been partially consumed by his grandfather). Mwijo drank dutifully but was forced to hold his nose while doing so for he hated arak. As Mwijo told this story animatedly, I remembered the arak I had left in the car and thought that somehow the Baba Sali must have been watching over me."

I have digitized Cheikh Mwijo's Rabb Abouhassira off of his 14th LP. It dates from the 1970s. It is fascinating ode to the Baba Sali and his grandfather and recounts, in Judeo-Arabic, the history of the Abuhatzeira family and the Jews of the Sahara.

Cheikh Mwijo. Rabb Abouhassira. #14. Koliphone. 1970s

Take a listen.

Rabb Abouhassira - Cheikh Mwijo (Koliphone, 1970s) by CBSilver

Cheikh Mwijo # 23 Digitized - Classic Recordings

More Cheikh Mwijo - this time on cassette. The quality isn't perfect but I'm on a tape kick right now. I'm fairly positive that the album cover was shot in Mwijo's current home - I recognize the red vinyl.

Cheikh Mwijo. #23. Ze lo halom. Koliphone/Zakiphone

Cheikh Mwijo. #23. Goulouli fine. Koliphone/Zakiphone

Cheikh Mwijo. #23. Gzali houwa sbabi. Koliphone/Zakiphone

Cheikh Mwijo. #23. Lbnat. Koliphone/Zakiphone

Meeting the Legendary Cheikh Mwijo

Cheikh Mwijo. #12. Koliphone/Zakiphone. 1970s

When you google Koliphone, the Israeli record label started by the Azoulay brothers in Jaffa in 1953 that pioneered and produced Arabic music sung by Jews from North Africa and the Middle East, a couple of things come up. One is my blog and other is the work of Uri Wertheim in Israel. Knowing I would be in Israel in December, I sent Uri a fairly benign Facebook message about record digging for North African LPs in Haifa and Jerusalem. Our conversation quickly moved beyond finding records and soon involved tracking down and interviewing the remaining Arabic singing musicians from the 1960s.

In December, we met in person for the first time. I was greeted by Uri and his dog Fred in the Florentine section of Tel Aviv not too far from the Central bus station. We headed to Hummus Abu George for lunch. We ordered two bowls of hummus with ful. We spoke about Koliphone records, the Azoulay brothers, how Uri got into collecting (he started working for one of the Azoulay brothers earlier in his career), record digging and everything in between. On our way out we ran into the other members of his band The Apples.

We headed to Uri’s apartment with Fred. Uri’s record collection really blew me away. Outside of the Azoulay brothers themselves, I would venture to say that Uri has the most complete collection of Koliphone records in the world. My personal interest in Koliphone stems from my interest in Moroccan Jewish music and North Africa in general but Uri has done an excellent job focusing on this label and the various associated labels (Zakiphon, Pianophon, etc.) and building a collection. Amongst other things, Uri had 45s that I had never seen before – for instance, before I arrived in Israel I knew of two Zakiphon 45s entitled Alass Ya Nasser (Why O Nasser) songs in Moroccan Judeo-Arabic on Israel’s 1967 victory - but Uri had a whole series of these EPs. He also had a nice collection of Albert Suissa, Cheikh Elafrite (Tunisian), Geoula Barda (Libyan), Raoul Journo (Tunisian) and anything else you can imagine – it was really unbelievable. We listened to some records including some 78s on an old portable phonograph that we weren’t sure was going to work (it did). We then listened to some Cheikh Mwijo.

Cheikh Mwijo. #7. Koliphone/Zakiphone. 1970s

Somehow in the course of our messages and emailing before I arrived in Israel, Cheikh Mwijo had come up. Cheikh Mwijo, (real name: Moshe Attias), had long occupied my imagination. Of all the Moroccan Jewish performers he was one of the most recognizable and perhaps the most flamboyant. The album artwork on his records was unmistakably him. There is the one where he gazes admiringly at a record, the one where he wears a fur coat and holds a cigarette in one hand and a violin in the other, another where there are four different images of Mwijo – one in traditional Moroccan garb, one wearing a yarmulke and studying text, one in a suit and one by a video camera. Above all else, Mwijo’s voice is distinct and that is what makes him stand out. Before arriving in Israel we (mostly Uri) worked on tracking down Mwijo so that we could interview him and record him. Most of the musicians of Mwijo’s era have passed – many in recent years (Samy Elmaghribi, Jo Amar, etc.) and that was part of the reason why this was so important.

Back of Cheikh Mwijo #7. Album Covers. Koliphone/Zakiphone. 1960 - 70s

We called Cheikh Mwijo from a landline. The phone was on speaker. It was a tremendous feeling to hear the voice that I only knew from 60s and 70s LPs. Mwijo told us he welcomed our visit, we hung up the phone and Uri and I got to planning.

I met Uri and Uri’s brother Noam at the car rental agency, stopping by a liquor store on the way to buy a nice bottle of arak for Cheikh Mwijo. We left Tel Aviv by late morning and headed toward Kiryat Ata, Cheikh Mwijo’s adopted city. The journey took a couple of hours with a stop for lunch. We made our way north through areas recently devastated by fire.

We pulled into Kiryat Ata and began to look for Mwijo’s home address. As we slowly crept up his street I spotted Mwijo sitting at a café wearing his signature tarbush. He looked like he had always looked. My heart raced. We were originally supposed to meet him at his house but there he was sitting in the café by his apartment smoking a cigarette. This was a future album cover. We parked the car and tried not to overwhelm him with our enthusiasm. He knew we wanted to meet him but he wasn’t sure what the point was. Moroccans the world over already knew Mwijo, he told us. We told him that not everyone knew his story and that this was an important endeavor we were embarking on. We showed him my blog (the whole thing was very meta) and the recently posted clip from Haim Abitbol. He wasn’t impressed. Mwijo had performed with Marcel Abitbol. He told us to follow him to his home.

Mwijo looked sharp – slacks, dress shirt and tarbush. He was much shorter than I ever imagined. Ani ben adam pashut, he kept saying in Hebrew. I am a simple man. It was true. He lived very simply. His home was small and exhibited touches of Morocco (a Moroccan style couch for example). He had a single picture on his living room wall and it hinted at a once great musical career - a framed, color copied image of Mwijo in front of the Eiffel Tower with his name spelled Cheikh Moizo (there are a number of ways his name has been spelled throughout his career) and superimposed above his head. We sat not in the living room but in the dining room. Images of Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, the Baba Sali and Moroccan tzaddiqim adorned the walls. We sat around the dining room table. His chair was a white plastic chair with a leather car seat attached to it for comfort.

The room filled with cigarette smoke quickly. We asked some questions when we could but mostly he spoke. Mwijo was born Moshe Attias in Meknes in 1937. He came from a family of musicians. His father, Yaakov Attias, a musician, died young at the age of 32. Yaakov Attias was originally from Fez and married Mwijo’s mother in Meknes. Mwijo spent some time growing up in the Fez mellah on Rue du Mellah, the main drag. When I asked him where exactly, he asked me in Arabic if I was Arab or Jewish and how I knew about Morocco. He then recalled an incident in the 1940s (he would have been very young) where a Vichy officer recorded his family’s name – anti-Semitism was something that would come up periodically throughout our conversation with Mwijo and this incident, in particular, stuck with him. Mwijo’s grandfather had also been a musician. Mwijo has a number of brothers who are still alive and who he still performs with. He then showed us an unbelievable black and white photo (below):

In the picture (left to right): Sliman Elmaghribi, Sliman’s father Mordechai, Muallem David Ben Haroush, Mimoun Turjeman, Yaakov Zerad and Mwijo’s father Yaakov Attias.

Mwijo first learned music by listening to this band of Jewish musicians. In Israel, Muallem (an honorific title like cheikh) David Ben Haroush would soon become Mwijo’s main influence.

Mwijo moved to Israel in Israel in 1962 at the age 35. His profession, which if I understood correctly, was an embroiderer of military uniforms and was not needed in Israel (with their scaled back, simple military uniforms and their ranks made of medal) and he showed us the 1962 letter from the Security Services Office to prove it. He touched on his experiences in the ma’abarot, the transit camps for Jews from North Africa and the Middle East, and on what he described as racism towards Moroccans in Israel then and now.

Muallem Ben Haroush would eventually also settle in Israel, in Kiryat Haim, where Mwijo would support him during his final days. As a gift to Mwijo, Ben Haroush left him his songbooks, which had also been handed to down to him. The songbooks would prove to be the source from which Mwijo drew his strength. I can’t stress enough what these songbooks represent. It is incomprehensible what is tied up in these songs – the heritage of Moroccan music, Moroccan Jewish history -- history that can be found nowhere else but buried somewhere in Mwijo’s modest apartment. Apparently, when Professor Joseph Chetrit of Haifa University became aware of the books he asked Mwijo if he could photograph them for his research. Mwijo refused. He thought Chetrit was just out to make money (clearly not the case and not the case with books published by academic presses) and that Mwijo wasn’t going to get his cut. So for now, only one man has studied and mastered those songs since Ben Haroush and that man is Mwijo. It is because he committed the songs in the books to memory – a dramatic turnaround from his earlier years when he could only ever remember parts of songs – that Mwijo maintains the honorific title of Cheikh – the master of 1,000 songs. In a final odd musical twist, we learned from Mwijo that Muallem David Ben Haroush is buried in Haifa near Mike Brant, the 1970s Israeli pop star who committed suicide at the height of his career.

At this point in Mwijo’s life, a number of things happened in tandem. Mwijo discovered that his profession was no longer needed in Israel and that he had been given two gifts – the songbooks and a voice. Sitting in a café in Haifa one day, Mwijo began to sing and this, he recalled, literally brought unsuspecting patrons to tears. All of these factors – a lack of employment, a mastery of songs and a unique voice helped launch Cheikh Mwijo’s career in the music industry.

Mwijo began his music career singing and playing the mandolin but he would eventually switch to the violin, played in the upright North African style (he would later deride Western style violin playing for not being sufficiently difficult). He never learned to read music. Between 1962 and 1970, Mwijo estimates he wrote and sold about 40 songs to Sliman Elmaghribi, the young musician pictured at the far left of the black and white photo he had showed us earlier.

By 1969, Mwijo had started his own recording career. Zaki Azoulay, one third of the Azoulay trio, came to Mwijo in his home with reel-to-reel tape and recorded him live. It sold very well. Later Mwijo would record dozens of records and cassettes for the Azoulay brothers and their Koliphone/Zakiphon label at their studio on Raziel Street in Jaffa, across the street from where the current Azoulay brothers’ store now stands. The recording sessions were all “live to tape” sessions but today, he told us, he prefers multi-track recording.

In the course of conversation he shared with us a few stories that correspond roughly to the height of his career. At this point I’m not entirely sure how to describe these stories. They are demonstrative of a number of things – Mwijo’s religious zeal, his relationship to other Moroccans and Jews, how Mwijo sees himself in history, his feelings on the Holocaust and anti-Semitism – or perhaps they are just anecdotes that are interesting.

First, it should be noted that Mwijo has a number of songs that exalt Moroccan tzaddiqim. One of these songs is a tribute to Rabbi Yaakov Abu Hasira, the grandfather of the Baba Sali, who died on a pilgrimage to the Land of Israel and was buried in the Nile Delta in Egypt. Abu Hasira’s tomb became a site of pilgrimage and has recently attracted media attention due to local Egyptian opposition to the annual influx of Israelis and Jews. When the Baba Sali caught wind of this song and of Cheikh Mwijo he invited Mwijo to visit him in Netivot in the Negev. Mwijo couldn’t make the journey from Kiryat Ata right away but eventually would come to pay his respects. The Baba Sali couldn’t understand how Mwijo knew so much about his grandfather. Mwijo revealed to the Baba Sali that he was a Meknesi at which point the Baba Sali exclaimed that everything now made sense as Meknes was a city of great torah scholars. To honor Mwijo, Baba Sali asked Mwijo to drink arak from the same cup as Rabbi Y. Abu Hasira, his grandfather (it was unclear whether the cup was used by his grandfather or if the arak had actually been partially consumed by his grandfather). Mwijo drank dutifully but was forced to hold his nose while doing so for he hated arak. As Mwijo told this story animatedly, I remembered the arak I had left in the car and thought that somehow the Baba Sali must have been watching over me.

In the 1970s, Mwijo often performed abroad and frequently in France. One time, while in France, a Moroccan (unclear whether this Moroccan was Jewish or Muslim) invited him to perform in Germany. Mwijo adamantly refused to play in Germany because of the Holocaust – even after an offer of 10,00 Deutschmarks from his host which he explained was a lot of money at the time. He was impassioned when telling us this story. His voice rose and sank as he progressed. After the refusal, Mwijo immediately headed to a casino, pulled the handle on a slot machine and won the equivalent of 10,000 Deutschmarks. This was divine intervention, he argued and said rhetorically that if this wasn’t a sign (from God) then nothing was.

Mwijo then transitioned to telling us more about his career in Israel. Mwijo never received any royalties for his music instead he began by earning 10 Israeli lira per song (he would share some of this with Sliman when they performed together) and payment for each record produced. It is unclear what exactly his relationship is today to Zaki Azoulay as a result of their financial arrangements although I would guess based on what I understood from Mwijo and the nature of producer-artist relationships that it is strained at best.

Mwijo feels that he is unique among Moroccan performers. He does not like the style of Salim Halali or a number of other artists. In fact, he prefers Algerian (djiri) music to Moroccan (chaabi) and describes his singing style as djiziri, which he says is more delicate and sweet than other North African styles. To that effect, he says he performed with the Algerian National Orchestra in France in 1981, which to me underscored his complex relationship with North Africa. He has returned to Morocco once and only to perform at a Jewish celebration.

In the course of our time with him he shared with us other fascinating anecdotes. He seems to have been present at all the major life cycle events of Aryeh Deri, the former head of Shas, including his brit milah in Meknes. Mwijo’s connection to Deri, whether ideological or otherwise, is incredibly potent. In fact, Mwijo penned him a song in 2000 as Deri headed to prison on a bribery conviction.

Chris Silver. Cheikh Mwijo. Uri Wertheim. Noam Wertheim - 2010

There was a point when it became clear that it was time for us to leave. We took a picture with Mwijo and exchanged pleasantries. Uri asked Mwijo if he could visit him again. In 10 years – Mwijo said. He had grown tired and preferred to look forward rather than back. For nearly 50 years Cheikh Mwijo has made good Moroccan music. As we exited the apartment, he told us to check him out in March when he would perform at the Dead Sea.

Cheikha Zohra El Fassia

Haaretz ran an excellent piece the other day that highlighted some of what I discussed with the Jo Amar entry - namely that Moroccan musicians continued to record (in Arabic) upon arrival in Israel.

Here are a couple interesting notes from the article:

• Israeli musicians "discovering" Moroccan music
• Some of the Moroccan music produced in Israel has been lost forever (due to a fire in the 1980s that destroyed the master copies of this music)
  

The article also discusses the the later years of her life. Here is some more background on Zohra El Fassia (also known as Cheikha Zohra El Fassia due to her mastery of a number of popular genres and traditional styles including gharnati, aita and melhoun).

A link to her "Ya Warda" can be found here. For a video of her performing, click here.

On a personal note, I have been working to collect the old LPs of Zohra El Fassia and other Moroccan Jewish artists including Sami El Maghribi, Cheikh Mwijo and others. As the above article discusses, this music is quickly being lost and we need to preserve it.

Here are a couple of excellent compilation CDs that feature (prominently) North African Jews:

• North Africa / Ethnic Music in 78 RPM / Recordings 1920 - 1940
  
• The Secret Museum of Mankind, North Africa Ethnic Music Classics: 1925-48

Pay close attention to - Raoul Journo, Louisa Tounsia and Cheikh Zouzou.