Tickling the Ivory in Tunisia: Messaoud Habib and the 1928 Columbia Records Sessions

(L-R, Messaoud Habib, Dalila Taliyana, Acher Mizrahi, Paris c. 1930)

For much of the first half of the twentieth century, the name Messaoud Habib was synonymous with Tunisian music. Indeed, Messaoud Habib, described in his day as “the greatest North African pianist,” maps fascinatingly onto the history of Tunisian music from his debut in the 1920s through the end of his career in the 1950s. Proficient in piano, organ, and harmonium, Habib’s career would begin at a moment when that brand of Western instrument was on the ascendant and end with the re-entry of the qanun into Tunisian music.

Messaoud Habib on player piano scroll. Released by the Bembaron firm.

Messaoud Habib was nothing if not prolific. Pick up any Tunisian record with piano in the first half of the twentieth century and you’ll find the Jewish artist tickling the ivory. His dexterity served him well at a moment of expanding musical tastes across the Maghrib. Thus Habib was equally comfortable serving as head of the Beylical orchestra as he was accompanying the artist Babi Bismuth on a series of Jewish paraliturgical recordings made for Pathé in the 1920s. To give you but a sense of his scope: Messaoud Habib recorded nearly every musical genre of the era - from tango to ghaita - on nearly every label of the time – including Pathé, Columbia, Polyphon, Odeon, and the local Bembaron label – with every major Tunisian recording star of the day – from Habiba Messika to Khailou Esseghir to Bachir Fahmy.

Habib, in fact, was not just an instrumentalist, but so too an impresario. During the interwar period, the pianist served as artistic director for Pathé in Tunisia along with his coreligionist and orchestral leader Kiki Attal. Being the visionary that he was, Habib was also responsible for discovering a young Raoul Journo – before rushing him into Bembaron to record his first sides – recordings long lost to time.

That it is difficult to find Messaoud Habib records is a given. This, of course, often means that he’s forgotten or overlooked. But as you’ll hear on this Columbia side, an unmetered improvisation, a taqsim recorded 88 years ago this month in a rather cavernous space in Tunis, Messaoud Habib deserves our attention. Messaoud Habib should be written back into the music history of the region and remembered as he was nearly a century ago: as (one of) the greatest of North African pianists.

The Album Artwork of North African Passover LPs

Pulled a few Maghribi Passover albums from my collection in advance of the Passover holiday. More music coming this spring. Chag Sameach!

Between Yesterday and Today: Petit Armand and the performance of North African music in Israel

 

When I first began to get drawn into the world of North African Jewish musicians, I often wondered (sometimes aloud) about the fate of Arabic-singing musicians in Israel. For the second to last night of Hanukkah, we listen to the sounds of one of those musicians: Petit Armand.

Petit Armand, sometimes referred to as Ptti Armo, Ptti Armon, or even Patti Armo, was born Armand (Amram) Peretz in Casablanca (?), Morocco in 1936. He began singing seriously at the age of 18, joining up with famed Jewish qanunist Salim Azra and performing at the still stately movie theaters of Casablanca at mid-century. Although it's unclear if he recorded throughout the 1950s and 1960s, he certainly made a name for himself both in the Maghrib and in France as he toured some of the larger venues at home and abroad. In 1967, Petit Armand, like many Moroccan Jews, made the move to Israel.

Petit Armand was a specialist of Salim Halali’s repertoire. This was not uncommon for his generation of vocalist. Not only did Petit Armand give close study to Halali but so too to Samy Elmaghribi, and other greats of the Maghrib. The result was often a Maghribi musical intertextuality that leaves the listener grinning from ear to ear. Take a listen to Petit Armand’s “l’Oriental,” recorded for the Azoulay brothers in 1970. Here Petit Armand gives us a beautiful take on the song originally written by Youcef Hedjaj, recorded famously by Line Monty and later by almost everyone - from Lili Labassi to Enrico Macias. And then, at the eight-minute mark, Petit Armand launches into Spanish and a Spanish-inflected mawwal, dips into Salim Halali’s "Sevillana" and "Rit ezzine" before dazzling us with one more pass at l’Oriental.

I want to also include a live performance of Petit Armand so that you can see the man in action. Here he is in Israel doing a killer cover of another Salim Halali hit: “Bin el barah ouel youm.”

Finally, for those who weren’t aware, Petit Armand also happens to be the father of Kobi Peretz, mainstay of the Mizrahi scene. Last year, the two did a very musika mizrahit take on Samy Elmaghribi’s “Omri ma nensak.”

Who was Smarda el Olgia? A microhistorical account of Rachel Hayat and her 1935 recordings

A year and half ago, our friend Thomas at the Ceints de bakélite blog put up an exquisite piece of malouf music by a seemingly unknown Tunisian artist by the name of Smarda el Olgia. After a bit of digging around my own collection, some sorting through archives, and a turn to some published sources, we can begin to piece together a few biographical details for Smarda el Olgia - as well as the circumstances that led to this recording.

Rachel Hayat (Sitbon)

Smarda el Olgia was born Rachel Sitbon in Tunis in 1892. She married Israel-Eugene Hayat and thus became known as Mrs. Rachel Hayat (Sitbon). In addition to being a fixture of Tunisian Jewish high society, presiding over a number of charitable organizations, she was also very well regarded among practitioners of the eastern Algerian and Tunisian classical Andalusian tradition known as malouf.

Throughout the end of the 1920s and the 1930s, patrimony became the watchword across the Maghrib. In large part it was fear of Egyptian music’s popularity that caused French colonial figures and indigenous musical impresarios to leap into action. Thus, institutions dedicated to safeguarding Andalusian music in all of its local forms, as well as committed to protecting Moroccan, Algerian, and Tunisian musical traditions more broadly constructed, were established. One thinks of the erection of the conservatory in Rabat, the formation of orchestras like El Djazairia in Algeria, and of course, the emergence of La Rachidia in Tunis in 1934. As part of this effort, Emile Gau, Director General of Public Instruction and Beaux-Arts in Tunisia, concerned that the suites associated with malouf were in danger of being lost (a common trope and no doubt influenced by the work of Baron Rodolphe d’Erlanger and La Rachidia), commissioned Rachel Hayat to make a series of malouf recordings in Paris in order to preserve Tunisian heritage in perpetuity (take a close look at the label and you’ll see much of this background come alive). And in September 1935, Rachel Hayat (Sitbon), under the name Smarda el Olgia (Smarda or Zmarda was a common Tunisian Jewish name), performed that task beautifully - recording this and dozen or so other records.

P.S. There is always a bit of serendipity in writing these posts. In the course of putting this one together, I discovered that Rachel Hayat’s daughter may have lived in Los Angeles for much of her life - and even been involved in a bit of a Hollywood-esque scandal. I’m still gathering details but will keep everyone posted. Hag Sameah!

Banned! Tracing the Journey of a Lili Labassi Disc from Release to Censorship in the late 1930s

As the third night of Hanukkah approaches, I bring you one of my favorite records from Algeria (a disc which happened to enjoy a tremendous amount of success in Morocco - as you'll soon see).

We begin again with a question and a mystery. Did Lili Labassi, among the most popular of interwar Algerian recording stars, sing clandestinely about Moroccan political exile Allal El Fassi on his now difficult to find “Lellah yal ghadi lessahra” (O you, who is going to the Sahara)? According to French colonial authorities in late 1930s and early 1940s Morocco, he most certainly did. As a result, his Polyphon disc (issue number 46.117) was subjected to repeated ban throughout the Cherifian Empire in 1938, 1939, and 1940. To the French, his lyrics read as nothing less than subversive…and served as nothing less than a reminder to Moroccans to keep Allal El Fassi in their hearts. He was after, “still alive” (mazal hay mazal):

“O you who is going to the land of the gazelles!

If you find my love (ghazal/gazelle)

Tell him: He’s.. he’s still alive (mazal hay mazal)

No one can replace him in my heart…”

Lili Labassi re-release on Philips

But to most Moroccans at the time, the ambiguous “he” was heard as “she” - as is common in much of North African music (think: male singers longing for their habibi and not habibti). Thus, “he’s still alive,” was understood as “she’s still alive” (mazal hay mazal) and no one could replace “her in my heart.” In fact, in the massive search and seizure efforts undertaken by the French to find the Labassi disc, police discovered the record time and again in the brothels of cities like Casablanca, Rabat, Fez, Meknes, and Agadir. Why? Because Labassi’s “O you who is going to the Sahara,” was a love song (and seemingly a song to make love to as well).

Almost eighty years since its first ban, Labassi’s original is hard to come by. Despite the fact that it was released again on Polydor/Polyphon and also on Phillips, few copies remain. What we do have, however, is a version of “O you who is going to the Sahara” recorded by the inimitable Blond Blond, Lili Labassi’s musical disciple, which as you’ll hear, is fantastic, pulsing, and damn-near danceable.

One question remains, of course. Did Lili Labassi know that any of this was happening? Well, take a listen to his similar “Mazal haï mazal” (She’s still alive), released on the Pacific label in the 1950s and recently uploaded by Jon Ward on Excavated Shellac. Mazal haï mazal contains many of the same elements of “Lellah yal ghadi lessahra” although this version seems to lay any fears of political subversion to rest.

What is clear, however, is that Labassi’s song, first released in the mid-1930s, retained its popularity through the 1950s and some might argue until today.

Blond Blond performs Lellah yal ghadi lessahra live. Note: song is listed as "mazal hay mazal."

"If You Ain't Got No Money": Louisa Tounsia sings about marriage

As I mentioned in my last post, I’m going to be putting up one of my favorite North African rarities from Youtube once a day for the duration of Hanukkah. As we enter evening two of the holiday, we’re going to stick with Tunisia.

This mid-1930s Louisa Tounsia release on Polyphon should remind us that North African music was more than just malouf or other variations of the Andalusian classical suite (although these traditions were and are no doubt incredibly important). Part and parcel of the repertoire of the Maghrib’s Jewish (and Muslim) musicians were popular songs on topical subjects. Written by Maurice Benäis, Tunisian Jewish vocalist, lyrcist, and orchestral leader extraordinaire, and performed by Louisa Tounsia, "Ma fiche flous" (literally, “there is no money,” but loosely translated by me as, “If you ain’t got no money”) in many ways narrates the changing status of women in early twentieth century Tunisia. In "Ma fiche flous," Tounsia gets to decide who she’s going to make her husband and as she says in the chorus, “If you ain’t got no money, then we ain’t got words, honey.” But for the man who can provide, Tounsia reminds, he may have more than a few options (“If you got nice threads, then you got yourself your choice of beds.”).

Louisa Tounsia with gargoulette

Louisa Tounsia was born Louisa Saadoun in 1905 in Tunis. She had a prolific career and recorded for the likes of Gramophone, Columbia, Polyphon, Perfectaphone Baidaphon, Pacific, and Ducretet-Thomson. Her repertoire was equally varied, recording taalil (with Raoul Journo), tango, and yes, a song about heroin. She performed across North Africa and France at the hottest North African cabarets throughout the 1930s and after the war. She was married to the equally impressive Tunisian lyricist Zaki Khraïf. The circumstances of her death have always been unclear to me, having died rather suddenly at the age of sixty-one. If anyone has more information about the final years of her life, please do reach out.

In the meantime, her legacy lives on. Emel Mathlouthi, the singer of the recent Tunisian revolution, has taken to singing Louisa Tounsia’s Ala bab darek on a number of occasions.

Hatikvah in Tunis: A Rare 1930s Recording Surfaces

Mea culpa. I’ve been slow on posts this year. To make up for this absence, I’m going to use Hanukkah as an excuse to shine a light on some of my favorite North African recordings on Youtube. In the spirit of the holiday, I’ll be posting once a day for all eight days of Hanukkah. Why am I turning to Youtube? Well, buried on the video sharing site are some real musical gems that don’t always get the circulation and attention they deserve due to either creative orthography or because titles are written in Arabic or Hebrew. Indeed, each one of these records on Youtube has a story and over the next week or so I’ll be teasing that out and putting them in their historical context. I’ll try to keep these posts short and really place a spotlight on the music.

Perhaps we should start with a question: What did Hatikvah, the Zionist hymn-turned-official anthem of Israel, sound like in Tunisia circa 1932? Well, thanks to this impossibly rare Gramophone recording from Tunis by a Mr. Cohen, we know that it was pretty rocking.

You can compare it to this Alma Gluck (soprano) and Efrem Zimbalist (violin) version, recorded in 1918 for Victor, which I imagine many of my readers will be far more familiar with.

Courtesy of Sephardicmusic.org

In the last few years, I have by and large written about North African Jews who recorded in Arabic but we should not forget that a plethora of languages were committed to disc in the Maghrib - including Hebrew. In terms of their Hebrew output, North African Jews not only released liturgical music on the major labels but so too, comic songs, and as we’ve already heard, Hatikva (meaning “hope” in Hebrew and also the name of the Zionist anthem). In addition to Mr. Cohen’s version (which you’ve now hopefully played multiple times), Babi Bismuth and Messaoud Habib, two of the biggest Tunisian stars of their generation, released their take on the original 1897 nine-stanza poem by Naftali Herz Imber in 1926 for Pathé.

What is remarkable about all of this is just how uncontroversial the release of Hatikvah in North Africa was at the beginning of the twentieth century. First, Hatikvah, which obviously pre-dated the founding of Israel and thus carried different connotations, could be heard in Tunisia for some time. We even have accounts of mixed Muslim-Jewish orchestras performing it in places like Sousse as early as 1917. Second, the recording industry across the Maghrib was used to handling this kind of musical diversity. In the 1932 Gramophone record catalogue for Algeria and Tunisia, then under the direction of Mahieddine Bachtarzi, we find the artist Louisa al-Israiliyya (Louisa “the Jewess,” and listed in later catalogues as Louisa al-Djaziriyya or Louisa l’Algérienne), who was described as the most “respected maalema” in Algeria, while Mr. Cohen’s Hatikvah appears on the same page as recordings by the Soulamia sufi brotherhood of Nabeul and Mohamed Triki’s al-Islamiyya orchestra (also known as La Musulmane), which had just released their recording of another anthem - the Beylical hymn.

In far more recent years, there have been calls in Israel to make the current, shorter version of Hatikvah inclusive of all of the state’s citizens. One wonders if setting it to the rhythms, instrumentals, and vocal flairs of Mr. Cohen’s version from Tunisia might be (at least) a step in the right musical direction.

Celebrating Life: Saoud l'Oranais, Algerian Music-Making, Yom Kippur, and Eid al-Kabir

Box labeled "Saoud l'Oranais" and filled with Algerian 78s

On Monday July 13, I left a blisteringly hot Marseille bound for Montpellier. I was heading there to meet a Mr. Sultan about a collection of “oriental” records he was looking to part with. Upon arrival at Mr. Sultan’s apartment, a friendly-faced nonagenarian greeted me, welcomed me in, and poured me a much-needed glass of water. He pointed me to a table on which sat a small box and a plastic bag, both dangerously packed with Algerian 78 rpm records, and we began to talk. Mr. Sultan, originally from Oran, was in the process of moving into a retirement home, he told me. His children were uninterested in the ancient discs and so he was looking to give (sell) them to a good home - someone who appreciated their value. The records in his collection were his father’s - a man, who judging by the condition of these records and confirmed by Mr. Sultan, was serious about his music. As he spoke, I carefully pulled out record after record for inspection. Most were in their original Pathé and Polyphon sleeves and most reflective of an Oranais musical sensibility. Among the lot was Lili Labassi, Cheikh Zouzou, and of course, Saoud l’Oranais. It was the latter, Mr. Sultan made clear, that his father was particularly fond of. Indeed, the box in which all of the records had sat for way too long contained a single mark designating its contents: on the cover Mr. Sultan or his father had written “Saoud l’Oranais” in a now-faded blue ink. I closed the box, reorganized some of the other discs, gently packed them into a record bag, and bid Mr. Sultan farewell - likely for the first and last time. My heart raced the whole train ride home knowing what was inside my bag.

Since that fateful encounter with Mr. Sultan, I have been thinking much about Saoud l’Oranais. I have of lately been writing about the way in which the Second World War collided with North Africa and North African music-making and no such story is complete without mention of Saoud l’Oranais. But his life was much more than his end and I want to first sketch out the details of that rather remarkable existence before doubling back to how it was cut short and why I’m posting this now.

Saoud l'Oranais, Baidaphon, 1935

Saoud l’Oranais was born Messaoud El Médioni in 1886 in Oran. He came from a long line of musical Medionis and it appears that he first recorded for Pathé at the age of 26 (the first mention of Saoud l’Oranais is in a Pathéphone catalogue from 1912). To give you a sense of that early Algerian recording world he inhabited, that same 1912 record catalogue featured Ed. Yafil (Edmond Nathan Yafil) singing and Mouzino described as “éleve de Sfindja” - a student of the great Andalusi master who still needed to be listed according to his lineage. Throughout the 1910s and through the 1930s, Saoud performed regularly with El Moutribia, Algeria’s premier indigenous (and most Jewish) orchestra. He was first bestowed the title of cheikh sometime in the early-1920s and by the end of that decade, he served as President of the Société de Chant in Oran. He collaborated with José Huertas while in Oran and also served as the director of the Mouloudia, Oran’s premier “oriental music” society. Saoud was happy to bring his children into the music business and recorded with his son Henri and managed to have his son Georgeot record for Parlophone at the age of 12. His most famous musical descendent, his nephew Maurice El Medioni, is of course, still very much alive and remarkably, still performing.  

Sadia Bendenoun (student of Saoud)

 Among his many accomplishments were his musical protégés. Indeed, he took a chance on a blind Jewish girl by the name of Sultanta Daoud and soon turned her into Reinette l’Oranais. On Reinette’s earliest recordings, the announcer would belt out, “Istwanat Polyphon…Reina…éleve de Saoud.” The “éleve de Saoud” brand was a powerful one and would be attached to a number of musicians throughout the 1930s.

Saoud recorded prolifically. His music could be found on Pathé, Polyphon, Parlophone, HMV, Philips, and Baidaphon. His range was rather remarkable as well. He sang gharnati, hawzi - as well as lighter songs about Oran’s championship soccer team. When he wasn’t singing, he managed his own bar, Café Saoud, in the Derb, Oran’s Jewish quarter.

Sometime in the second half of the 1930s, Saoud made his home in Marseille. This was likely done out of opportunity more than anything else. Indeed, Saoud would join a steady flow of North African Jewish and Muslim musicians who made the metropole their base in the 1930s. Like in Oran, Saoud operated a café in his newly adopted city.

And then in June of 1940, Saoud suddenly found himself behind enemy lines. The German occupation of northern France had ushered in the rise of a collaborationist regime, known as Vichy, based in the country’s southern half and including Marseille. From here things get murky. What life was like for Saoud and his family during those years is unknown although surely it was terrifying. Then, on the evening of January 22, 1943, but a few months since Operation Torch and after a massive roundup of Jews in Marseille, the Germans deported Saoud, his son, and too many others to Drancy, the internment camp just outside of Paris. From there, Cheikh Saoud l’Oranais, now once again Messaoud El Médioni - for few would have recognized him, was sent to the Nazi death camp at Sobibor. On March 23, 1943, Saoud and his son Joseph, age 13, were murdered.

 

In some ways, it is easier to dwell on his death than on his exceptional life. His recordings, although once everywhere, have become scarce. Thus, I’m posting something from the recently acquired Sultan collection so that we may honor that life. Given that it is both Yom Kippur and Eid (at the time of writing), I thought his “Idd El Kebir (Eid al-Kabir)” recorded in the late 1920s for Pathé was more than appropriate. Let us remember that this recording comes from a time when North African Jewish musicians like Laho Seror and Mouzino performed at mosque dedication ceremonies, when Ramadan evenings were spent at the casbah cafes and music venues of Jewish performers like Sassi Lebrati, and when Jews like Saoud l’Oranais sang about Muslim holidays like Eid al-Kabir.

  

May Saoud’s memory be for a blessing and may that blessing carry us through this next year.

Mediterranean Musical Trajectories: Judah Sebag and a Rare 78 RPM Recording of Adon Olam

l'Alcazar as it once was

This is a post about the global Mediterranean. It is about Marseille, France serving as a hub of North African music in the era of decolonization. It is about surprising partnerships engendered by the pioneering work of the Armenian-owned record label Disques Tam Tam. Finally, it is about a rare 1950s 78 rpm recording of Judah Sebag performing “Adon Olam,” the liturgical poem chanted weekly in synagogues around the world.

Although many of the details here are obscure, we can begin to trace the trajectory of Judah Sebag. Born in Morocco, Sebag likely made his home in Marseille sometime in the 1950s. There, in the Cours Belsunce quarter, he would have found a space long home to North African cultural production. Indeed, it was here, at l’Alcazar, that Julie Abitbol earned a name for herself some two and half decades prior and became known professionally as Julie Marseillaise (her daughter Widad eventually married the Tunisian artist Hédi Jouini but I’ll save that for another post).

Bobo musicians from Burkina Faso on Tam Tam

In the heart of Cours Belsunce, at 9 Rue Des Dominicains, Sebag would have found the Armenian-owned Disques Tam Tam. So too did other Moroccan Jewish musicians, including but not limited to Abraham El Fassi and Jo Amar. At the Disque Tam Tam studio, Sebag teamed up with a small orchestra consisting of oud, darbouka, and qanoun. Who knows, perhaps the West African and Armenian stars of Tam Tam were milling about when Sebag began to warm up.

Sebag recorded at least two records for Disques Tam Tam but likely a few more. You are about to hear an exceedingly rare 78 rpm recording of Judah Sebag performing that staple of synagogue service, Adon Olam. While Arabic-language North African 78s are difficult to come by, Hebrew-language discs are that much more scarce, so this is a treat. And I have to admit, that Adon Olam, originating sometime in the fifteenth century and meaning “Master of the Universe,” has never quite sounded so good as it has when put to mid-century Moroccan rhythms - despite some surface noise.

I’m not sure what became of Judah Sebag but if any readers out there have any leads, please do send them my way. In the meantime, wishing everyone a Shabbat Shalom.

Of Tunisian Jewish Saints, Stambeli, and Wedding Singers: Remembering Doukha

Undated photo of Doukha.

Found at the bottom of many of the articles on the victims of the Paris kosher supermarket attack last January, was a notice that Yohan Cohen’s maternal grandfather was none other than the popular Tunisian singer Doukha, who had himself died just a month prior in Netanya, Israel. Little more than a mention was given to the multitalented artist, whose given name was Mordekhai Haddad, so I thought I would pay tribute to him here with the few details that I could find.

Undated newspaper clipping of Doukha.

Mordekhai Haddad was born sometime in the first third of the twentieth century in Tunis. Like many Tunisians of the era, Haddad was reared on equal parts Farid al-Atrash and Raoul Journo and eventually joined the latter’s orchestra as a percussionist, specializing in the tar and the darbouka. As a vocalist, Doukha (likely a diminutive of Mordekhai), as he soon became known, was adept at a range of styles: from Tunisian popular music (including the trance inducing stambeli you’ll hear below) and religious song (including for the various anthems associated with pilgrimages to tombs of Jewish saints and the genre of thalil). In the 1950s and through the 1960s, Doukha recorded for at least two Tunisian record labels: En Nour and Studio Sonor. Studio Sonor was founded by Victor Uzan and was based at 6 Rue d’Athenes in Tunis, just northeast of the medina. The label put out a number of what it called “Judeo-Tunisian folkloric” discs including those by Doukha and Nathan Cohen. Doukha and Cohen were frequent collaborators, would often trade off lead vocals under the direction of Clement Hayoun, and worked as a quintet with two other unnamed artists. If anyone has any more information on the other two, please do send my way and I’ll add.

A rare photo of Studio Sonor in Tunis.

Below are both sides of a Doukha EP released for En Nour around 1960. You will get a sense not only of his breadth of musical knowledge here but of his very palpable energy. The A side is “Ana nzourek bel farha kouia (I visit you with great joy),” and is an ode to al-Sayyed Rabbi Yossef El Maarabi of Gabès. El Maarab, as he is often referred to, was a Moroccan-born disciple of the sixteenth century Safed-based kabbalist Rabbi Isaac and Luria. What I dig about this track is that it seems to straddle that sacred-popular line that I have recently been transfixed with. In other words, this is a devotional song that makes you want to dance to the beat.

UPDATE (5/20/2015): Last month I wrote that this track "seems to straddle that sacred-popular line." I was listening to some Raoul Journo the other day and then it dawned on me: "Ana nzourek bel farha koui" has the same melody as his "Ana Targui (I'm a Touareg)." I was blown away. Check it out!


Raoul Journo Ana Targui Weld Ettarguia by Artiste-Tunisien

The second track, “Ghita et Fezzani,” is led by Clement Hayoun. It is a variant of stambeli, the trance inducing music that often comes with mizwid (North African bagpipe) and zukra (horn), which I have written about recently. I think you’re gonna enjoy this one as well.

It seems that for much of his career, Doukha was the wedding, Bar Mitzvah, and other event singer of Tunis’ Jewish community. I searched the internet far and wide for memories of Doukha (in multiple languages) but could find only a few scattered ones on the various message boards of the Tunisian Jewish diaspora. Hopefully this post will make the rounds and we can bring more of Doukha to the fore.

One almost final note. I’m going to be doing a fair bit of traveling over the next few months and through the summer (Boston, Spain, Israel, Poland, France - to name but a few) and will be bringing records with me. If you want to put together a night of North African vinyl, shoot me an email and we’ll see if we can make something happen.

Finally, Chag Sameach and Happy Passover!

Dounia, A World: El Kahlaoui Tounsi and His Record Empire

Tunisian lyricist Ridha Khouini once described El Kahlaoui Tounsi as, “the most gifted percussionist of his generation.” Take the A side of this 45 rpm for a spin and you’ll soon see why.

And yet, El Kahlaoui Tounsi was, as music journalist Bouziane Daoudi called him, “a man of many chéchias.” Indeed, the Sidi Mehrez-born Elie Touitou could lay claim to a burgeoning record empire - in addition to a successful recording career - by the time he was in his late 20s.

Traces of El Kahlaoui Tounsi & Dounia in Tunis

Like many Tunisians who came of age in the 1940s, the young Touitou (born in 1932) was captivated by Egyptian music. He not only modeled himself on Egyptian singer Mohamed El Kahlaoui but hitched his own stage name to the already established star. El Kahlaoui Tounsi’s star was rising as well and as a teenager in the late 1940s, he was already drawing the attention of blind Jewish qanunist Kakino de Paz and others. After stints in Paris at venues like the famed El Djazair cabaret in the Latin Quarter, he returned to Tunis where he became a Radio Tunis regular. By 1953, he recorded his first single (Min youm elli ratek aini) - and never looked back. Over the next few years, he would record for a staggering array of labels: Ducretet-Thomson, Teppaz, La Voix Du Globe, Bel-Air, Pathé, and of course, Dounia.

Meaning “world” in Arabic, Dounia was a fairly well-regarded 78 rpm outfit in the 1950s but made a difficult transition to vinyl. In 1960, Tounsi bought the label outright and soon transformed it into an empire. The sheer breadth of artistry and genre of the Dounia catalog is mind-boggling. Dounia at once provided a forum for the likes of Maati Ben Kacem, Cheikh Mohamed El Anka, Oulaya, Fadila Dziria, Cheikha Remitti (and even the Syrian-Egyptian Farid El-Atrash, reportedly a friend) but so too for their recently uprooted and now France-based Jewish colleagues like Lili Boniche, Line Monty, Raoul Journo, Edmond Atlan, Blond Blond, Albert Guez, Réne Perez, Luc Cherki, Cheikh Zekri, Aida Nassim, Albert Perez, and Nathan Cohen. In fact, the importance of El Kahlaoui Tounsi and his Dounia label cannot be overstated. Tounsi and Dounia gave a voice to some of the best North African artists of the twentieth century when few others would.

Being an impresario hardly slowed his own musical career. Throughout the end of the vinyl era, El Kahlaoui Tounsi provided high energy performances on dozens of Dounia LPs and 45s and continued to perform throughout the 1980s and 1990s. This piece of Djerban folk, which appears to have been recorded around 1976, is one of my favorites. It is hypnotic, full of zukra (otherwise known as zurna), and pairs very well with Celtia (as the album artwork makes clear).

           

Afterward: On February 15, 2000 (almost exactly fifteen years ago), France’s Liberation newspaper ran the following headline, “Tounsi ne jouera plus de derbouka.” El Kahlaoui Tounsi had died at the all too young age of 67. Tounsi, of course, has been anything but silent in the years since his death. In 2002, the Bataclan concert hall on Boulevard Voltaire, purchased by Tounsi in 1976 and now owned by his sons, honored El Kahlaoui Tounsi and his larger than life musical contribution to both North Africa and France through an evening of song. And for anyone who has ever picked up a CD on the Trésors de la Chanson Judéo-Arabe series on Buda, rest assured that you are hearing El Kahlaoui Tounsi. The contents are pulled almost entirely from the Dounia label.

One final thought: I am posting this entry after a devastating week in Paris. I am still processing and mourning but have found some solace in a turn to El Kahlaoui Tounsi, his record label, and music…music that points to a different dounia, a different world in which Jews and Muslims came together to create an art that stands the test of time.

The Delight of the Faithful: Henry Levi, Cheikh Raymond, and a 1958 Recording from Constantine

From L to R: Alexandre Nissim Benharoun,

- Chalom Lellouche

- Edouard Zerbib

- Sion Bouskila

- Victor Assouline

- Hayo Hassoun

- The father of Chalom Lellouche but no Henri Levy...

I stand humbled before this particular record and I am certainly not the first. Indeed, Cheikh Raymond was so taken by Henri Levy’s voice that he represents the only other artist to have ever been featured on Leyris’ Constantine-based Hes El Moknine label.

To find out anything about Henri “Yosef” Levy, one has to turn to the Algerian Jewish message boards. And yet, he is elusive even there. The lone comment on a stunning photo of Constantinois rabbis from this late 1950s laments the fact that Rabbi Levy is missing from the image. On another site, we are informed that Levy was not a rabbi at all but an “officiant,” someone with rabbinical skills but without ordination. For anyone who has ever been to an active synagogue in North Africa or attended a Maghribi service anywhere, none of this will be surprising for it is the congregants that lead the service. If there is a rabbi among the crowd, he can be difficult to find.

By day, Levy operated a printing press but at prayer time he officiated at the synagogue close to the lycée d’Aumale. There he developed an intimate relationship with none other than Cheikh Raymond. On Forum Zlabia under the “Hazzanims de Constantine” thread “Benj” writes that Levy had, “a fantastic voice and was the delight of the faithful during Shavuot.” He remarks specifically on Levy’s recitation of the Seventh Commandment. Cheikh Raymond was equally struck by Levy’s take on this piece of the liturgical tradition and so much so that he pressed him into recording it. Thus on both sides of the 25 cm LP, Levy is accompanied by Cheikh Raymond and Sylvain Ghrennasia, Enrico Macias’ father.

On another thread, “Benj” asked for more information on this record. I have dutifully provided the first six minutes of it below. The spoken introduction offers us a rare and precise time stamp (right before the month of Nisan 5718 - perhaps March 21, 1958). The chanting itself provides us with a precious aural “glimpse” into the world of Jewish Constantine in 1958. Knowing that all of this crumbles but a few years after this record was made makes Levy’s voice seem all the more powerful.

Like all of the other records in my collection, this one traveled. I’m not sure if Henri Levy brought copies of it with him when he landed in Marseille but someone did and then it made its way to me. For me, this record is symbolic of how temporary my hold on this music is. I don’t “own” any of it but happen to have it at this very moment. For now, though, all I can do is share.

When La Mamma Became Ya Yemma: Lili Boniche, Charles Aznavour, and Algerian Cover Songs

A young Mahieddine Bachetarzi. 1920s?

Somewhere in an attic or an archive exists a recording of Mahieddine Bachetarzi singing Josephine Baker’s iconic J’ai deux amours. Why he chose to cover this particular song and what meaning one can discern from a national figure like Bachetarzi singing about his love for two nations during the turbulent 1930s will have to remain but speculation for now. What this does suggest, however, is the existence of “the cover” as a genre during the middle third of the twentieth century in Algeria. In fact, if it was one thing that Algerian Muslim and Jewish musicians shared, it was a passion for covering the hits. Covers took a variety of forms during this period but the most intriguing, as already eluded to, was the phenomenon of translating mostly French language chansons into Arabic and in that process, giving them entirely new meanings.

Perhaps the best known of these cover artists was one Mahieddine Bentir, of whom Ted Swedenburg has written about recently. Bentir, born in 1934 in Algiers, hit on something big in the 1950s when he began transforming American rock ‘n’ roll into “rock oriental” and set French genres to Algerian rhythms. He brought tremendous energy to his position at the RTF (Radiodiffusion-Télévision Française) in Algeria and as an independent artist, one who was fond of doing summersaults on stage at a particularly rockin’ moment. He has cited Robert Castel, Lili Labassi’s son, as one of his inspirations. Bentir’s Ana Bouhali, his appropriation of the classic Je Suis Le Vagabond, captures a certain slice of music hall Algeria in the 1950s perfectly. Here’s a short version of the French and then Bentir’s exhilarating Arabic rendition:

Lili Boniche performs at the Salle Pierre Bordes - Algiers, 1959

Lili Boniche, also known as “the Crooner of the Casbah,” was another cover cheikh. Born in 1921 to a Jewish Algerois family, le jeune Boniche was already making a splash in the Algerian papers by the mid-1930s, an especially impressive feat given his age at the time. Boniche became a staple of Algerian radio during the period and then began recording 78 rpm records for the Pacific label in the 1940s. He is most famous for his hit songs (all of which were later covered by others) Elle Est Partie (Mchate aliya), Eili Mektoub, Carmelita, and Bambino, the last an Arabic cover of the Neapolitan song, Guaglione, which was then all the rage in Europe and soon North Africa. Throughout his Algerian career, Boniche attracted tremendously large, mixed audiences.

Luc Cherki in all his disco glory. 1979.

Many have argued, in what appears to be a historiographic misstep, that Boniche, for a number of personal reasons, all but stopped performing in France upon his arrival there. This position helps to bolster the claim that he was “rediscovered” in the early 1990s by Bill Laswell, among others. In fact, a review of his releases reveals the opposite - Boniche recorded constantly and consistently through the 1960s and 1970s, both for his own LB label and for El Kahlaoui Tounsi’s Dounia. Shockingly, he even cut a disco EP, much like Luc Cherki, in the late 1970s.

Lili Boniche. Ya Yemma (La Mamma). LB Disques. 1963.

If Boniche took a break from music, it was possibly during that traumatic and confusing year of Algerian independence, although there is only scant evidence to support this. Whatever the case, he was certainly “back” on the scene as of 1963. It was that year that Charles Aznavour’s La Mamma had reached the number one spot on charts across the continent and unsurprisingly, Boniche chose to cover it for the A side of his first release on his new label. In my opinion, Boniche’s Arabic version – Ya Yemma – is even more powerful than the original. Clearly not just a lament for a mother, Ya Yemma can easily be “read” or heard as a longing for Algeria itself. Below you will find both the Aznavour original and the Boniche cover with the Lucien Attard Orchestre playing back up. Take a listen:

Finally, I would be remiss in not mentioning Salim Halali, the subject of my last post, and his Arabic take on another song about mothers, the Yiddish classic My Yiddishe Mama. Below is a classic Cantor Yossele Rosenblatt version and the later Halali adaptation. I dare say this is the only Yiddish song ever translated into Arabic but I would be happy to be proven wrong.



 

Until next time…Happy New Year to all.

Jewish Morocco Turns 5! Salim Halali, Taali, & Change

Salim Halali in pose. 1970s?

In his memoirs, Mahieddine Bachetarzi, the “Caruso of the Desert” and founding father of Algerian theater, describes Salim Halali as having “the greatest Arab male voice” of the post-War period. Halali’s music, blending Latin styles like flamenco and paso doble with popular Arabic pieces written by the likes of Gaston Bsiri and Mohamed El Kamel, was at once distinctly modern and traditional. It was also everywhere. By 1946, you could catch Halali multiple times a week on Algerian radio. His records, made exclusively for Pathé in the 78 rpm era, were sold in Algeria’s major cities, across the Maghreb, and in Paris and Marseilles. Some have gone as far as to call him North Africa’s first pop superstar and when considering his dashing good looks, his swoon-inducing voice (among women and men), and international appeal – sought out by Um Kulthum and others, it’s not difficult to see and hear why.

A very young Halali in Algeria

Halali is deserving of a full-length biography but I won’t get into all of the details here. In broad strokes, Halali remained in Paris during the War years (apparently hidden from Vichy with the help of the Grand Mosque), established the “oriental” music venue Ismaïlia Folies in 1947 before moving to Casablanca to open a similar cabaret in the form of Coq D’Or. He eventually returned to France, release dozens of songs, and toured the world along the way. For many, he retired too early. He lived out his last days in the solitude of a retirement home on France’s southeastern coast. He died at the age of 85 in 2005.

Halali represents a sort of musical continuum between Arab and Jewish at a moment when the two were being torn apart in Algeria. Born in Annaba in 1920, Simon, as he was then known, lived a fully Algerian Jewish life complete with a passion for music. His gift of voice was noticed early and by his teens he had, like many other North African musicians of his generation, relocated to Paris to try his luck in the cabaret scene there. He soon met the already mentioned Mohamed El Kamel and the duo produced a truly remarkable number of hits. One of them, Taali, is among the more moving and evocative love songs I have ever laid ears upon. I have reproduced it below. My suggestion, before listening, is to pour yourself a glass of wine or non-alcoholic beverage (North African, preferably) and cuddle up with someone special. Then hit play. Open a window because it might get hot.

I have seen copies of this record turn up in various forms in places as diverse as Tunis and Jaffa. It is little surprise then that it has recently found a new, younger audience eager to pay homage to the original. The unbelievably talented team of Neta Elkayam and Amit Hai Cohen, Israeli artists of Moroccan origin, have created this mind blowing version below. One can only imagine Halali approving and then joining in.

This sultry jazz version by Georgian-French singer THékO also deserves a listen. It seems like nearly eighty years after its original release, Taali and Salim Halali are enjoying a comeback.

Halali on oud

Five years ago, when this blog launched, I could have never predicted any of this. In fact, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you much about Salim Halali or anyone else making up this constellation of Maghrebi Jewish stars. I was living in Washington, DC at the time and daydreaming of Morocco constantly. In my previous Moroccan travels, I felt like I had just scratched the surface of the Maghreb and I had grown desperate to find the most remote traces of Jewish life from the Sous to the Sahara and everywhere in between. I quit my job, headed to Morocco, recorded what I found, and for a long time that was what this blog was. On a return visit I happened on that now iconic record store in Casablanca and “discovered” Haim Botbol in cassette form. I digitized the tape, uploaded it, and the internet (you) encouraged me to keep going. I started collecting and listening and then really connecting. As I assembled this history record by record, I made sure to keep putting pieces online and writing about these complicated and talented larger than life figures. Soon relatives contacted me. Fans of the original musicians sent me emails and letters (and the occasional record). I met this cohort wherever they were to be found: in Tangier and Tel Aviv and Marrakesh and Marseilles. When I was lucky, I even had the opportunity to sit with the musicians themselves. I also have gotten to know others on this journey, who, like me, are trying to bring this music out of the storage room and back onto the turntable. Through it all, I have faithfully inhaled my share of dust, climbed dangerously rickety ladders in order to peek into an attic, and spent countless hours walking the medina in rising temperatures, all in search of these elusive, fragile, and yet resilient records.

Five years later I can proclaim loudly that Zohra El Fassia, Marie Soussan, and Habiba Messika have left an indelible mark on my life. I have dedicated myself full time (graduate school) to the endeavor of telling their story and the stories of the whole enterprise and I couldn’t be happier. Each one of these personalities complicates something we know, fragments binaries, and further enriches that thing we call History. It is nothing less than a soundtrack of this era and has been missing for too long.

Things have certainly changed since 2008. Elkayam and Cohen, in the clip above, recently performed the works of Zohra El Fassia, Jacob Abitbol, and Albert Suissa in Essaouira at the Festival des Andalousies Atlantiques, and in many ways have brought all of this full circle. The audience welcomed them with open arms, greeting the two with a certain contagious enthusiasm before joining in themselves.

This blog, I hope, will also change. I aim to retitle it, redesign it, make it more truly pan-Maghrebi, and come to focus more and more on those rarest of rare 78 rpm records. To do that requires time and an investment in the right technology and I will be calling on you to help with both. In the meantime, if you have suggestions, requests, leads, and so on, please do send my way.

Finally, thank you, choukrane, todah, and merci for all of your love and support over the years. It is appreciated more than you will ever know.

Tunisia's 78 rpm Era: Reflections on Habiba Messika, Cheikh El Afrite & My Recent Travel to Tunis

The Jewish cemetery at Bourgel in Tunis

Cheikh El Afrite's grave at Bourgel

On my final day in post-revolutionary Tunisia, I headed to the vast Jewish cemetery at Bourgel aiming to find and pay tribute to the final resting places of Tunis’ musical superstars of years past. While the cemetery itself is in a discouraging state of disrepair, the tombs of Habiba Messika and Cheikh El Afrite, two of said vedettes, are readily identifiable, if not difficult to reach. There is a feeling one gets when visiting a mostly abandoned Jewish cemetery in North Africa. In seeking a particular grave, you often have to wade through trash, sidestep discarded beer bottles, whack away overgrowth, and climb over other broken graves with names no longer legible. When you reach your destination, it is both unsettling and uplifting and most certainly a religious experience.

Cassette digging for Habiba Messika

Tunisians’ memory of Habiba Messika, the young Jewish singer, actress, and diva, who took Tunis by storm in the 1920s, is at once fierce and fading. Her cassettes, made from copies of copies of her scare 78 rpm recordings, are easily available in the myriad CD and tape shops around the city. Ask just about anyone – young or old – and they “remember” her. This, of course, is despite the fact that most do not actually remember. While Messika’s brutal murder by a jealous suitor was front-page news across the Maghreb and in Paris at the time, it also occurred over eighty years ago, in 1930, and most were not around to ever see her or hear her live at the Municipal Theatre, at the Casino in La Goulette, or anywhere else. Much like her music now, the memories of Messika are copies of copies. Of course, this makes them no less real but as a result certain details have fallen to the wayside. Thus her Jewishness, very real at the time, comes as shock to quite a few when revealed. Messika, like so many other things in Tunis, has been nationalized.

Stack of broken 78s with Narraci sleeve peeking out

Between meetings and visits to the archives, I went in search of records. On one of my first days in the country, I was encouraged by a find in the medina: a stack of shellac, all with purple sleeves of Joseph Narraci, one of the earliest indigenous (and Jewish) record companies in North Africa. Unfortunately, not a one contained a Narraci-produced record. In fact, most Tunisian records, especially 78s, have disappeared, many thrown out in the transition to vinyl, others captive in storage spaces around Tunisia and in attics in Paris. What stock does exist – in the medina, brocantes, and the occasional used bookstore - is either Western rock or Egyptian. If you’re looking for Um Kulthum on Odeon, you’re in luck, if you’re searching for Gaston Bsiri, bonne chance. While this was personally disappointing, it also served in a way as a testament to a phenomenon reported on by Tunisian observers of the 78-era – Egyptian discs were flooding the market. Only by supporting local artists, critics claimed, could this deluge be averted.

After a little less than two weeks in Tunis (not nearly enough time), I left feeling nostalgic for a place I never really knew. Strolling down Rue Al-Djazair, adjacent to the medina, brings one face-to-face with the once flagship record store of Joseph Narraci, as well as one of the former cinema districts of the silent and then talkie era. Cutting over to Rue Charles De Gaulle, transports you to the small empire of Bembaron, Jewish brothers and impresarios, who began their work by importing harmoniums and ended by creating a powerhouse label which captured the some of the city’s most impressive voices. The TGM (Tunis-La Goulette-Marsa) train is a journey back in time. As it traces the edge of the lake, children pry open the doors to get that fresh, salted wind in their face, only to be pulled back by the scruff of their necks by a responsible adult – much the same, I imagine, as it was sixty years ago. Descending at the La Goulette – Casino stop hurls you straight into Tunis’ music-hall capital, where Jews, Sicilians, Maltese, Greeks, and Muslims jostled for a seat at one of the various music venues around town. At the Casino, one might have caught a show by Messika and Hassan Banane, Cheikh El Afrite or Dalila Taliana. As I dined at one of the seaside restaurants - with some of the freshest fish I have ever tasted - I daydreamed of Raoul Journo, perhaps with Kakino De Paz, crooning about exil in El Ouach ouel Ghorba.

Nostalgia is a double-edged sword though, as it requires absence to make it its most powerful. During my first day in the archives, a young graduate student took an interest in me and we began a conversation. She asked me what I worked on and I told her I was studying the early years of the North African recording industry. She said I must study the Jewish musicians then if I was really serious about the topic. Encouraged, I told her that that was indeed my focus and in fact, I was Jewish. She went blank. You can’t say that here, she said. Not everyone was as open as she was, she claimed. Similarly, while Bachir Rsaissi’s Rsaissi label draws instant recognition among those in the know, the uttering of his Jewish counterparts – Narraci and Bembaron - is met with confusion and the polite protest that those names, in fact, are not Tunisian. Acher Mizrahi, a favorite of Habib Bourghiba long after independence, also sounds impossibly foreign to some.

El Kahlaoui Tounsi 45 in a dust-filled brocante

Despite all this (or perhaps because of it), Tunisia has grabbed my attention in a way I never thought it would. The Tunisians I spent time with were all supportive of my work, even if it was not their area of expertise. Many went completely out of their way to help me and I hope by giving a little more volume to the critically important history of the music industry in North Africa, I can someday soon return the favor.