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.”
Algeria’s Jewish past is often framed as one of contemporary
invisibility. Jews are gone, synagogues have been converted into mosques, and
still other visual markers of Jewish life all but effaced. Indeed, all of this
is true. But since arriving in Algeria two weeks ago to do research on the
North African music industry of the first half of the twentieth century I have
wondered the following: What happens when we shift our focus to that of the
aural? In other words, are Algerian Jews more present in the present if we
replace vision for sound and the landscape for the soundscape? The answer, in
short, is a resounding, “yes.”
Discussing the Algerian 78 era over coffee.
If one listens close enough, Jewish voices are everywhere in
Algeria. One must only enter one of the myriad CD shops to catch the sounds of
popular Jewish recording artists from more than half a century ago like Lili
Boniche. Peek your head into a bric-a-brac shop in Oued Kniss and you will find
a dust covered pile of records including the likes of Salim Halali and Lili
Labassi. Catch an Andalusian performance at the National Theater (named for
Mahieddine Bachetarzi, himself closely identified with Algerian Jewish musical
impresarios of the past like Edmond Nathan Yafil) and you will hear a piece of the
classical suite - and now an inextricable part of Algerian patrimony - once
closely associated with Jewish legends like Mouzino and Sassi. Meet with an
octogenarian musician and wait just seconds before he regales you with tales of
Alice Fitoussi and la belle époque of Algerian music. Tell just about any
Algerian, young or old, about your research subject in the broadest of terms
and wait for them to interject with, “Ah! Then you must study the Jews.”
There is much more to say but I am still very much
processing it all. My daily strolls through the casbah, that shockingly compact
musical incubator which once nurtured the high point of Jewish-Muslim music
making, helps tremendously. So too does listening to the music again and again.
Shortly before leaving for Algeria, I put together an all-45 rpm mix for
Afropop Worldwide which serves as both a primer and a testament to the outsized role
played by the country’s Jewish musicians in the first two-thirds of the
twentieth century.
Disco Maghreb. What else?
Here is what I wrote for their website: “In an era
immediately before chaabi and preceding raï by some decades, multi-talented
artists like Lili Labassi pushed the boundaries of Algerian Arabic music in
new, exciting directions while laying down 78 rpm record after 78 rpm record
for Columbia, Polydor, and even RCA. Later, Lili Boniche and Luc Cherki, the
so-called “crooners of the casbah,” blended Western and North African rhythms
to produce hits like the former’s “Ya Samira,” included here. Over the next
hour you will hear a sampling of all of this and more. We start with Salim
Halali and his iconic cover of the Moroccan Sidi Hbibi before moving on to a
Luc Cherki istikhbar and disco number and eventually to a trio of pieces
performed by Blond Blond, Lili Labassi, and the Algéroise diva Line Monty
dedicated to a love of city (Oran and Algiers) and nation (Djazaïr). René Perez
and Lili Boniche round out this mix before we arrive at the rarest piece in
this collection: the Andalusian piano stylings of the one and only Sariza Cohen.”
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 LBlabel 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.
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.
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.
The morning after participating in the Bat Yam North Africa sessions, Eilon and I enjoyed a traditional Israeli breakfast of coffee and cigarettes while listening to music. One of the standout pieces he played for me was ostensibly political propaganda and musically-speaking it was dynamite. It was Moroccan Arabic pop music (chaabi) that extolled the virtues of an Ashkenazi mayoral candidate in Ashdod in the 1970s. Using music to convey current events and encourage voting is part and parcel of this genre and in fact much of this political music not only offers insight into these communities and the issues they were concerned with but also an enjoyable listening experience. Judah Assaraf, who sang for a number of Moroccan labels in Israel in the 1960s and 1970s, recorded songs on subjects ranging from the famed peace flight of Iranian-Israeli Abbie Natan (from Israel to Nasser’s Egypt and back again) to the Six Day War to the Herut party.
Between changing records, Eilon showed me some old 78s he had collected that had unfortunately not withstood the test of time but nonetheless shed more light on the musical history discussed on this blog. The 78s in his possession included a number of Jo Amar pieces recorded in Arabic for Philips and a duo known as Abitbol and Fassy that recorded for the N. Sabbah label out of Casablanca.
Joseph Mango Boaron. In Chansone Tripoli. #3. Koliphone. 1970s.
After breakfast, we headed to one of our favorite spots - the Azoulay shop in Jaffa. While Eilon chatted with David and Zaki Azoulay, I picked out some cassettes including a Mike Karoutchi, the Libyan performer Joseph Mango Boaron and a Cheikh Mwijo opus / political call to action to restore the name of Shas leader Aryeh Deri, a former Knesset member convicted of bribery and banned from parliament for ten years in 1999. Each of these cassettes has an interesting story behind it but I’ll save that for another time.
Zakiphon Record Catalogue. Clockwise: Samy Elmaghribi, Albert Suissa, Zohra El Fassia, Jo Amar and Salim Halali.
Our conversation with the Azoulay brothers lasted about an hour but could have lasted for several days as far as I was concerned. In the course of casual conversation, I learned the following:
- Cheikh Zouzou’s son had settled in Israel and brought his father’s recordings with him thereby enabling their rerelease and preservation.
- The Azoulays kept better tabs than I thought and part of the proof of this was the last remaining Zakiphon record catalogue that David showed me and allowed me to photograph.
- AZR, one of the many label names under the Koliphone/Zakiphon suite, stood for Azoulay – Zaki – Raphael.
- Their record factory was based in Holon.
- Their reference points for beauty were still Louisa Tounsia and Line Monty.
With every sentence uttered, my knowledge of the Azoulays, their vision, their personalities and just how mindboggling their operation had been and how much more there is to learn from them increased exponentially.
After fulfilling our Azoulay needs, we headed to Jaffa’s flea market in search of buried vinyl treasure. Over the years, it has become increasingly difficult to find North African records in Jaffa and if they are to be found then they are marked up considerably. However we had a lead and this lead led us to an antique store where the proprietor did in fact have a few EPs remaining. The records were in horrible, horrible condition but I purchased one on the Philix label on the off chance that I would get home, put the needle on the record and be floored. We then had lunch, said our goodbyes and I headed back to Jerusalem.
Eliyahu Kahlaoui (Shlomo Cohen). Bente El Mdina. Philix. Late 1960s?
I returned to the Tel Aviv area a few days later to meet with Karen. Karen is Zohra El Fassia’s great granddaughter who had contacted me through this blog in the hopes of tracking down recordings of her famously talented relative. When I told her I would be in Israel for work, we immediately set up a time to visit and swap stories. The experience was powerful. Karen resembles Zohra and was as warm as I had imagined. As soon as I saw Karen I handed her a CD I had made of digitized Zohra El Fassia 78s. For me, the fact that I was able to share this music with a member of Zohra El Fassia’s family was beyond moving. Karen, in turn, shared with me stories and much more. I learned just how bold Zohra was (she was married multiple times), that her family name was the very common Hammou and how uncommon her life was – more so than I had ever really understood. Karen showed me converted home videos of Zohra El Fassia performing at family gatherings. To paraphrase the poet Erez Bitton, her eyes are full of love in these videos but it’s not only her heart that is clear – so too is her iconic voice in these recordings. I left Karen with a much deeper understanding of just who Zohra El Fassia was and what she stood for. Karen is now working on an online project to capture the history and music of Zohra El Fassia. Let me know if you would like to be in touch with her to contribute photos, music and/or anecdotes.
When I returned to New York days later, I wasn’t disappointed. I dropped the needle on the record and Bente El Mdina practically begged to be digitized. Bente El Medina - City Girl in Arabic – was recorded by Shlomo Cohen aka Eliyahu Kahlaoui for the Philix label, one of the smaller Moroccan labels that cropped up in Israel around the Koliphone/Zakiphon labels. Eliyahu Kahlaoui (Shlomo Cohen) also recorded a song called Bente El Mochav – Moshav Girl in a combination of Arabic and Hebrew - that is the suburban contrast to City Girl. Philix recorded a number of North African musicians in the 1960s and 1970s including Judah Assaraf, who I mentioned above, Brahim Souiri, one of the all time great Moroccan musicians, and the famous Algerian David Elbecheri. Take a listen to Eliyahu Kahlaoui and his troupe below.
A few months ago I received an email from Eilon, a fellow record collector in Israel. We exchanged notes and swapped stories and agreed to meet next time I was there. When I found out I would be heading to Israel for work in February, I reached out to Eilon to see if we could catch some music together. He told me there was a rare show in Bat Yam that we had to see. The four hours of music we would later become a part of was one of the greatest performances I have ever seen or heard. The fact that this was more or less underground, North African chaabi in Israel made it all the more thrilling.
Izac Elbergui. Koliphone. LP 18. 1970s (Words by Sliman Elmaghrebi)
On February 9th I met Eilon at his apartment in the Hatikva neighborhood of Tel Aviv. He let me browse his beautiful collection of North African vinyl that he collected over the years at various flea markets in the center of the country. We listened to a few select pieces including a rare David Nidam LP on Zakiphon and then hit the road for Bat Yam, about a 15 minute drive from Tel Aviv.
At 11 pm we entered a large community center close to the Rabbinate in Bat Yam. A small crowd of about 35 listeners, multiple decades our senior, eyed us as we found seats at a table with other guests. I quickly spotted Zaki Elbergui, recording star for the Azoulays and their Zakiphon label in the 1970s, now in his 70s and donning a yarmulke. Interestingly most of these musicians have become increasingly religious as they get older, similar to their Muslim counterparts. Zaki was older now but his voice remained strong, deep and hoarse as he began to sing.
Izac (Zaki) Elbergui performing in Bat Yam, Israel on February 9-10, 2012.
Food – fava beans, spicy carrots and assorted pickles – and drink – Goldstar beer – covered our table. A man beckoned me over to sit next to him. Inta maghrebi? He asked me in Moroccan Arabic. I told him I was from New York. He was from Marrakesh originally and said he was also a singer and had performed everywhere from Casablanca to Montreal to Los Angeles. I was incredulous at first until he pulled out his iPhone and started showing me pictures he had snapped of his old pictures. There he was with the great Jewish and non-Jewish North African and Egyptian musicians - Samy Elmaghribi, Salim Halali, Elkahlaoui Tounsi, Oulaya, Sabah, Farid El Atrash and others. I had just met the renowned Henry Zehavi who would later be called to perform on stage.
For the next few hours, Zaki Elbergui would perform along with an oudist, a hand drummer, a drummer on darbuka and Yaacov m’Akko, a skilled and talented violinist who gave one of the best vocal performances of the evening. At the beginning of each piece performed, the oudist would invoke the
names of the honored North African musicians who came before them
historically and who were physically before them in the audience – all
in rapid-fire Moroccan Arabic. Zaki Elbergui then slowly began to give
up the microphone and invite some of these honored voices before him to
the stage. Henry Zehavi was pulled up on stage after much ceremonial
cajoling. His training and skill were self-evident as he performed a
number of songs including those of Salim Halali who he had once upon a
time toured with around the globe.
Zaki then invited an unassuming David al-Ruimi on stage. David wore a
Kangol-style hat and thick glasses that hid his later obvious talent.
There was deep respect given to him from the orchestra and the audience
and this respect would prove absolutely deserved. Below is the only
known recording of David al-Ruimi on the Internet. I suggest you turn up
the volume full blast and close your eyes to this unparalleled
performance.
The Bat Yam North Africa Sessions: Volume 2
David al-Ruimi sings in Bat Yam on Feb. 10 2012
I have done my best to capture the feeling of this night but of
course much is missing. What isn’t captured by these iPhone videos is
the intense audience participation throughout the night. Individuals
mouthed the words to these songs, danced with each other and with the
musicians, gave money to the performers as thanks and listened intently
as they were transported back to a different time and place. Eilon, a
skilled darbuka player of his own accord, was also invited on stage with
the orchestra.
Others would sing throughout the night including a different Mwijo then
the one I have previously written about - this one from Casablanca -
while classic hits like Samy Elmaghribi's Omri ma ninsak were reinterpreted.
In
my mind, however, the best performance of the night was one of the
last. Yaacov m’Akko (Jacob from Acre), a master violinst, quickly
revealed a voice, style and rhythm the likes of which I have never
heard. Here he is on video – likely for the first time ever. I again
suggest you bring whatever device you are using to full volume. Stick
with this one – this track is killer.
The Bat Yam North Africa Sessions: Volume 4
Yaacov m'Akko on violin and vocals - at the top of his game
There were a few more performances that followed and then it was over. Never before has 3 am come so quickly. The musicians began to pack up their instruments, put on their jackets and head to their cars. Some were returning to other parts of Bat Yam. Others to Jaffa and Yaacov of course to Akko. He had hours of driving ahead of him. Eilon and I headed to Jaffa to have a bite to eat and process. We had just witnessed an increasingly rare performance of Jewish North African musicians - some of the most talented of their generation. As these musicians and their audience grow older, it is important that these sessions are made available to a wider audience. It is for this reason that I have put what I am calling the Bat Yam North Africa Sessions online. Please make sure to spread around.
For more videos, click here. I’ll be writing again soon on meeting with the Azoulays, record and cassette shopping in Jaffa and meeting with Zohra El Fassia’s relatives in Tel Aviv.
I had a great session at the JCC last night. Thank you to everyone for coming out. The next session is next Thursday, February 2nd. There was a request for the set list so I have included below. Also, I will be posting a piece on Jo Amar very soon so stay tuned.
Messaoud Habib (Tunisia)
Taksim Ochak
Columbia – Late 1920s?
On Friday before heading out to interview Raphy, I stopped by a fantastic music store (for those in Casa, the store is located at 26 Lalla Yacout Street). Le Comptoire Marocain de Distribution de Disques carrys an extensive collection of Arab and Berber music in vinyl, cassette, and cd form from mostly the 1960s and 1970s. The music is hand picked and excellent quality. I picked up a few Berber LPs. These musicians were all from the Souss region and were masters or rwais of the rebab (spiked fidle). Interestingly, there were ahwash and rwais musicians amongst Chleuh speaking Jews (including from Ighil N'Oro - a picture of the Jewish cemetery there is at the top of the blog) who eventually imported this musical style to Israel, click here to read more.
I had originally stopped by to see if they had any Samy Elmaghribi or Salim Hilali on vinyl - two universally respected (by Moroccans) Moroccan Jewish singers. Unfortunately they didn't have any. Also, there was recently an exhibit on Samy Elmaghribi at the Casablanca Jewish Museum.
But...
In another testament to the ominpresence of Jewish life in Morocco, the store carried an extensive and possibly complete collection of the popular (shaabi) Moroccan Jewish singer Abitbol. I picked up one of his cassettes and will post a picture of the cover soon.
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.
