Music and Memory: The Life and Death of Cheikh Raymond

Orchestre Raymond on Hes el Moknine. Mid-1950s.

Nearly fifty-two years to the day, Raymond Leyris, known as Cheikh Raymond on account of his mastery of the eastern Algerian Andalusian musical tradition of malouf, closed his record store at 3 Rue Zévaco for the final time. Within a year, Algeria would gain its freedom from France but at that moment it was deep in the throes of a bloody civil war. With tensions having already boiled over and almost a month after failed talks between the French government and the Algerian Front de Libération Nationale (FLN), Cheikh Raymond was trying to do the unthinkable as one of Constantine’s leading professional musicians and a Jewish one to boot: He was attempting to lead a normal life.  After locking up at Disques Raymond, he grabbed his daughter Viviane’s hand and headed toward Place Négrier, home to the bustling Souq el-Assar and adjacent to the city’s Jewish quarter, the Chara. Accompanied by his brother-in-law, the three casually crossed the market place intending to lunch with Raymond’s uncle.  Passing midway between the Sidi el-Kettani Mosque on one side and the Jewish tribunal on the other, Viviane noticed a man approaching.  She felt her father’s grip tighten. Within a moment he had collapsed. He had suffered two gunshots to the neck at close range. The assailant escaped. Cheikh Raymond was rushed to the hospital but it was too late. On June 22, 1961, at the age of forty-eight, he was dead.

Cheikh Raymond has long intrigued me. His story, little known outside the Maghreb and segments of France, is riveting. Here are just some of the details. Raoul Raymond Leyris was born in 1912 to a Jewish father and a non-Jewish mother, a rarity in colonial Algeria. He was given up for adoption at the age of two and raised by the Jewish Halimi family, who saw to his conversion. Raymond, as he came to be called, gravitated ever closer to music in his teenage years. He sought out authenticity, spending time in Constantine’s medieval foundouks, where he apprenticed himself to the master musicians Omar Chaqleb and Abdelkrim Bestandji. By 1928, Raymond had begun singing and playing oud with the celebrated percussionist Mohammed L’arbi Benlamri, who would later join his orchestra, and in 1930, he made his debut with Si Tahar Benkartoussa. By the age of eighteen, the musical powers that be had bequeathed him the title of Cheikh.

Sylvain Ghrenassia on violin and Cheikh Raymond on oud.

While paying allegiance to the traditional, Cheikh Raymond managed to do things his own way. Interestingly, he seemed to have never recorded for the larger international record labels. His first recordings were made in 1937 for the Diamophone label, based out of Constantine, but World War II would soon put his recording output on hold. In 1945, Cheikh Raymond formed Orchestre Raymond with the Jewish violinist Sylvain Ghrenassia at his side. By the early 1950s, Cheikh Raymond and Orchestre Raymond represented Constantine’s most sought after Andalusian sound. It was also a fully integrated Jewish-Muslim ensemble. In 1954, at the start of the Algerian War, Cheikh Raymond and Sylvain Ghrenassia expanded their business, founding their own record label, Hes el Moknine, and opening a record store on Rue Zévaco.

In the meantime, Gaston Ghrenassia, Sylvain’s son and the figure who would later come to be known as Enrico Macias, had taken to seeing Cheikh Raymond as an uncle figure, lovingly referring to him as “Tonton Raymond.” The younger Ghrenassia’s musical talent impressed Cheikh Raymond and he invited Gaston to join his orchestra as a guitarist – bucking malouf norms at the time. Gaston made his debut with Orchestre Raymond that same year.

Cheikh Raymond at 78 rpm for Hes el Moknine.

Cheikh Raymond released dozens of 78s for his Hes el Moknine label in the 1950s, although given the length of a typical Andalusian movement, the format was far from suitable. It was thus with great pleasure that he adopted the LP format, putting out two dozen 33 rpm records in the same period and a similar number of EPs. He invited a few others to record on his label as well.

Mal habibi malou was the twentieth release on his label. It represents one of the more well-known Andalusian pieces and was recorded by nearly everyone worth their weight in the music industry. Cheikh Raymond’s interpretation is breathtaking. You get a real sense of his voice and his passion. Pay close attention to the violin work by Sylvain Ghrenassia as well. This eighteen minute cut is taken from the original.

Cheikh Raymond with Algerian Jewish star Sassi Lebrati.

Cheikh Raymond and his orchestra gave their last large public concert at the Vox Theater in Constantine in April 1960. In the fall, he made his final television appearance, singing Hokmek Hokm el-Bey, that old-new Andalusian song of Ottoman resistance to the 1830 French invasion and which now carried contemporary nationalist overtones. His political stance, the subject of much speculation, seems to be clear in this instance.

Yet, in January 1961, during a short visit to France, rumors about Cheikh Raymond surfaced. He was accused by unknown elements of belonging to the OAS. In another version, he was to have moved to Israel. Neither of course was true and neither could have been farther from reality. In fact, Enrico Macias recalls Cheikh Raymond telling him at the time, “I would rather die in Algeria than live in France.”

On June 22, 1961, two bullets struck Cheikh Raymond as he walked through the crowded markets of central Constantine. There were plenty of witnesses but no arrests. Cheikh Raymond was rushed to the hospital, the same one where he had been delivered and then given up for adoption decades earlier. He was pronounced dead on arrival. In accordance with Jewish custom, Cheikh Raymond was buried in Constantine’s Jewish cemetery the next day. In July 1961, the Leyris and Ghrenassia families arrived in Marseille. Despite pleas to transfer her husband’s remains to France, Hermance Leyris refused. Cheikh Raymond would remain once and forever in his beloved Constantine.

There is much commentary to add to this story but I will try to keep it short. Cheikh Raymond’s murder remains unsolved to this day although FLN participation seems likely. In the course of the turmoil of 1961 and 1962, the perpetrators were never caught and the case was never brought to trial. Names, motives - the answers - are buried probably not too deep in an Algerian archive somewhere. Both scholars and popular observers agree that the death of Cheikh Raymond triggered the flight of Constantine’s roughly 30,000-strong Jewish community to France.

The figure of Cheikh Raymond continues to loom large in the Constantinois Jewish collective memory, with former residents marking their own histories as before and after June 22, 1961. So too do memories remain vivid among Constantine’s Muslim population, especially music aficionados. At least two individuals have worked hard to commit Cheikh Raymond’s memory to history: Enrico Macias, his son-in-law and Francophone variety singer, and Taoufik Bestandji, the grandson of Cheikh Raymond’s mentor Abdelkrim Bestandji and an accomplished musician in his own right. Much of what we know of Cheikh Raymond is thanks to them and countless other individual recollections.

Finally, I would be remiss in not acknowledging two very good works dealing with Cheikh Raymond that contributed greatly to this post. Bertrand Dicale’s Cheikh Raymond: une histoire algérienne is the first and only biography on the singer and an absolute must. The second, Ted Swedenburg’s chapter, “Against Hybridity: The Case of Enrico Macias/Gaston Ghrenassia,” in Rebecca L. Stein and Ted Swedenburg, ed., Palestine, Israel, and the Politics of Popular Culture is not only insightful but incredibly well written.

Botbol: The Last of an Era

Botbol on electric guitar. 1960s.

Haim Botbol has affected my life in ways he could never imagine. It was his record I picked up four years ago and it was his voice, which opened up a world of North African music for me. This is why this day means so much to me. Today, June 18, 2013, Haim Botbol is being honored by a fascinating cross-section of Moroccans for his sixty plus years in the music business. The event, organized by his manager and producer Maurice Elbaz, will include a roundtable discussion with musicians, musicologists, and journalists on Botbol’s career and of course, a concert - stacked with talent: Maxime Karoutchi and his orchestra, Benomar Ziani, Marcel Botbol, Vanessa Paloma, and apparently a few surprises.

 

Haim Botbol, known as Botbol to fans, was born in Fez in the 1930s. Like other Jewish musicians who came of age during this period, the young Botbol soon joined a musical dynasty. His father, Cheikh Jacob Abitbol (another variant of the Botbol name), was a well respected violinist and vocalist who released a number of 45s in the 1950s. Marcel, his younger brother, continues to entertain in Tangier.

Haim Botbol on guitar and his father Jacob Abitbol on violin. Marcel in back. Fez. 1950s.

Sampling of Botbol 45s c/o of Toukadime.

Haim Botbol was a favorite of Salim Halali and performed with Albert Suissa as well. He released a considerable amount of music on about a dozen labels (Boussiphone, Musica, Tichkaphone, Canariphone, Philips, etc.). He “made it” well into the cassette era, which is an accomplishment in and of itself. His mesmerizing voice has played a major role in his success and it would not be an exaggeration to say that Botbol, for all intents and purposes, represents the last of the great Jewish Moroccan musicians living in-country (although he has spent the last few years in France). 

This track - Ba Lahcen - is one of my favorites. The song became a serious hit for many including the likes of Hajja Hamdaouia. For anyone who has spent considerable time in Morocco or grew up speaking darija, you will love the song’s refrain.

Mazal tov, mabrouk, and félicitations to Cheikh Haim Botbol.

I will be posting additional Botbol-related material on my Facebook page and on Twitter throughout the week. Please make sure to check out.

Sing Out, Maghreb! Jewish Moroccan Protest Music

Maurice Touboul. The Housing Crisis. MT. Early 1960s?

In the course of the recent Arab uprisings, journalists have paid a surprising amount of attention to the role of music in protests. In general, this has been a welcome development, especially when one considers the all but silent soundscape which those writing about the region have reinforced by ignoring it. However, this has also led to the reifying of the notion that protest music in the region is imported. This manifests itself in the focus on style, usually hip hop, over content. Yet, when one digs just a little bit deeper it become eminently clear that at least in the Moroccan case, the likes of rappers Bigg, H-Kayne, and El Haqed (L7a9ed) are taking inspiration from much closer to home, namely the late 1960s and 1970s protest standouts Nass El Ghiwane, Jil Jilala, and Lemchaheb, who themselves drew on indigenous sources.

In fact, protest music in Morocco and in North Africa more generally, is hardly new. The phenomenon goes back to at least the rise of the recording industry in the Maghreb and probably much earlier. Unsurprisingly, Jews played a disproportionate role here as well. The very styles Jews pioneered in early Moroccan, Algerian, and Tunisian music, whether cha’abi or francarabe, can and should be seen as a challenge to the status quo and to the musical powers that were. Jews were derided at the time for such sonic innovation and castigated for corrupting conservative ears. Ultimately, however, these music forms won the day.

Salim Halali. Arja' li bladi. Pathé. 1930s.

In addition to the implicit protest, Jews were considerably explicit as well. In Tunisia, Habiba Messika sang El Ittihad (Unity) in the mid-1920s and Louisa Tounsia sang Ana Arabiya (I'm an Arab) a decade later. In Algeria, Salim Halali sang about his homeland returning to him. Even Zohra El Fassia sang out, championing the cause of Sultan Mohammed V (he was eventually exiled and then returned to the throne by the French) in the late 1940 and 1950s.

As Jews dispersed in the 1950s and 1960s, those who stayed in North Africa past when they were “expected” to, like Algeria’s Alice Fitoussi, challenged nationalist and exclusionary conceptions of citizenship. In many ways, it is these musicians who I am most curious about. What can be said for sure is that wherever North African Jewish musicians went, they and their instruments didn’t remain silent for long. Whenever there was a breach of justice, they took pen to paper and vocalized what was on their minds, thereby giving voice to their compatriots battling difficult or unfamiliar terrain. Their audience enthusiastically joined the chorus.

Jo Amar was one of these musicians. Despite enjoying considerable success in Morocco and internationally, Amar was met with deaf ears by the Ashkenazi music establishment upon aliyah to Israel. To paraphrase the Moroccan-born Azoulay brothers out of Jaffa: Who would sign Jo Amar? We would. Before recording for the mainstream labels, Amar enthusiastically belted out hit after hit for the Azoulay’s Zakiphon imprint. While he sang separately in both Arabic and Hebrew, it was his song Lishkat Avodah (Employment Office) which combined the two and became the darling of the Moroccan community in Israel. I would wager that while many American Jews know Jo Amar well, nearly none have heard this one. In Lishkat Avodah, Amar masterfully calls attention to the suffocating discrimination faced by Moroccans upon their very arrival in Israel. In Arabic, he sings about the separation of children from parents as the former is sent off to the kibbutz in what is a totally alien environment. There is the utter sense of despair coming from the great unknown:

Taken from Haifa to Beit Lid…we were to told to keep going…
We were separated from our parents…
God have mercy on us

Beyond this and the musical dexterity he displays in rhyming the Arabic flous (money) with the Hebrew kibbutz (collective community), he reserves his most blistering verbal attack at minute 3:47 in Hebrew and for all to understand:

I went to the employment office

He asked me where I was from
I told him Morocco
He told me to get out

I went to the employment office
He asked where I was from
I told him Poland
He told me to please to come in

Of course, Amar sang in good company before leaving Israel for the United States. In Israel, his cohort continued to strike a chord regarding passion-stirring issues of the day while his French counterparts frequently intoned on local living conditions. This track by the Moroccan Maurice Touboul is in part the inspiration for this post. It is one of the more curious EPs in my collection and I unfortunately know little about Touboul other than the fact that he was deeply respected by the likes of Samy Elmaghribi and that he was no one hit wonder. In La Crise du Logement, he records at least one Moroccan Jewish attitude to a housing crisis in France and similar to Amar, he calls on God to take note.

Certainly not all Moroccan Jewish protest music can be categorized as "liberal" but all of it took aim at what the community deemed to be unjust, whether the wanton disregard of Maghrebi interests by Israel’s Labor party or the jailing of Aryeh Deri. Nonetheless, these songs continue to resonate.

Some sixty years after Jo Amar first sang Lishkat Avodah, his words remain as powerful as ever. In Kamal Hachkar’s brilliant documentary Tinghir-Jerusalem, the film’s elderly Jewish protagonists recall Amar’s anthem. Fast forward to minute 43:11 and watch, listen, and try not to be moved as their singing of this classic brings Hachkar to tears.

Happy Passover from Jewish Morocco (and Tunisia)!

Last year I posted about the staggering amount of liturgical and festival music released by North African Jewish musicians on major record labels from the earliest days of the recording industry through at least the 1970s. "These musicians," I wrote, "while mastering and pioneering secular, popular Arabic music were also deeply Jewish and recorded religious music, much like their Jewish musical counterparts around the globe." Passover, the Jewish holiday commemorating freedom from bondage, resonated loudly with singers and songwriters from across the Maghreb. While relegating themselves to a single benediction or portions of the Pessah haftarah (a selection of Bible chanted in synagogue on the holiday) on the 78 rpm format, the move to the LP allowed these artists to record the Passover seder in its entirety, complete with instructions on how to lead the ritual service!

Nathan Cohen. Undated photograph.

Over the last few weeks I have been revisiting these pieces. Two LPs in particular stand out: Samy Elmaghribi’s La Haggada and Nathan Cohen’s Haggadah de Paque. What is remarkable about the former is that Samy recorded this with his children. Ses enfants play the role of reciting the Passover instructions in French and Samy dutifully performs the requisite rituals when prompted. Nathan Cohen’s Tunisian version is similarly stunning. His record gathers a number of Tunisian Jewish musicians around him to contribute to his sacred sound.

What I’ve done essentially is cut, spliced, and remixed portions of these two LPs together to make what I hope is an enjoyable aural experience. You will hear French instructions and an entertaining play by play of what the holiday is about at the beginning of the track and then back-to-back versions of the Passover classic Dayenu. Dayenu, meaning it would have been enough for us, is a fifteen-stanza piece about gratefulness to God (If He had only brought us out of Egypt…Dayenu. If He had only given us Shabbat…Dayenu). The track ends with Samy appropriately imbibing the fourth cup of wine.

Listen here to a North African Passover Remix:

Please do make sure to pass this one around but not over ;) Wishing everyone a meaningful Passover holiday. Hag Pessah Sameah.

Finally, here are a couple of extra goodies. You can find my post from last year here:

Singing "Go Down Moses" in Judeo-Arabic - Happy Passover from Jewish North Africa!

Here is Nathan Cohen’s version of Had Gadya:

And a  Jo Amar Passover LP:

Felix El Maghrebi: The Voice of an Era

Felix Wizman aka Felix El Maghrebi

The Casablanca cassette seller dusted off a Felix El Maghrebi mix tape, taped it with his index finger, and handed it to me. “This,” he said, “this is it.” Pulling a single cassette from a tower of tapes is no easy feat. Remembering where everything is even more difficult. But Felix El Maghrebi, the young Jewish mainstay of the Moroccan pop scene from the 1950s through the 1980s, is impossible to forget. His voice is smooth and his excitement is palpable. He is also a mighty fine oud player. In fact, wherever I have purchased music in Morocco, Felix has affectionately become the focus of the conversation.

Felix Wizman was born in the southern coastal city of Safi in 1937. Like many other Jewish families, his moved to Casablanca when he was just a boy. Le Petit Felix, as he soon became known, quickly found his voice in the big city, literally. It’s likely his father Meir first noticed his talent at home but it was the synagogue that provided him his initial stage. By the early 1950s, Salim Halali grew aware of Felix the virtuoso, eventually inviting him on stage with him to perform. Around that time, Felix was either bestowed or adopted the stage name Felix El Maghrebi, possibly in deference to his idol, Samy Elmaghribi. By his mid-teens, Felix was already performing professionally, both in front of large audiences and at private occasions, especially weddings. He signed a contract with the Jewish label N. Sabbah likely in the 1950s and cut a number of EPs with them through the 1960s and 1970s.

Felix El Maghrebi and his oud

His Jewish and Muslim contemporaries remember him fondly and with good reason. When many of his Jewish musical peers were making new homes for themselves in France and Israel, Felix remained in Casablanca - singing and playing his heart out. He was not only an audible presence in the 1960s but a visual one as well, making consistent appearances on Moroccan television at the height of his career. He was a familiar face in what must have been a confusing, chaotic, and yet exhilarating period: the initial years of Moroccan independence.

Felix El Maghrebi’s Raya Moghrabiya poignantly captures the Morocco of the time. It is a military march of sorts, a nationalist hymn focused on unity. “Be happy, brothers,” he exhorts over and over again in the refrain.

Take a listen to his golden voice:

Felix Wizman dit Le Petit Felix dit Felix El Maghrebi died five years ago on March 6, 2008. Through his song, his memory lives on.

P.S. If anyone has information on the N. Sabbah label, please be in contact with me directly.

Singing the Scandalous: Mini Skirts in Moroccan Jewish Song

Esther Elfassy. Mini. Koliphone. 1960s?

--> Jewish Morocco is back for 2013. Lots of big changes are in store over the next few months. In the meantime, some new music is in order. I wanted to start off the New Year with something dynamo, a selection to get everyone off their feet. As this blog has revealed, North African music has never shirked from addressing the most taboo of topics in song. In fact, drugs, politics, and sex have been dealt with extensively since the very first recordings were made in the Maghreb.  

Moroccan Jewish musicians continued this tradition upon arrival in Israel. Jo Amar sang about discrimination, Sami Amar chanted about war, Judah Assaraf weighed in on politics, Maurice Lusky satirized drinking, and Petit Armand revealed the trappings of family life.  Searching through my record collection for this post I discovered a particularly curious phenomenon in light of the propensity of these pop stars to take on anything and everything. To my delight, the mini skirt came up (pardon the pun) in chanson after chanson. Even the universally respected Sliman Elmaghribi, the subject of a future post, weighed in on the fashion phenomenon.

Sliman Elmaghribi. Mini. Zakiphone. 1960s.

Moroccan Jews were not alone in taking up the cause of or against the mini skirt. Whether or not they knew it, Jews were often “singing in unison” with their North African Muslim counterparts, who addressed skirt length in countless records.

Salem Djilali. Atagua Mini Jupe. Boussiphone. 1960s (c/o Toukadime)

So without further ado, I present you with Mini by Esther Elfassy. the Moroccan-born, Israel-reared chanteuse who has been featured on this blog before. Elfassy provides us with what may be the definitive Arabic ode to the mini skirt. Take a listen to her 1970s hit (written by Moshe Ben Hamo, recorded in Jaffa, and pressed in Holon) below and pass along. 

2012 Judeo-Maghreb Holiday Mix

Line Monty / Cheikh Zekri / Jose de Suza

I've put together an all vinyl end of 2012 Judeo-Maghreb compilation that sets the right tone for the holiday season. It's Tunisian tango, Algerian "All About the Benjamins," and the one and only Line Monty - all in one mix.

I recommend playing this LOUD at your holiday hafla. Feel free to pass this one around.

Track List:
Jose de Suza aka Youcef Hedjaj. Consolacion (Guitarra). Metronome. c. 1970s.

Cheikh Zekri. Qoulchi maa el flous (Everything with money). Dounia. c. 1970s.

Line Monty. Berkana menekon. Dounia. c. 1970s.

Happy Hanukkah!