|
History in Contemporary Practice: |
| Reprinted from the Middle East Studies
Association Bulletin, Summer 2002 (with changes in orthography to HTML standards). Copyright 2002 by the Middle East Studies Association of North America |
| A consideration of the contemporary musical soundscape in Syria
provides unique insights into how Syrians of multiple classes and generations discriminate between critical points in their own past, who they perceive they are today, and how they might think about their future. This review, based on fieldwork in Syria conducted between 1997 and 2001, suggests that people in Syria can use music to negotiate the following complex issues: 1) the struggle between an identity rooted in the modern nation-state of Syria and one rooted in the more traditional concept of ‘Bilad al-Sham’ (roughly ‘the lands governed from Damascus,’ a region that included all of modern Lebanon, as well as portions of Turkey, Palestine, and Jordan); 2) the struggle between a Syrian identity and an Arab identity; and 3) the maintenance of a strongly Arab and necessarily anti-Western canon. Below, five genres or artists, central to the Syrian music canon, are described. These five genres or artists are played daily in Syrian homes, residential musical gatherings, religious celebrations, concerts of Syrian music, and on the radio and television. This music proves the centrality of Syria's history to Syria's living present, for in Syria, genres and artists of the past are part of a vibrantly alive living musical tradition. A Legacy of al-Andalus (Islamic Spain 711-1492): Muwashshah The muwashshah (pl. muwashshahat) tradition is a song genre in which poetry, commonly perceived to have been written in al-Andalus (the Iberian Peninsula or Islamic Spain ca 711-1492), is set to music. There is no doubt that in recent years, the dominant perception of the beginning of Syria’s special music significance dates to the muwashshah tradition, which is thought to have spread from Islamic Spain (al-Andalus) to Aleppo, Syria, and Cairo, Egypt beginning in the early tenth century. In al-Andalus, lavish court life centered around intellectual and philosophical interchange. “For nearly eight centuries an urban, highly cosmopolitan, multilingual, and multi-ethnic court flourished in which elements of Islamic, Christian, and Jewish civilizations intermingled freely” (Reynolds 3). Poets, philosophers, and musicians were supported by the courts and students flocked to al-Andalus as it was recognized as a center of higher learning in all of the Islamic world. Indeed, “art, literature, and science flourished with such brilliance that their light was reflected to all parts, not only the world of Islam, but of Western Europe” (Farmer 185). Musicians, then, were trained in the arts of poetry and Islamic arts as well as music. During my fieldwork in Syria I took lessons, attended home music gatherings, observed concerts, and documented radio and television music programming. In each of these contexts, muwashshahat were primary. In Syria, one cannot take music lessons without hearing of al-Andalus, muwashshahat, and the importance of poetry and the related art of proper pronunciation of classical Arabic. Today, the most highly revered musicians in Syria consider muwashshahat as the principal component of their repertoire. I offer three examples of such musicians, my teachers, Mahmoud ‘Ajan and Qadri Dallal, and their colleague, Sabri Mudallal, the later two both from Aleppo. They believe this critical repertoire has been most vibrantly preserved in twentieth-century Aleppo. Given their unusual exposure to music outside of Syria, for example their annual participation in the “Arab Music Congress” held in Cairo and their concerts in Western Europe (despite the effective ‘iron curtain’ which the former President of Syria, Hafiz al-Asad, maintained around Syria), their judgment seems particularly compelling. ‘Ajan is most famous as a theorist and learned scholar of Arab music. He told me he had a particular interest in muwashshahat, for what they demonstrate about ‘iqa (rhythms), forms, and history of classical Arab music. In our weekly lessons, which were broken into two three-hour periods, he took selective recordings from his personal archives (over one-thousand cassettes make in the course of his eighty plus years) to serve as the basis of our study of muwashshahat, a category which he also details in his seminal book.[13] In our lessons, ‘Ajan and I would listen multiple times to a given muwashshah as he taught me to ‘count’ the rhythmic strokes by striking into my left palm, my right flat palm (Dum strokes) or an upside down right fist (Tak strokes). “First is rhythm which is based on poetry,” he instructed.[14] In the following segment of our lesson, ‘Ajan would say the poetry while we ‘performed’ the rhythm together on our hands. Finally, we would listen to the selected recording. ‘Ajan often has up to a half a dozen recordings of the same muwashshah performed by different groups; it was my understanding that at each stage of my learning he selected the ‘most appropriate’ recording to emphasize what he was teaching me. Regrettably due to severe illness ‘Ajan’s wife was only able to sing for me three times during my tenure in Syria. On each of these occasions she sang entirely muwashshahat, “for that is the core of a Syrian singer’s repertoire.” In addition to our lessons, I participated in weekly music gatherings at ‘Ajan’s home, gatherings that have been held for over forty years, on Friday evenings. With the exception of myself, the fifteen to thirty-five participants were exclusively male, primarily over fifty years old, businessmen, and amateur devotees of Arab music. The evening gathering ranged from three to five hours and always included multiple performances of muwashshahat, during which the better-known songs would be sung by all men in full voice (irrespective of the ‘quality’ of their sound). ‘Ajan is respected as the authority and every single weekly gathering included a ‘lesson’ related to muwashshahat. “Who was the poet?” “And who was the composer?” “Why is this muwashshah important?” “What year was it composed?” “What can you tell us about the muwashshah tradition and its place in our history?” “I brought this recording for you to listen to. Do you think it is good?” “Why is this music, our music from al-Andalus, so special?” In short, for the foremost theorist and scholar of Arab music in Syria, ‘Ajan, muwashshahat are a principle part of the repertoire he teaches, discusses, and performs on the ‘ud (Arab lute) and violin. Unlike ‘Ajan who, as an Alewite, is ambiguous in his regard of religious practice and appears to view all music as secular, Dallal and Mudallal are Sufis—and as such muwashshat serves as the critical component of both their religious and secular repertoire. Dallal is the son of a master Sufi, the son-in-law of a former Mufti (high ranking religious figure in Syria), and a former student of Arabic literature at al-Azhar University in Cairo. His interest in Arabic literature reflects his claim that “poetry is the basis of all Arab music.” In our lessons, which were devoted exclusively to muwashshat, Dallal (a master orator) would recite the poetry while I made notes on the recitation before we approached the music. Three to five hours of reciting poetry preceded an additional one-hour lesson when we concentrated on the music. Dallal is also the artistic director of “Al-Kindi,” likely the best known ensemble of classical/religious Syrian music. Not surprisingly, Al-Kindi’s repertoire consists largely of muwashshahat. Finally, in Sufi rituals (zikr), muwashshahat are also primary. I was fortunate to witness one such ritual on the occasion of a celebration of the Prophet’s birthday. Although, as a woman, I witnessed the event from upstairs and behind a curtain, I could hear the music and the ritual that involved Dallal and his colleagues. Mudallal is known both at home and abroad for his performance in a variety of contexts. Now in his eighties, Mudallal has spent his life as a practicing Sufi and is well-known as the muezzin (caller-to-prayer) at the great Mosque of Aleppo as well as for his ethereal singing at religious gatherings and celebrations. He is also famous for his singing with the Whirling Dervishes of Aleppo. Other than the improvisatory genres of layali and mawwal, Mudallal’s singing is devoted to muwashshahat. He performs this repertoire at home gatherings, mosques, and stadiums alike, creating a sense of tarab or spiritual ecstasy. Undoubtedly he is the most respected Syrian singer in contemporary times. His notoriety, his faith, and his Andalusian repertoire confirm a certain affirmation among Syrians of their affinity for history and tradition. Mudallal’s performance represents the physical embodiment of Syrian history and tradition. Muwashshahat are also broadcast on radio and television in Syria. The muwashshahat that are the most frequently played are attributed to the Syrian, Omar Batch (1885-1950). In fact, this music forms a staple of broadcast time, heard as ‘sound bites’ between programs or in full performance in the late morning and late afternoon. The repertoire of muwashshahat has even been embraced and showcased by the government as a symbol or emblem of national and cultural identity. In 1997, the Syrian Ministry of Culture and the Spanish Embassy in Syria began an annual fall series of Arab Andalusian Music Concerts. During my three-year stay in Syria I attended this annual event each year. At each event three groups performed: one from North Africa, one from Spain, and one from Aleppo. Perhaps it was logical that the Syrian audiences would favor their own understanding of their historical tie with al-Andalus as executed by the ensemble from Aleppo in the Arab-Andalusian Concert series. While each region (Spain, North Africa, and Syria) finds cultural heritage in the performance of Andalusian music, I was struck by the contrasts between each of the ensembles’ performances. For example, the North African ensembles (from Morocco and Tunisia) featured multiple performances of nuba (pl. nubat), the North African genre of Andalusian music. Nubat are distinguished by their own sequential, modal movements and in contrast to Syrian practices do not have quarter tones. At the festival, the nubat were performed by all-male groups of instrumentalists and singers using Arab instruments, including the rebab, or spiked fiddle, and singing in North African Arabic. In contrast, the Spanish group, which was directed by Eduardo Paniagua for each of the years I attended, always dedicated a full half of its program to Christian Andalusian music, such as its 1998 choice, “Cantigas de Alfonso X el Sabio (1221-84),” sung in Spanish by a chorus of men and women. In 1998, Paniagua’s instrumentation included a banjo, electric guitar, and piano, in addition to multiple violins and cellos. The dominance of muwashshahat in the Aleppo repertoire, musically and poetically, marked the Aleppan performance with distinction. The Near East music aesthetic, including Arab quarter-tones, musical modes, and improvisation, were markedly different from the performances by the North African and Spanish groups. Even the pronunciation of Arabic lyrics reflected the Levantine Classical Arabic tradition. It became clear that in terms of instrumentation, repertoire, music, and performance by a takht—a group of four or five musicians composed of a ‘ud, nay or reed-flute, violin, qanun, plucked zither, and riqq, tambourine—Syrians practice and conceive of their heritage from al-Andalus in different terms than those of the North African and Spanish groups. The Syrian audience packed the hall more than an hour before the performance was to begin and once it started audience members shouted out passionate acclamations. Many of them stood throughout the entire four-hour performance, and if regulations had not required the closing of the venue, it seems as if the audience could have stayed for days. In this context Syrians were clearly proud to be Syrians. As Syrian musical practice indicates, one important component is the heritage of al-Andalus, not in broad historical Arab terms, but in ‘Syria’s select presentation’ of it. For Syrians, Syria and the cultural capital Aleppo have a particularly special role in the forbearance of the muwashshah tradition for what it says about who they were and are. The legacy of muwashshahat and al-Andalus were and are declared by Syrians as their own, as a component of their historical identity that still has meaningful significance in their contemporary lives. The Turko-Arab Contribution: Sama‘i With the benefit of my education prior to my arrival in Syria (see Marcus 1989), I was familiar with the musical Turko-Arab instrumental genre known as sama‘i. Syrians, however, taught me why and how the sama‘i was and is a vibrantly practiced musical form today, the basis of all musical pedagogy, and a reflection of the ‘selective history’ which contributes to Syrian identity in the twenty-first century. The sama‘i is a serious instrumental genre notable in part for its ten-beat rhythmic pattern, which begins each concert of traditional Arab music in Syria and the majority of residential musical gatherings that I attended (one clear exception comes to mind: the National Symphony Orchestra performs Western Classical music). The genre dates from the Ottoman era and is practiced in the area referred to in Western scholarship as Mashriq. While scholars often describe the genre as ‘Turko-Arab,’ composers of this instrumental genre include Armenians, Turks, and Arabs. Sama‘iyyat (pl. of sama‘i) form the foundation of music pedagogy for Arab music in Syria. Arab music is composed of two primary elements: ‘iqa or rhythm, and maqam (pl. maqamat) or mode. Students learn the system of Arabic musical modes through the study of the sama‘i. Rather than teaching scales, as is the norm in the West, students of Arab music learn about modes, modulation, intonation, and techniques all through learning to play sama‘iyyat. This knowledge, which historically references the Ottoman era, even in its contemporary practice, acts as one of the building blocks of Arab music. Thus, although I took ‘ud (short-necked, fretless lute) lessons in Damascus, Latakia, and Aleppo from men with vastly different socio-economic, educational, and religious backgrounds, they consistently chose sama‘iyyat to teach a given mode, instrumental technique, and the basics of a Syrian, Arab repertoire. Abu Nasser (a pseudonym) was my first teacher in Syria. He is a master ‘ud player, a former ‘ud teacher at the National Conservatory of Music, and a former radio and television musician. He is from a village and the only literate member of his family, which includes eleven members whom he alone supports on the basis of his income as an ‘ud instructor. Yet, despite the difference in his background from that of the formerly introduced ‘Ajan who is from a landowning family, highly educated, fluent in French, and an author and scholar, they each taught me sama‘iyyat, “for,” as they both expressed, “sama‘iyyat are the basis of understanding maqam.” In fact, employing sama‘iyyat as the primary pedagogical tool is the policy used by Abu Nasser’s teacher (an Armenian), the National Conservatory of Music in Damascus and the Arab Music Institute in Aleppo, and, to my knowledge, all secondary after-school music programs and independent teachers of Arab Music in Syria. Additionally my research documents the same precise progression in sama‘iyyat and their associated modes in independent lesson and schools. Thus Abu Nasser and ‘Ajan began and progressed in my independent lessons with the same sama‘iyyat in the same order. This uniformity seems to suggest that just as the West has codified a music pedagogy, so has Syria. I was taught sama‘iyyat by Taytos, 'Ali Darwish, Safir 'Ali, and Yusef Basha among others. By embracing sama‘iyyat as the fundamental pedagogical tool in Syrian music, Syrians accept a specific aspect of the cultural world they shared with the Turko-Arab tradition as their own. Finally, it is a common understanding in music circles within Syria that sama‘iyyat are part of a living tradition. In the Friday night weekly music gatherings that I described above at ‘Ajan’s and at all concerts of Arab music that I attended (including those by Dallal and Mudallal), musicians consistently started their sessions with a sama‘i, even during an evening where there was only a single instrumentalist in attendance. The sama‘i is understood to begin and set the tone for the evening, establishing an ambience for those interested in listening to Arab music as an affirmation of their history and their present. Men count out the rhythm using their hands in the manner ‘Ajan taught me and confirm the maqam and the composer immediately upon conclusion at private gatherings. This information is normally confirmed publicly in concert settings, perhaps further endorsing my observation of the sama‘i as a crucial pedagogical tool. Sama‘iyyat are also heard daily on television and radio. Practitioners and listeners of Syrian Arab music irrespective of their generation or specialization seem to deeply respect, intently listen to, and play sama‘iyyat. Syrians choose to honor this component of their cultural heritage and its reference to the Ottoman era. Although a part of the historical past, they embrace this instrumental genre as a living tradition in contemporary Syria. Thus, sama‘iyyat reflect one aspect of Syrian identity based in the past and valorized in the present. The ‘Syrian’ Who Made It: Farid al-Atrash I move now to the single most famous Syrian artist of the twentieth century, the ‘ud player, composer, and singer, Farid al-Atrash (d. 1974). ‘Farid’ as he is commonly known is substantively different than the historical figures and genres just discussed due to his notoriety in the modern Arab world. Both the muwashshah and sama‘i traditions date from earlier historical periods whereas Farid and his music lived and flourished in the twentieth-century modern nation state of Syria. His was an era when pan-Arab identity was an issue of great importance, including the brief, but significant union of Syria and Egypt in the United Arab Republic (1958-61). Pan-Arabism connected peoples of the Mashriq region through the Egyptian media and Egypt became the virtual center of the Arab world for recording and performance artists alike (see Racy 1981, 1988). Thus, although when Syrians are asked who is the most famous Syrian artist of all time, and they invariable answer, ‘Farid,’ I have been shocked to learn that many Egyptians and Arab-Americans assume Farid was Egyptian. The confusion over Farid’s nationality emphasizes the reality of those times; anyone who wanted to be successful in the music world needed to be in Cairo. My research affirms that despite the fact that Farid lived and did all of his recording in Cairo, Syrians uniformly identify him as one of their own. Farid’s picture is the most commonly seen photograph of a public figure in Syrian homes with the exception of the late and current Presidents. Syrians told me over and over again that he was: “a man of the people…a villager who made it.” Farid was from a village south of Damascus within the current boundaries of Syria, and a Druze. People I met emphasized that he was “from a village.” Furthermore, people recognize that “he learned by listening. This is the best way!” “He would play for hours—eight or nine hours a day.” “He never had a lesson.” “He was blessed from God we would say. His music was his life.” “He was poor, from an illiterate family. And he raised his family up.” “His songs, aren’t they beautiful?” Life in Syria in the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s was difficult—economically, politically, and socially. Perhaps it was the perfect time to celebrate a Syrian artist. My work documents that Syrians perceive Farid as “a musician who with his ‘ud and his songs taught [them] how [they could] be Syrians—and perhaps how [they could] live.” “Listen to his lyrics” my friends told me. “They are always of the broken heart, love, and difficulty. And yet how you must go on.” “If you are sad, you must listen to Farid. He will make you feel better.” “In the hard times, it is music, our music, Farid’s, that makes us feel better.” Farid brought to the forefront the importance of Pan-Arabism in Syrian identity. In addition, by example and through his art form he offered Syrians hope for the future. Finally he was a highly acclaimed artist—a Syrian highly acclaimed artist. He is most famous for his ‘ud taqasim (pl. of taqsim), or improvisations, an integral component of Arab music performance. Syrians even differentiate between Egyptian and Syrian ‘schools’ of taqasim, using Farid as the definition of the second. And while Saudis, Egyptians, Iraqis, and Arabs throughout the world may differ in their opinion as to who is the greatest ‘ud player of all time, my documentation suggests that Farid is consistently among the top five. It seems particularly important to Syrians that Farid and his music, in contrast to the sama‘i and muwashshah traditions which originated in educated elite classes, began his life as a poor, village boy who had no education or training. And it is fascinating to me as a scholar that while the sama‘i and muwashshah traditions have ‘filtered down’ so that they are practiced by virtually all Syrian-Arab musicians and valorized by the Syrian public irrespective of education or background, Farid’s music ‘rose up’ so that his art and persona are respected by virtually all Syrians. Farid is the single most-often-played Syrian artist on Syrian radio and television. Beginning by 7 am and continuing throughout the day and into the late evening and early morning hours, Farid’s songs and his ‘ud taqasim are played every single hour. His ‘ud taqasim serve as the most frequent predecessor and follower of the five-times-a-day broadcast of the call to prayer. Further, his taqasim are the most frequent ‘sound bites,’ thirty second to five minute fillers, on Syrian radio and television, which does not allow commercials. His songs are most often played in their entirety, which given their brevity and light nature in contrast to the muwashshahat and sama‘iyyat are easily consumed and enjoyed by listeners. In addition at least once a week in a prime time segment (10-11 am or 10-11 pm), both radio and television broadcast a special, which features Farid and his music alone or in the context of Syrian music or history. It is difficult to say whether the Syrian government which controls the radio and television broadcasts adopted Farid as their own before or after the Syrians themselves did. Whatever the case, they fully embrace and daily showcase Farid and his music as a representation of who Syrians are. Because Farid represented a Pan-Arab identity, a villager who made it, and a world class musician, he and his music offer insight into the complexity of contemporary Syrian identity. Many Syrians claim Farid as a personal hero. This degree of valorization is manifest in home photographs, the fact that more recordings are sold of his music than that of any other Syrian artist despite the fact that he died more than twenty years ago, and the way that he lives on in Syrians’ words and lives. Perhaps an additional reason for Farid’s importance is that he got out of Syria. Farid was a gifted artist who is idealized by Syrians because he managed to leave and yet “stay Syrian and play our music.” Thus the reverence Syrians attribute to Farid al-Atrash, a figure of the past, indicates how Syrians dream about their future. Two Super Broadcast Artists: Fayrouz and Umm Kulthum The association of Farid with Syrian collective identity points toward the aspects of contemporary identity that are rooted in the late twentieth-century pan-regional Mashriq. This identity is propelled by mass media and embraced by diverse religions, nations, and cultural traditions. I now turn to two super broadcast artists, both women, neither of them Syrian: Fayrouz, the contemporary, Christian, Lebanese singer and Umm Kulthum, the late, Muslim, Egyptian singer. In addition to taking lessons and attending weekly musical gathering and concerts in Syria, I also taught co-educational English classes to Syrians. Asking my students who their favorite singer was and why gave me a unique opportunity to document the appeal of Fayrouz and Umm Kulthum among a different group of Syrians than those with whom I interacted on a more frequent basis. At the American Language Center in Damascus, the students are most often between the ages of eighteen and thirty, university students or graduates, and from well-to-do families (the tuition for a ten-week course, which must be paid in Syrian currency, is the equivalent of one-hundred dollars, more than the monthly salary for even doctors, lawyers, and PhDs in Syria). Students were required to write a number of ‘essays’ during the course of the term, and writing about their favorite singer was always an option. Thus, I received scores of journals about Fayrouz and Umm Kulthum. Keeping in mind that I taught various levels of English from low to high-intermediate, here is what some of the Syrian young people I taught said about their favorite singers. Fayrouz “is glamorous,” “dedicated to the Palestinian cause,” “has the voice of a nightingale,” “is beautiful,” “is both modern and Arab at the same time,” “is Christian,” and “is the greatest singer today.” “You can hear Fayrouz all the time in Bab Touma [Old Damascus—the predominant Christian Quarter today], especially during holy weeks.” “Fayrouz is Lebanese—of course, everyone knows that, and Christian, but that doesn’t matter in her music.” “Her voice is wonderful.” Umm Kulthum “is the greatest singer of all time.” “No one sings like Umm Kulthum.” “Umm Kulthum, she is the first and the last; she is my heart.” “She was before my time, but I still listen to her every day. She is the teacher, the very best.” “I grew up listening to Umm Kulthum and she is a part of me.” And finally, my personal favorite, quotes from a nineteen year-old-student of mine, Amer: Umm Kulthum “moves you to another world;” she is known as “the lady;” she is the “planet of the East;” and the “honor of this lady” will never be surpassed. Public transportation is another context where Fayrouz and Umm Kulthum dominate the soundscape. On average, taxi cab drivers carry ten or fifteen cassettes; according to my documentation, at least eight were of Umm Kulthum and at least three were of Fayrouz (with an increase in the music of Fayrouz if the taxi driver is Christian). Micro-buses, or vans with established routes, seem to follow the same pattern. When I boarded and observed the iconic decorations indicating whether the driver was Muslim or Christian, I could guess whether Fayrouz’s or Umm Kulthum’s music would be playing. Nevertheless, Syrian audiences for these two women, as observed above, do cross religions, ethic, socio-cultural, and linguistic boundaries. Moreover, in Syria today, the contemporary Lebanese singer, Fayrouz, and the late Egyptian artist, Umm Kulthum (d. 1975) are played on the television and radio more than any other artists on a daily basis. There are two Syrian radio and television stations and as indicated above the government controls all scheduling. The stations are simply identified as “Syrian Radio 1, Syrian Radio 2, Syrian [TV] Channel 1, and Syrian [TV] Channel 2”. My epiphany occurred when after repeatedly hearing Fayrouz broadcast on speakers on my daily early morning walks, I asked my Arabic teacher why I consistently heard Fayrouz in the morning. Nabila responded, “The programming is precise. Fayrouz is played from 7 am until 10 am every morning and Umm Kulthum is played every afternoon, beginning by 1 pm and periodically throughout the remainder of the day and night. It’s been this way for thirty years.” As a scholar I was delighted and yet confused, for no Syrian seemed to notice the precise scheduling or even question it. Following this incident I asked hundreds of Syrians why I heard Fayrouz in the morning and Umm Kulthum in the afternoon and evening. “It has always been this way.” “Of course, you grow up hearing Fayrouz in the morning.” “When you go to school, preparing and on the way, you listen to Fayrouz.” “I can sing you songs from my childhood mornings; they are all Fayrouz. I began to sing them when I was three or four.” “Umm Kulthum is the greatest singer of all time. We listen to her every day, starting at the mid-day.” “Umm Kulthum is best to hear at night. She is my heart.” “Umm Kulthum, she is above all. We listen for her voice daily—but in the afternoon and night.” Even my students often answered my question, who is your favorite singer, “Fayrouz in the morning and Umm Kulthum at night.” In addition to residential radios and televisions, the musics of Fayrouz and Umm Kulthum are broadcast via public speakers, that line the streets. On a daily basis, the radio programming is broadcast directly into the speakers that fill parks and public areas in urban cities. So, for example, if you are walking through the park in the morning, or riding public transportation listening to the radio, you will hear the same broadcast (including Fayrouz) as is currently being played on the state-controlled radio. In addition, however, the public speakers can be controlled separately, so that in the case of holiday festivities or political rallies, should it be deemed appropriate, you might hear something distinct in the streets and public arenas from what is being broadcast on the radio. Fayrouz is also an ardent supporter of and a public spokeswoman for Arab and Palestinian causes. In my three years in Syria, Fayrouz’s music was the only pre-recorded music broadcast at political rallies in Syria. Contemporary Syrian artists are often called upon to perform for state affairs, but they do so live. Fayrouz and a specific portion of her repertoire is the only pre-recorded music broadcast publicly in political contexts. Thus I came to understand that not only do Syrians assume they will hear Fayrouz in the morning and Umm Kulthum in the afternoons and evenings, but that the musics of Fayrouz and Umm Kulthum have been embraced by the Syrian government as an articulation of modern-day Syrian identity. Finally, I return to my participation in ‘Ajan’s Friday evening gatherings to share some additional insights into Umm Kulthum’s importance to the older generation (fifties plus gentlemen) of Syrians. Multiple Umm Kulthum songs are performed at every Friday evening gathering I have attended at ‘Ajan’s. All participates sing in full voice, requests are made for specific songs, debates occur over who was her best composer, and she is recognized by one and all as the greatest Arab singer of all time. These gentlemen appear to choose her as a reflector and generator of their identity for myriad reasons. Most of them came from villages, as did Umm Kulthum. They applaud Umm Kulthum’s impeccable pronunciation which is often cited as one of great fruits of her Qur’anic study. Umm Kulthum was pro-Arab and strongly supported by her peoples. They grew up hearing her Thursday night concerts, which were broadcast live from Cairo throughout Syria, and the “world stopped to hear her voice.” Clearly, while Fayrouz might be seen as more of a popular star, the music of Umm Kulthum can be included alongside the more traditional repertoire, like muwashshahat.[15] Conclusion Music is used in powerful ways to negotiate complex aspects of history and identity. While this article has been devoted to Syria, perhaps we can apply the methodology to our own areas of expertise to examine such topics as the struggle between modern nation-state identities and more traditional historical ones, the struggle between a national identity and a cultural identity, and the struggle to refuse the so-often-assumed polarity of Arab and Western cultures. Recommended Discography [16] The Aleppian Music Room/Le Salon de Musique d’Alep. 2 CDs No. CML 574 1108.09. rec. Aleppo, Syria. Import (but available via Amazon.com), 1998. Le Chant du Monde.Note: an exceptional value for 2 superb CDs which include muwashshahat, sama‘iyyat, as well at taqasim, layali, mawwal, etc. Fairouz: Wahdon. 1 CD, Virgin, 0946 3 10947 2 9, 1995. Holland. Note: The “Syrian, Fayrouz aesthetic” is fairly well articulated on all but the last (fifth) title song of this album. Partial translations are provided for all songs. King of the Oud: Farid al-Atrache. 1 CD Sonod, ASIN BOOOOO1HYD. Available via Amazon.com used. Note: there are many recordings available of Farid al-Atrash. This one is devoted to his ‘ud taqasims. Legendary Fairuz. 1 CD, Hemisphere, 7243 8 23572 2 3, 1997. Available via Amazon.com. Note: there are many recordings available of Fayrouz. This one represents the “voice of Fayrouz” that Syrians are most likely to know. Les Derviches Tournes de Damas avec L’Ensemble al-Kindi/The Whirling Dervishes of Damascus with al-Kindi Ensemble. 2 CDS No. CMT 574 1123.24, 1999. Theatre de la Ville de Paris. rec. Studio Vahe, Damascus, Syria, 1999. Paris, France: Le Chant du Monde. The Music of Spanish al-Andalus. CD No. DS-0123, 1994. Junta de Andalucia, Consejeria de Cultura. rec. Aleppo, Syria 1996. Musica de Andalucia, Almaviva. Omme Kolsoum: La Diva. 1 Compilation CD 7243 8 35270 1, 1995. EMI Music Arabia Diva of Arabic Music, Vol. 1 - 3 Available via Amazon.Com. Note: These collections, that is, “Diva of Arabic Music,” are recommended over single album songs if you are not familiar with Umm Kulthum. Unfortunately there are no liner notes. Syrie: Muezzins d’Alep/Chants Religieux d l’Islam. CD No. C 580038, 1992. Festival d’Automne a Paris. Paris, France: Ocora/Radio France, 1992. References Cited/Suggested Ajan, Mahmoud. Al-Turaath al Musiqa: Studies of the Dur and the Segh, including Instrumental, Melodic, and Formalistic Analysis. Damascus: Syria, 1990. Marcus, Scott L. Arab Music Theory in the Modern Period. Doctoral Dissertation: University of California, Los Angeles. 1989. Racy, Ali Jihad. “Music in Contemporary Cairo: A Comparative Overview,” in Asian Music 13.1(1981): 4-26. __________. “Sound and Society: The Takht Music of Early 20th c. Cairo,” in Selected Reports in Ethnomusicology 7 (1988) :139-170. Reynolds, Dwight. “Nubat Al Zidan” Program Notes from “An Evening with the UCSB Middle East Ensemble, May 30, 1992.” Wedeen, Lisa. Ambiguities of Domination: Politics, Rhetoric, and Symbols in Contemporary Syria. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1999. |
| * The research on which this article is based was funded through the generosity of fellowships from the IIE Fulbright (1998-99) and Fulbright-Hays and Wenner-Gren Dissertation Fellowships
(2000-2001). [13] Al-Turaath al Musiqa: Studies of the Dur and the Segh, including Instrumental, Melodic, and Formalistic Analysis (1990). [14] I was forbidden from taking notes or recording my lessons or music gatherings in Syria. Quotation marks are my own paraphrasing of what I heard and understood as noted by me after various events had occurred. [15] It is interesting to note that Fayrouz has no place in ‘Ajan’s gatherings. Perhaps it is because ‘Ajan does not think she is a “good artist,” that she “has gone Western” in the poor sense of the word (‘Ajan plays and reveres Western classical music) or perhaps it is because “she is liked by the common people.” [16] The spelling of names and terms in the titles below are occasionally different than those above. |
|
|
