In an earlier blog post, I wrote about Oum Kalthoum’s one and only visit to Morocco and her performance at the Mohammed V Theater, which was attended by a group of Morocco X volunteers. Here’s another perspective by a volunteer who, like most Moroccans, watched from a neighborhood café. This account appeared in the volunteer publication, The Harka, in March 1968, and one can access the issue here. My apologies for the poor scan.
OUM KALTOUM
The cafe is already overcrowded. Hardly an empty chair for the diva’s last concert. The bulldog of a proprietor blocks the door grimacing no entry. A friend inside coaxes him and we slide in through the back door. Shoved into a seat, I adjust to the bright screen.
She stands in the center, Oum Kaltoum. From two tiers of ruffles at the foot of her long dress rises the matronly form. In her left hand she holds a thin veil. Both elbows bend at right angles, both held tight to her body. Her middle and index fingers point; sometimes they tap the beat. On her breast is a large diamond brooch and pendant diamonds dangle from her ears. A proud head crowns the body of a proud woman. For a few moments I take her in, feeling in telescoped time the more pronounced hypnotic effect on the rest of the audience.
My host interrupts, ” You understand a little?” “No.” “She is saying, ‘The day goes on after the length of day.’ It’s not hard to comprehend because she speaks so clearly in the highest literary Arabic,” that may be one reason why it is so difficult. I am trained instead to buy food in the market with the fatimas and to scatter shoeshine boys —”and she repeats everything many times.” I am beginning to agree with that but it doesn’t help.
My friends know the words by heart. It is an old song of hers first sung in the late forties. The lyrics come from the last poems of Omar Khayyam. The melody has a base note, what we call a key. The mode is recognizably Egyptian. She loses me in the soaring and descending arabesques. At a point when I think I am sharing the emotions and anticipating the climaxes and the codas, she catches me off guard again.
The contralto voice sings on with scant trace of vibrato, flat by western standards. Her range is not outstanding; the range of dynamics, not dramatic. Her control is good and her stamina excellent. Some people marvel more at her endurance than her dexterity and sensitivity. “She can go on singing for hours without a pause and not a drop of water to soothe her throat. She can go on for fivehours.” Am I there to witness a marathon or to hear music? What can I gain from sitting here?
I remember David Randolph writing, ” ‘Music is a Universal language’…is a misleading adage…Our response to music is largely conditioned by social and ethnic factors.” How could I understand in one night or even one year in Morocco what the Arab boy has heard since childhood. We have been taught something contrary. We consider glissandos which graze notes between half tones unmusical. Egyptian violins sound like whining. The emotional fuses in her music do not ignite us. Likewise play Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring or some other familiar melody to the uninitiated Moroccan. To such a simple molody we react readily but does he? Then play it in a slightly varied rhythm. He won’t even notice it is “wrong.”
To think I could seize the emotion of Oum Kaltoum was deceptive. Without words came only a vague idea: sad or joyous, grave or playful. Yet are we totally inadequate to appreciate the vocalist both musicaly and extra-musically? My mind stops wandering.
Around and below her sit the orchestral minions: eight violins to her right, three cellos, one plucked bass, bongos and tambourine to her right, and nearest her a horizontal harp instrument and a long vertical flute. The flutist blows sideways: the twitchy harpist eyes her anxiously every moment. The unsynchronized strings bow slithering downward runs. 1 2 3 4 5. Their intensity and pitch mount after she concludes a stanza. 1 and 2 and 1 and 2 and 1 and 2 she climbs the jerky rhythmic stairs. The audience boils. Applause batters her embellishments. She makes a reserved flourish of the hands.
The violins shimmer and she becomes pondersome and she says, “And 15 if I die, where do I go? I want to go… but where? I am in the world without being consulted.” (In the song Omar Khayyam asks pardon for not being pious before. He was first an atheist and converted to Islam in later life.) The joyful tone melts into the seriousness of an affirmation of faith. Gone is the coquettishness.
She repeats of her own will this time, not at the audience’s demand. Often they call on her to repeat again and again, but they insist she never does it the same way Thus she deserves to prolong each song. A change of key is infrequent and changes of rhythm create almost all the increased and reduced tension.
This time the tempo slows to a ripple on the harp. Almost a cadenza, but it is brief and never detracts from the virtuosity of the singer. The cameras make no secret of the fact that she dominates the stage. She has wonderful stage presence. At that instant to most everyone she is sublime.
An hour after the concert began the crowd first becomes restless. Fatigue grows on the faces of the musicians. They question expectantly where and how long she will lead them. In the cafe it is no sacrilege to forget Oum Kaltoum for a minute. Distractions whistle around the smoky glass cage.
A veiled whore knocks at the door but the patron balks. Insisting, she breaks into a scream. She lashes and scratches. He strikes and his fist lands hard. Now she is loose; he dashes out after her by the side way. She disappears. Back to the song. Half an hour later the clientele smirks as she glides by in tow in the other direction.
Another fracas flashes mutely through the panes. A chase. Shadows pass in the dark. The shoeshine boy, frightened eyes agog, presses his nose white against the glass to glimpse an idol. She has finished. Hush! They announce an hour break. That undercuts a little the legend of her stamina.
Midnight. Oum Kaltoum herself sang, “Staying up into the night never killed anyone; sleep never lengthened anyone’s life.” Question the depth of that if you wish. Why not stay for the
second song?
Intermission —The News — Another parable in adoration. The king is in Marrakech. Watch him parade through the streets. How broad the avenues, how infinite the crowds. They hail him endlessly. How skillful the cameras. Cut.
A lesson in boredom. A well-intentioned American describes American space ventures in quite good dialect, abominable accent. He takes so long. The viewers pity him. “So long, fellow.” they say when he is phased out to the Tetuan Conservatory orchestra playing Andalusian music with western scales and no harmony. Stiff and correct they say. So does the endless violin solo. Watchers clamor for their lady.
Her time comes. The curtain parts, she crosses her legs a few times and stands. Her song…”Is it true that love is the victor?” the question she asks her lover. “I don’t know, I just don’t know.”She stirs with excitement. She pivots restlessly on her feet like a well-fed ladybird, rooted like a sibyl, too. Sometimes she bobs like a grandmother bird. She is trying to evoke the frustration of a lover. Her gestures are truncated and choppy. Unnoticed the veil changes hands. When she stops the high-pitched string birds all flutter to protect her.
She wields a full arsenal of vocal tricks not to say musical ones. Can the men find a sixty-four year old dowager erotic? Surely it is the heightened suggestion. Lots of nasal m’s and n’s, tantalizing as the end of the line exudes. An unexpected syncopation,…gasp…she wriggles back.
The tenth repetition oozes forth amid wobbles and breathiness. “Aii, Aii ” they cry, “weely, weely, weely. ” They are aroused, déchainés, drunk on the last rendition. Troubled listeners shift position, upset by the extravagint reactions attacking her dignity for she is revered. Every word is haloed and quoted. They say she is being paid 47 million for the three concerts…invitation of His Majesty. The price of the tickets cannot cover. The poor country, the rich music.
“She must have repeated that ten times.” “Sixteen to be exact.” corrects my prompter. Oh…is it so remarkable that she never repeats the same way? Has she stretched the medium beyond its limits? Do the words become trivial or richer through repetition? “Is it true love conquers? I just don’t know. Is it true love conquers? I don’t know.” Which side are you on : infinite variety or diminishing returns?
“She’s dead! ” says one. True the pitch can only fall. The orchestra now uninspired follows on a leash. The cameras enlarge the shadows on the backstage curtains. She will not take an encore. She will take only overflowing accolades and frozen roses to her bosom.
To the door of the cale swings a cripple on crutches. He stares in. Everyone else’s face is vacant, too. They do not see him. He is fast on crutches; that is what he can do. He’s off after a fat man with a pipe. He pleads and clings until he is brushed off like a sticky caterpillar into the street.
By then the creature of charisma has stopped singing. Stranded people soon scatter across the cobblestones, 2:30 in the morning. The night is over as far as they are concerned. No love at this hour. There are many other ways to be conquered. Thank the lady for her spell and the cast of characters of the night.
Morocco That Was 