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Al-Ahram Weekly 20 - 26 July 2000 Issue No. 491 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 20 - 26 July 2000 Issue No. 491
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Features Travel Living Sports Profile People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Easy does it
By David Blake
Percussions from the South, Karem Murad, Cairo Opera House open-air theatre, 15 July
Nothing hysterical about Karem Murad from Nubia. If you want it beaten up in a frenzy, then keep away from Karem. He has more than music, he has peace in his soul rarer than the notes. Yet he is no cool classicist, nor does he go for the easy touristic visual approach of romantic palm-laden shores, bending elegantly over an ever placid Nile.
He sticks to what he knows, traditional classic Nubian songs, sung either to his own oud accompaniment or with a small group, eight men in classic snow-white Nubian galabiyas, each wearing a sporty little Nubian cap.
There is no background decor -- everything is formal, almost cubist, each colour reflecting the maximum benefit to be had from the adjoining one. The effect is very Nubian -- clean, clear and radiant with no apparent effort -- nice and easy.
Nubia was a place of miracles, one especially abiding was its light, everything seemed to shine, which had nothing to do with the devouring sun. Nubian light was an inner force, black shone as bright as white, and white blazed. Some invisible hand seemed to have polished the entire physical landscape of the country with diamond dust, without glare or high-light voltage. It glowed, easy, one was forever refreshed.
And so with Murad's performance. It was evocative yet without nostalgia, more evocative than lumps of stone or elegant arrangements of mummy bones in museum glass cases.
Murad sings songs with words which share his special flowering of the Nubian music. It is neither tearful, brave or confronting -- just peaceful again, an earthly balance seemingly denied most other countries. Bali is beautiful, so is Mexico, but their especial grandeur lacks the balance Nubia once had.
It is too easy to always be in the right over Nubia. It's a special miracle that really was there, apparent and positively, embarrassingly, beautifully right. One can't be in the wrong about Nubia and its cumulative effect which could be forever shattering. What was this place -- a country, a nation, an unbalanced place for mere humanity, or a place for demigods stranded by a negligent destiny which had run out of ideas of how to save it from its weird fate.
Well, Nubia went away. There is another one now of course. They could put Abu Simbel on the beach at Waikiki and it would still dazzle, but oh the difference between place and place.
And this is where Murad comes in. Nubia had a musical language like its spoken sounds. It made no impression away from the direct performance. True of all music -- but Nubia did not linger long enough to endure -- if it had to. Years ago, there was singing and playing meetings up in the area of Gharb Sehel which resembled nothing heard since. Children's voices, almost choir like, narrative tales even a foreigner could grasp, played with all the directness of Sicilian folk music.
Murad's tales and songs come from a time like this. They have immediate effect on the listener as folk song, which they are not, but closely related. Like their relatives in far countries, they linger in the memory, never disappearing, returning again and again, always retaining their freshness.
Has Nubia therefore become a land without a country and an idea without music? Hopefully not, but the limited notification of Nubian music creates a barrier.
We are therefore grateful for Murad's tunes and tales. At least they have the authentic ring of something still alive and kicking -- from a far country. There was a huge, densely packed audience for Murad, not an available inch to spare. And a generous programme.
He is much loved, and the love they feel for him floats about through the humid air, and each song receives a standing ovation. The audience know the words, phrases, rhythms and nuances of each tune. One thing is unique, the entire programme remains in the major key, so the effect is festive and the emotions are active, never negative as in the minor.
This helped the brightness which as the programme wove on, created a gala feeling. Few people remained in their seats. There is a constant back and forth and the crowd is entirely into the music. The slow sweeping rhythm of each song leaves the voice of Murad who never tires free to sail high and sink into low conversational asides.
The audience slow-claps the booming sounds, and the white robes of the eight singing men weave rhythmically in the night wind. It is all reflected in the silver light of the full moon, very close down to the open theatre.
The percussive instruments of the men gleam like opals, and the singing surgeons sway left and right. It is hot work up there in the bright hard lights, but none of the performers show it. The audience looks frayed, not the singing lanterns swaying in the wind. The music in its endless subtle swaying is disturbing, something is going on beneath the surface, great things are astir.
This Nubian music, as cool as the pale metal of the moon overhead, has another face to offer the listener. There is a gear change and at this point, three perfectly matched Nubian girls, clad in form-fitting black velvety dresses, each swathed in coloured shawls, begin their own version of the Nubian sway-walk, which looks easy but is full of hidden tricks. Tall, cool, entirely detached from the steaming horde below, the three graces were metamorphically transformed from high-colour tropical fishes into demigoddesses swaying to the rhythm of the spheres, grave, aloof and walking away with the beauty prize of the concert.
