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Al-Ahram Weekly 17 - 23 August 2000 Issue No. 495 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 17 - 23 August 2000 Issue No. 495
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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 Voices on, voices off
By David Blake
Citadel oriental takht, conductor Assem Mahmoud, Cairo Opera House, Open Air theatre, 10 August
Singers have to be careful of warm, damp weather. Humidity affects the human voice as it does stringed instruments. Some violins, even the Stradivarius, revel in it and vibrate happily as the moisture level rises. Others will merely croak their way through the Beethoven concerto. Nothing will restore their voices but love, care and a rapid departure from the scene.
Owners wrap their treasures and rush from the scene. The strings must breathe their chosen atmosphere to restore the temper of an angry timbre. Their travelling cases have moisturisers and built-in atmospheric filters and little packets of desiccating salts. No such care can be taken with the unfortunate singer who has nothing but a larynx and the vocal chords to protect him. Neither Pavarotti, nor the ballad singer of the nearest street corner, is immune.
If you were late to this concert but in time to catch the last song on the programme, you would have seen the tall, elegant figure of May Farouq -- a tragic figure in a flowing black dress, hand to throat, tears flowing, rushing, but with dignity, from the concert platform -- the conductor and entire orchestra standing commiseratingly in consternation. The star had gone, the concert was over. A nasty mixture of sinusitis affecting dust, pollen and heavy humidity had worked their spells upon her beautiful, clear and forceful voice.
This recital had opened less dramatically, a long orchestral prelude of Mohamed Abdel-Wahab, followed by a stately male singer. There was no croak to his voice. It was a very typical voice, veiled beautiful tone, and rather softly apologetic. Like all such Egyptian light tenors, it had great agility and verve.
On the same programme a girl singer had a bright tone and enjoyed herself in spite of the hot wind which blew through the theatre. Open-air singing in Cairo is fraught with tension, even out at the Pyramids. Village noises are sharply defined, and here in the city centre this concert had plenty of competition from well-lit and friendly looking helicopters chugging noisily above the theatre. They don't help a musician's concentration, especially singers. The voice, being a delicate instrument, reacts to every stress.
It's the Citadel Festival again, but beware the winds beneath the dramatic backdrop, which has a tendency to blow the singers' voices anywhere but in the direction of the audience
photo: Amr GamalAt the Citadel -- to which this programme moved the following night -- the summer-night plague is a vibrating amplifier. Fortunately this problem is missing down here in the Opera House, but they have now helicopters to contend with.
In the next section, a young man, Emad Taysir, sang very popular friendly songs which added a comic tone to the otherwise rather serious-toned night. The evening was finally given a genuine flash of colour and voice when the statuesque beauty in pink, Iman Ahmed, came resolutely forward, listened to the orchestral build-up and then gave forth in a super-contralto voice. She sang with conversational intimacy, rising to huge flights of tone like a true operatic contralto. Iman was tall and wore brilliant velvet, iridescent, and sang to great applause. She was not singing Puccini, but she could have done so. Nothing would have stopped her bringing down the house, which she did.
Another of Cairo's surprises is the number of offbeat singers who appear in these concerts fully armed with operatic tones forceful enough to fill the big opera house. Her male companion had a mysterious voice -- Orientalist Egypt sounded and we went back a century to Flaubert and the days of the harem. He suggested moon and Nile, waving palms, the era of the old films. These sounds could have been heard wafting on to the veranda of the Mena House Hotel.
The last part of the concert was May and two boys. The first, Ashraf Mekkawi, was a high baritone. To hear the sheer bodily power of this voice made one think again of Puccini. He keeps to his place and leaves Tosca alone.
The voice was thrilling, he was genuinely Italianate. The other singer, Wael Sami, was more experienced but the voice was much the same. They have both learned the performance of singing and no copter chugging could interfere.
The last item was May Farouq herself. Advertised to sing Umm Kulthoum's Hagartak, she was obviously preoccupied with tone. May Farouq is no Umm Kulthoum look-alike. She sings for herself, extracts the meat and juice from the song, and leaves the bones of memory behind. At the first climax, she made it clear and firm, but there was unaccustomed effort. As the song develops it turns very Verdi -- forthright, dramatic, raising the song to heights which Umm Kulthoum loved. The voice rolls along, gives a spring and leaps up doing a double turn in the air. It bends down triumphant, like a footballer in action. May knows this, and knew what was coming.
No, not tonight, dear. There's no honey left.
