By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Still, if the war to come does indeed end by April, the divided nature of Iraqand of its musicwill not end. Indeed, the division may widen, as Iraq's Arabic majority population and its Kurdish minority each feel free to develop their already flourishing, very dissimilar cultures. The new Iraq may well lookand soundsomething like today's Belgium, where the techno-heavy music of that country's Flemish-speaking regions bumps up against the Parisian Euro-pop of its francophone southern half. If so, those of us who want to know well the new, hopefully democratic Iraq dare not overlook the music of Kurdistan.
But first, Arabic Iraq. In the Arabic music scene, Baghdad (ironically, a Persian name, meaning "God-given") plays a minor role. Cairo is its recording centerits New York Cityand Beirut, in Lebanon, is its "beach division," its Miami. Techno acts like DJ Jim and girly Eurodisco-ists like the 4 Cats reign supreme in Beirut; Nubian pop, classic chanson, and the funky desert music known as sha'abi command the 12 million ears of Cairenes. What small prominence the music arising in Baghdad does claim comes almost exclusively from Kazim Al Sahir, Arab pop's most loved male star.
Sahir's almost innumerable albums, created over two decades, have conquered nearly the entire Arabic-speaking world. With good reason: Compared to the localized focus of most Arabic pop singers, Sahir's ebullient sentimentalism and virtually limitless range of melodies, rhythms, instrumentation, and song lengths depict a whole world of places and passions. If the sha'abi so favored by traditional Arabic pop singers feels as locally tribal as its Bedouin origins, Sahir draws upon the entire geography ruled by Arabic governors during the years (A.D. 700 to A.D. 1100 ) when Baghdad caliphs commanded the southern shore of the Mediterranean. Tarab, the light television-show pop that rivals sha'abi in popularity in the Arabic worldtons of it issues every month from studios in Cairo and Beirut production teamsalso takes in European (and American) musical styles; but tarab is breezy, comfortableprofoundly unlike the life-or-death profundity of Sahir. Tarab is one of the least dramatic musical genres; Sahir's music, dramatic to the max. He describes his songs as "sometimes very long, with lots of difficult changesa full-length opera, unlike the songs of Fayrouz, which are short stories."
Sahir's depiction is not overkill. He writes 12- and 14-minute songsan early CD, Ana Wa Laila (EMI), features two suchand he foresees a next CD in which the songs will, taken together, perform a continuous drama. In doing so, he says, he will "fulfill my love for Mohammed Abdel Wahab, the [Egyptian] classicist who wrote so many of the songs I've put to music."
As a classicist, who dislikes "the techno that so many Arabic kids are making now," Sahir means no disrespect to the chanteuse Fayrouz by describing her songs as short stories. Fayrouz Rahbani, a Lebanese Christian, has for many decades been Arabic variété's reigning international diva, and deservedly: She sings the breadth of Arabic pop, from rhythmic sha'abi to the francophone, almost classical chansons that dominated Arabic performance during the not so distant pasta time in which French, not American English, was the language of polite conversation in the eastern Mediterranean.
Fayrouz is a star in Paris, and even has a huge fan base in Israel, a country she will not visit. Sahir has not performed in Israel, but when he performs in Jordan, as he tells it, "huge numbers of Israelis come to see me!" And why not? The music on Kadim Al Sahir Live (EMI), Ya Nas (EMI), and The Impossible Love (Mondo Melodia), his newest, features rhythms redolent of Nubian pop, instrumentation echoing Indian Bollywood, orchestral atmospherics not very different from those of Italian Eurodisco, and tons of melisma (the Arabic word is mawal) familiar enough to fans of American soul singingnot to overlook his 16-piece orchestra's classical violin solos. Nor is Sahir's singing exclusively in Arabic (unlike Fayrouz, who often performs in French) any bar to attracting Israeli fans: Hebrew, let's not forget, is, like Arabic, a Semitic language.
Like so many millions of Iraqis today, Sahir has not returned home for many years. He says he is able to go back, yet "The Betrayal," a song he did in the late 1980s critical of the Iran-Iraq war, drew negative attention, and he left. He has lived in Paris; records in Cairo, Istanbul, and Los Angeles; and today holds Canadian citizenship and lives there. Canadian citizenship has given Sahir an entree into the U.S., and his present tour, which brought him to the Beacon Theater late last month, is his 10th.
The music of Iraq's Kurdish north cannot afford to live in exile. It has no caliphal reach to draw upon. The Kurds are not Arabs. Kurdish is an Indo-European language, as similar to Persian as Dutch to German; the Kurds therefore are linguistically closer to English speakers than to the Arabs who neighbor them to the South. Kurdish pop sounds nothing like the music of Baghdad and beyond. If Arabic pop ranges from Sahir's sweaty love music to tarab's smiley face, that of Kurdistan sounds like combatnot surprising in a nation that has been fighting Saddam (and the Turks) for 20 years now. Kurdish hits feature harsh acoustic lute riffs, Turkish melodics, and guitar solos remarkably like American blues-rock. The two best-known male vocalists boast completely dissimilar styles: Sivan Perwer's harsh, storytelling baritone sounds like J.J. Cale doing Jacques Brel; Xero Abbas sings one of the purest, most melismatic high tenors ever. Fronting his band's blues-rock guitar and rhythmic delicacy, Abbas has the most righteous and fervent soul voice I've heard since 1970s Marvin Gaye. The only even slightly similar Iraqi singer is Siham al Madfai, whose new CD (on Virgin) features delicate Greek-style guitar lines and a tenor recitative somewhat like Abbas's. Except where Abbas agitates, Madfai soothes.