Wine, women and Arab music
Peter Culshaw meets the French convert who has become a leading light in Syria
November 3, 2005 in arts.telegraph (UK)
Jalaluddin Weiss welcomes me into his extraordinary 14th-century home, a former emir's palace in the old Syrian city of Aleppo.
His house has become almost like a shrine, so he is used to the odd (often very odd) visitor - in the last few weeks, he's had round-the-world cyclists from New Zealand, Black Panthers from New York, a Syrian Orthodox bishop, bearded bin Laden supporters and numerous members of the secret police.
While I'm there, I meet the personal assistant of the Grand Mufti, some dervishes, and a group of Syrian doctors. They have come round to hear Weiss play on his qanun, the Arabian zither of which he has become perhaps the leading exponent.
Jalaluddin is Weiss's Muslim name (after the 13th-century poet Jalaluddin Rumi). The 52-year-old was born "Julien", in Paris, but is one of those often eccentric Europeans who become so fascinated with Arabian culture that they go native.
As a teenager, Weiss studied classical guitar, then became a hippy and dropped out, spending a year in Morocco and another in Guadeloupe. When he returned to France in 1974, he heard the Iraqi musician Mounir Bashir playing the oud, an Arabic lute, and "became entranced by his playing. It was an evening that changed my life."
Weiss ended up studying with Bashir in Iraq, and composed a Baghdad Suite in his honour. He found that he both enjoyed and excelled at playing the qanun, and his studies took him around the Arab world, "sitting at the feet of the masters" in Tunis, Istanbul and Beirut, before he bought his current house 12 years ago.
In Aleppo, an old, car-free town that has barely changed in half a millennium, Weiss founded a music group, the Al-Kindi Ensemble (named after a philosopher of music), which has released 20 CDs and worked with some of the greatest Arabic musicians.
One of the main reasons Weiss was drawn to Arabic music, he explains, was that he had come to hate "the straitjacket of 12 notes imposed by Western music, where everything is standardised.
On the qanun, there are several strings for each note." He has extensively researched and recorded 16th- and 17th-century Arabic music, and has had a customised qanun built which enables him to play in the styles of different Islamic musical traditions.
His conversion to Islam was, he says, "partly social - I wanted to be more than an outsider and become part of the Sufi community here". I get a glimpse of that community when I accompany him to hear Sheikh Habboush, his partner on the latest Al-Kindi CD, sing in the local mosque.
After the imam delivers a coruscating sermon on the evils of Israel, the US and England, and says that Bush and Blair will be damned for eternity, a couple of excitable members of the congregation want to know what a couple of infidels are doing among them.
Sheikh Habboush tells them to relax, that Jalaluddin is one of them. Another, seemingly more friendly, quizzes me. "I am a friend to Islam," I say, as diplomatically as I can.
We sit next to the sheikh, who sings beautifully and with great passion - unfortunately, once the PA system is on at full blast, his voice is horribly distorted.
A whirling dervish with a white cloak begins to spin in front of us, a dream-like image of grace and weightlessness. One arm is extended and the other pointed to the floor, to receive grace from Allah and to distribute it to humanity.
After the ceremony, we go to the sheikh's house. As soon as the muezzin call signals the break from the Ramadan fast (Aleppo is one of the few places that still uses real singers, rather than tapes), we are served tea and dates.
Habboush is not just Weiss's musical partner - he is also his spiritual guide. Weiss, who is divorced, explains to the sheikh that he is in love with a Turkish girl and doesn't know what to do. Habboush explains that Weiss is supposed to marry the girl before sleeping with her.
I ask the sheikh whether he thinks Weiss will progress far on the Sufi path, and perhaps one day become a sheikh himself. He pauses, before venturing: "Perhaps he could become some kind of priest for pimps…" Habboush roars with laughter, and we all join in - Weiss a little uncomfortably.
While he may not be the most devout Muslim (expecting a Frenchman to give up women and wine would perhaps be a tall order), Weiss's spiritual path is through music. He has been, the sheikh agrees, a wonderful exponent of Arabic music - and for that, much will be forgiven.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
On Jalaluddin Weiss: Wine, women, and Arab music
Wine, women and Arab music
Peter Culshaw meets the French convert who has become a leading light in Syria
November 3, 2005 in arts.telegraph (UK)
Jalaluddin Weiss welcomes me into his extraordinary 14th-century home, a former emir's palace in the old Syrian city of Aleppo.
His house has become almost like a shrine, so he is used to the odd (often very odd) visitor - in the last few weeks, he's had round-the-world cyclists from New Zealand, Black Panthers from New York, a Syrian Orthodox bishop, bearded bin Laden supporters and numerous members of the secret police.
While I'm there, I meet the personal assistant of the Grand Mufti, some dervishes, and a group of Syrian doctors. They have come round to hear Weiss play on his qanun, the Arabian zither of which he has become perhaps the leading exponent.
Jalaluddin is Weiss's Muslim name (after the 13th-century poet Jalaluddin Rumi). The 52-year-old was born "Julien", in Paris, but is one of those often eccentric Europeans who become so fascinated with Arabian culture that they go native.
As a teenager, Weiss studied classical guitar, then became a hippy and dropped out, spending a year in Morocco and another in Guadeloupe. When he returned to France in 1974, he heard the Iraqi musician Mounir Bashir playing the oud, an Arabic lute, and "became entranced by his playing. It was an evening that changed my life."
Weiss ended up studying with Bashir in Iraq, and composed a Baghdad Suite in his honour. He found that he both enjoyed and excelled at playing the qanun, and his studies took him around the Arab world, "sitting at the feet of the masters" in Tunis, Istanbul and Beirut, before he bought his current house 12 years ago.
In Aleppo, an old, car-free town that has barely changed in half a millennium, Weiss founded a music group, the Al-Kindi Ensemble (named after a philosopher of music), which has released 20 CDs and worked with some of the greatest Arabic musicians.
One of the main reasons Weiss was drawn to Arabic music, he explains, was that he had come to hate "the straitjacket of 12 notes imposed by Western music, where everything is standardised.
On the qanun, there are several strings for each note." He has extensively researched and recorded 16th- and 17th-century Arabic music, and has had a customised qanun built which enables him to play in the styles of different Islamic musical traditions.
His conversion to Islam was, he says, "partly social - I wanted to be more than an outsider and become part of the Sufi community here". I get a glimpse of that community when I accompany him to hear Sheikh Habboush, his partner on the latest Al-Kindi CD, sing in the local mosque.
After the imam delivers a coruscating sermon on the evils of Israel, the US and England, and says that Bush and Blair will be damned for eternity, a couple of excitable members of the congregation want to know what a couple of infidels are doing among them.
Sheikh Habboush tells them to relax, that Jalaluddin is one of them. Another, seemingly more friendly, quizzes me. "I am a friend to Islam," I say, as diplomatically as I can.
We sit next to the sheikh, who sings beautifully and with great passion - unfortunately, once the PA system is on at full blast, his voice is horribly distorted.
A whirling dervish with a white cloak begins to spin in front of us, a dream-like image of grace and weightlessness. One arm is extended and the other pointed to the floor, to receive grace from Allah and to distribute it to humanity.
After the ceremony, we go to the sheikh's house. As soon as the muezzin call signals the break from the Ramadan fast (Aleppo is one of the few places that still uses real singers, rather than tapes), we are served tea and dates.
Habboush is not just Weiss's musical partner - he is also his spiritual guide. Weiss, who is divorced, explains to the sheikh that he is in love with a Turkish girl and doesn't know what to do. Habboush explains that Weiss is supposed to marry the girl before sleeping with her.
I ask the sheikh whether he thinks Weiss will progress far on the Sufi path, and perhaps one day become a sheikh himself. He pauses, before venturing: "Perhaps he could become some kind of priest for pimps…" Habboush roars with laughter, and we all join in - Weiss a little uncomfortably.
While he may not be the most devout Muslim (expecting a Frenchman to give up women and wine would perhaps be a tall order), Weiss's spiritual path is through music. He has been, the sheikh agrees, a wonderful exponent of Arabic music - and for that, much will be forgiven.
Peter Culshaw meets the French convert who has become a leading light in Syria
November 3, 2005 in arts.telegraph (UK)
Jalaluddin Weiss welcomes me into his extraordinary 14th-century home, a former emir's palace in the old Syrian city of Aleppo.
His house has become almost like a shrine, so he is used to the odd (often very odd) visitor - in the last few weeks, he's had round-the-world cyclists from New Zealand, Black Panthers from New York, a Syrian Orthodox bishop, bearded bin Laden supporters and numerous members of the secret police.
While I'm there, I meet the personal assistant of the Grand Mufti, some dervishes, and a group of Syrian doctors. They have come round to hear Weiss play on his qanun, the Arabian zither of which he has become perhaps the leading exponent.
Jalaluddin is Weiss's Muslim name (after the 13th-century poet Jalaluddin Rumi). The 52-year-old was born "Julien", in Paris, but is one of those often eccentric Europeans who become so fascinated with Arabian culture that they go native.
As a teenager, Weiss studied classical guitar, then became a hippy and dropped out, spending a year in Morocco and another in Guadeloupe. When he returned to France in 1974, he heard the Iraqi musician Mounir Bashir playing the oud, an Arabic lute, and "became entranced by his playing. It was an evening that changed my life."
Weiss ended up studying with Bashir in Iraq, and composed a Baghdad Suite in his honour. He found that he both enjoyed and excelled at playing the qanun, and his studies took him around the Arab world, "sitting at the feet of the masters" in Tunis, Istanbul and Beirut, before he bought his current house 12 years ago.
In Aleppo, an old, car-free town that has barely changed in half a millennium, Weiss founded a music group, the Al-Kindi Ensemble (named after a philosopher of music), which has released 20 CDs and worked with some of the greatest Arabic musicians.
One of the main reasons Weiss was drawn to Arabic music, he explains, was that he had come to hate "the straitjacket of 12 notes imposed by Western music, where everything is standardised.
On the qanun, there are several strings for each note." He has extensively researched and recorded 16th- and 17th-century Arabic music, and has had a customised qanun built which enables him to play in the styles of different Islamic musical traditions.
His conversion to Islam was, he says, "partly social - I wanted to be more than an outsider and become part of the Sufi community here". I get a glimpse of that community when I accompany him to hear Sheikh Habboush, his partner on the latest Al-Kindi CD, sing in the local mosque.
After the imam delivers a coruscating sermon on the evils of Israel, the US and England, and says that Bush and Blair will be damned for eternity, a couple of excitable members of the congregation want to know what a couple of infidels are doing among them.
Sheikh Habboush tells them to relax, that Jalaluddin is one of them. Another, seemingly more friendly, quizzes me. "I am a friend to Islam," I say, as diplomatically as I can.
We sit next to the sheikh, who sings beautifully and with great passion - unfortunately, once the PA system is on at full blast, his voice is horribly distorted.
A whirling dervish with a white cloak begins to spin in front of us, a dream-like image of grace and weightlessness. One arm is extended and the other pointed to the floor, to receive grace from Allah and to distribute it to humanity.
After the ceremony, we go to the sheikh's house. As soon as the muezzin call signals the break from the Ramadan fast (Aleppo is one of the few places that still uses real singers, rather than tapes), we are served tea and dates.
Habboush is not just Weiss's musical partner - he is also his spiritual guide. Weiss, who is divorced, explains to the sheikh that he is in love with a Turkish girl and doesn't know what to do. Habboush explains that Weiss is supposed to marry the girl before sleeping with her.
I ask the sheikh whether he thinks Weiss will progress far on the Sufi path, and perhaps one day become a sheikh himself. He pauses, before venturing: "Perhaps he could become some kind of priest for pimps…" Habboush roars with laughter, and we all join in - Weiss a little uncomfortably.
While he may not be the most devout Muslim (expecting a Frenchman to give up women and wine would perhaps be a tall order), Weiss's spiritual path is through music. He has been, the sheikh agrees, a wonderful exponent of Arabic music - and for that, much will be forgiven.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment