Filed under: Uncategorized
I’m bad at blogging. There, I said it. It’s a combination of laziness (boo) and living in the moment (yay). I’m sure there’s some self-consciousness thrown in there, too. It’s hard to write for an audience, whether or not one actually exists. But, fortunately, I’m good at journalling privately, so I’ve documented much of this crazy journey in a WordPad file.
Life since my last post has been all over the place. But since I’m alive, healthy, and getting ready to go to BRAZIL, I have no complaints.
Last few months in a nutshell: Gave myself a vacation halfway through and took some beautiful train rides down from Berlin (a wonderful city that I can’t wait to visit again) to Prague (like a fairytale), Vienna (baked apple strudel my first night), and lastly Ljubljana (surprisingly good food).
Though I didn’t realize it at the time, my last stop in Slovenia foreshadowed some of the experiences I would have in Estonia. These are two countries that have basically no ethnic diversity. Not really a problem in and of itself. However, it meant that I had to deal with a level of ignorance and a brand of senseless discrimination I was totally unprepared for. I met some amazing people — don’t get me wrong. The choirs I sang with in Tallinn were full of kind, talented, and like-minded souls. My yoga instructors were also awesome. But the blatant and rampant racism blew me away. And before you say, “Yanie, are you sure? Are you possibly over-reacting or just being sensitive?” — I’d say it’s pretty obvious when people repeatedly call me a “monkey,” among other things, or when a group of teens start chanting “black girl, black girl” as I walk past, that their intentions are not good. So, Estonia? Great folk music tradition. Fun language, too. But I was definitely worn out by the time I left, after being bombarded day after day with comments and glared at and grabbed at. Not proud to admit it, but my confidence sank really low. Wouldn’t go back anytime soon and probably not alone.
Through a crazy turn of events, I ended up going to Georgia (Republic of). I’m so glad I did. They have one of the oldest traditions of polyphonic singing, and I met up with a Georgian musician/director I had seen perform (re: stalked) in Edinburgh nearly ten months ago! She hooked me up. I also gained plenty of weight eating their steady diet of bread, cheese, and khinkhali, a delicious dough-y dumpling, and you know how I feel about dumplings. I was a little (a lot) anxious about going to another small, former Soviet bloc country with zero diversity. Everyone stared, of course, but I rarely, if ever, felt that it was hostile. And other than trying to figure out where I was from, no one said anything disrespectful to me. However, they also don’t really speak English, even in Tbilisi, and even amongst the youth. Their culture is fascinating — they’re proud and resilient, super Orthodox Christians and conservative by Western standards. But besides all that, I think their music penetrates the core of something deep, something I couldn’t describe in words but sense in all the ways that count.
Now I’m Ankara, Turkey, waiting to get a visa for Brazil. There was no Brazilian Embassy anywhere in Georgia, but I was happy to return to Turkey. An incredible country and I’m glad for the chance to see something other than Istanbul, which ranks pretty high in my list of favorite cities.
What else? I’m ridiculously excited to be home for August, chillin’ out, maxin’, and relaxin’ all cool. And in September, heading to Princeton for my Ph.D!
I’ll probably crank out one more entry when I’m in Brazil, but no promises. Trust me, it’s better that way.
Love,
Yanie
Filed under: Netherlands
I stumbled upon this today and wanted to remember it:
“The soul is the clinamen of the body. It is how it falls, and what makes it fall in with other bodies. The soul is its gravity. This tendency for certain bodies to fall in with others is what constitutes a world. The materialist tradition represented by Epicurus and Lucretius proposed a worldless time in which bodies rain down through the plumbless void, straight down and side-by-side, until a sudden, unpredictable deviation or swerve — clinamen — leans bodies toward one another, so that they come together in a lasting way. The soul does not lie beneath the skin. It is the angle of this swerve and what then holds these bodies together. It spaces bodies, rather than hiding within them; it is among them, their consistency, the affinity they have for one another. It is what they share in common: neither a form, nor some thing, but a rhythm, a certain way of vibrating, a resonance. Frequency, tuning, or tone.” — The Soul at Work by Franco Berardi
My time in the Netherlands has been pretty peaceful. I spend my days making experimental lunches, reading (trashy chicklit and literary theory), writing (fiction), songwriting (angst), and occasionally ironing clothes for my exceptional host family. Most of my evenings are spent in rehearsal; the Dutch are ridiculously friendly, and everyone seems to know each other in their small, but impressive music world.
I guess the most interesting observation I’ve made is that I can follow along in rehearsals just fine, despite the language barrier. I hadn’t realized how much conductors use gesture and other non-verbal cues to explain, to correct, and to encourage. Singing is a complex process, in large part because so many of the steps involved are internal and invisible. It’s easy for a piano teacher and student to see if one’s wrists are too high. It’s easy to point out more efficient fingering or bowing techniques. In contrast, you can talk about breathing techniques or expressive legato lines until the cows come home, but for a lot of choristers, they can only make the mind-body connection if they see and hear what you mean. Good conductors lead by example. And because I’m mostly excluded from one level of communication, speech, I’m that much more alert, and my brain works a lot faster to make connections. (I say “mostly excluded” because there is some very slight overlap in Dutch and English, and any Italian musical terms remain the same. Context helps clarify a lot, too.)
To a certain extent, you can guess what a conductor is going to nitpick, if it’s an obvious or consistent mistake, for example. And even though I’ve tried to focus on the early music tradition from the Netherlands, I’ve been fortunate enough to work on the Martin Mass again with one ensemble. I can’t tell you how awesome it is to revisit such a gorgeous piece (and if you don’t believe me, check out the Credo movement below). Because I’m not so focused on just learning my own notes, I can listen to all of the other parts moving and intersecting around me. It’s been cool developing a new and more nuanced understanding of this music.
In other news, I’ve finally regained my sanity, which I definitely lost somewhere around the seventh graduate school application. My dear friend Susan came to visit from Cambridge, and the universe gave us two days of sunshine and bright blue skies to explore Utrecht and Arnhem. We stuffed ourselves with stroopwafels and talked about the unraveling plots of our respective creative writing and went to a museum dedicated to the strangest musical devices. All in all, I’m feeling refreshed and ready to tackle the next stage of my project. Things have been evolving, and I’m excited about some of the subtle but necessary changes I plan to make. Anyway, I actually have to run off to a rehearsal, but thanks for reading (and listening).
xo Yanie
Filed under: Netherlands
The problem with blogging is that, like most things, the longer you go without it, the easier it is to procrastinate. But I’m back. With a vengeance. I’m now in the Netherlands, living with a great host family, courtesy of Jenny Dewar in the Williams’ Music department. This is a glorious country of cheese and canals and fairy-tale houses. I feel guilty for not knowing any Dutch — in general, I make the effort to at least learn the basics when I’m visiting a country, as a gesture of respect and simply because I love languages. For some reason, I can’t keep any Dutch in my head, and I also have a hard time mimicking the sounds I hear. My guilt is only compounded by the fact that everyone speaks English, running the gamut from well to ridiculously well. Anyway, I’m singing with four choirs and focusing on Franco-Flemish early music. In other words, I’m approximately three hours and six centuries away from the Parisian jazz scene. But I’m not writing about my current experiences or France right now.
Since anyone who’s reading this probably attends/attended Williams, I wanted to mention the sudden and awful news about Steve Bodner. We lost a wonderful friend, musician, and teacher. He pretty much single-handedly transformed how I thought about and judged music, introducing me to contemporary works that challenged and excited me. SymphWinds and Opus Zero performed impossibly difficult pieces that we often started out hating with a burning passion and ended up loving. His glowing post-concert emails were the best. I wouldn’t have this fellowship without his influence and steadfast belief in my abilities. He was generous with his time and knowledge in and outside of classes and rehearsals. He gave all the graduating seniors books at the end of our final SymphWinds concert in honor of former Music chair David Kechley. Mine was Plato’s Republic. He supported the student body in all of their endeavors — I think he attended every recital, every ArtsBreak program, every thesis presentation, and every chamber concert. He smiled encouragingly even when we screwed up our ear-training exercises. Anyway, I’m only one of countless students he helped, and I’ll miss him more than I can say.
Interestingly enough, it was Steve who introduced me to the crazy-awesome and still living Dutch composer Louis Andriessen. He is an acquired taste. But I’d like to share with you one of the last pieces I performed with Steve, one I fell in love with easily thanks to his enthusiasm. If you’re listening and thinking to yourself, “What the hell,” just give it a chance. Or skip to 3:09 minutes in! Because it is a sublime moment, one I can’t hear without remembering Steve as he smiled and signaled the downbeat and gave us our cue to sing and to keep singing.
xo Yanie
Filed under: France
Life in Paris has been so awesome for so many reasons that I’ve been too distracted to write in here. Oops. My first round of grad. school applications are due tomorrow (!), so no major updates tonight, but I’ll be back soon.
Love,
Yanie
I’ve left Morocco and, after spending a few days in overpriced hostels, I’ve settled in a warm, tranquil room, sharing the apartment with a French Caribbean graphic designer and her Finnish boyfriend for the month. It feels so good to have my own space again, to get away from the backpacking culture and the constant stimulation. It feels good to cook, to use a washing machine, to take proper showers, to close my door and to dance in my room. It feels good to finally unpack. I also unloaded a ton of mental baggage when I met up with my three amazing girlfriends — Margot, Holly, and Michaela — all of whom are living/working/studying in France this year. Eating falafel with Margot at the Place des Vosges one brisk afternoon was exactly what I needed. I think my skin was starting to wear thin. I was turning into a permeable membrane, feeling too much, taking in too much.
I realized that I was forcing myself to stay in Morocco, because I didn’t want to admit defeat. Because I didn’t want to quit. I was making myself miserable and anxious. So, I booked my flight to Paris the evening before I left. It wasn’t crazy expensive, despite being last minute. I had to get out, and I didn’t need to prove to anyone, including myself, that I could somehow conquer Morocco. I’m so happy I went, because I feel that I learned (and am still learning) lessons there that I couldn’t have had elsewhere. The moral of the story is this: I’ve had to totally re-evaluate what constitutes failure to me. No one likes to fail. But I absolutely can’t stand it. It’s not an option. Because failure is not only inevitable, but a common occurence, this kind of attitude is problematic.
I’m an extremely lucky person who’s been very successful at most things my entire life. So, I don’t know where my intense feelings about failure come from. And I don’t really know what these feelings ARE, but if I had to guess, I’d say that they’re probably a mix of my naturally competitive and stubborn nature mixed with fear and sprinkled with a heavy dose of contempt. I’ve always been the one who expects the most and the best from myself and everyone else around me. There are upsides to this. I try to be really supportive of my friends, and I’m closest to the people who both encourage and challenge me. But the downsides? I do not accommodate. I do not accept excuses. And I have zero tolerance for weakness. But let me explain myself a bit more: The opposite of failure for me is not necessarily winning, but rather doing your absolute best. Success then, is not about winning, but about commitment. Success is doing things wholeheartedly. I like people who work hard and who are thorough. For these reasons, I don’t think I’m completely unreasonable.
While it’s important to have a healthy sense of ambition, mine is perhaps a bit extreme. But the thing is, I couldn’t really tell you what this ambition is for exactly. I channel it into specific goals when appropriate — learning a piece of music, graduating college, getting a fellowship. But I think maybe it’s just one manifestation of my general appetite, my desire to give and get as much out of life as possible. In any case, I’ve had to reconcile the difference between moving on and giving up. I like to think I’ve done the former, not the latter.
Anyway, here is some Rachmaninov for you. Easily one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever had the pleasure of singing and experiencing:
Bisoux,
Yanie
Filed under: Morocco
This was written 9/25/10:
When I hopped off the bus in Marrakech, a train for Rabat was preparing to leave, so I bought my ticket and hopped on for the 4hr ride just as it started chugging forward. What I find hilarious is that the difference between 1st and 2nd class in Moroccan trains is that if you’re in 2nd, you’re essentially buying the chance to maybe get a seat, not an actual seat itself. So, after not-too-frantically trolling the cabins for a spot, I ended up in a 8-person compartment with 7 men. Why Allah why? It was a pleasant journey for the most part, mildly air-conditioned with a view of a gorgeous sunset. The landscape was crazy: so many shades of brick red, brown, and orange, with smudges of greenery. Short, scraggly-leaved shrubs grew close to the ground and huddled together to protect themselves against the beating sun. An old Senegalese man got a little too touchy-feely, and I mentally berated myself for being friendly in the first place.
I got a wonderful message from my girl Susan the other day and, as I hastily typed my response in a sweltering cybercafe, I realized that the attitude of Moroccan guys is really starting to wear me down. I feel a different kind of tired. It’s not from lack of sleep, and it’s not from traveling. It’s not because of lumpy hostel mattresses, and it’s not because of the heat. I think it’s the sheer amount of effort required to keep my guard up. It’s not just the usual wall most people — most Americans and most city-dwellers — cultivate. No, this is a wall, The Wall of China actually, fortified with 50,000 tons of concrete.
I’m tired of pretending I don’t hear or understand the countless nasty, invasive, and condescending comments that are whispered and yelled at me on a regular basis. I don’t want to be noticed; I don’t want to be seen. There are many things I like about Morocco. It is an amazing country, and I’m happy I came. But part of me wants to disappear. It takes a while to find a place to eat, because most of the cafes and restaurants have outdoor seating just lined with countless men, all facing onto the street, all staring at you like hawks. Their gazes aren’t cruel or necessarily lascivious. But you can feel their eyes boring into you, and it’s unnerving. I’m tired of this growing sense of defeat. I’m tired of feeling outnumbered. My response — whether it’s silence, aggression, civility, fear, or confusion — makes no difference. I’m tired of being followed for blocks at a time, of feeling so hyper-aware of my gender all the time.
This exhaustion, this feeling of helplessness I can’t accept. However, I feel Morocco is inspiring considerable change. I’ve realized that coming from my background — broke, Haitian, first-generation American and college grad. — I’ve always thought that I wasn’t raised with the same kind of privilege as, for example, most of the kids who went to Williams had. I knew rationally that we all shared the privileges of being American, but this was an abstract idea. I’m just starting to truly see how my privileges have shaped me. Of course, it’s all relative. Poverty in the U.S. is not the same as poverty in Morocco, which is also not the same as poverty in Haiti. There are so many things I take for granted. A certain standard of cleanliness is a big one. Another is my extremely low tolerance for insects, spiders, etc. But while staying in Rabat, I simply had to accept that there were GIANT COCKROACHES in the bathroom. Cockroaches that were smart enough to play dead, mind you. Fortunately (?), I didn’t discover until my last night in Rabat that there were also bedbugs in this particular hostel. And that they didn’t wash the sheets and pillowcases in between users. There is probably a connection between these two facts. I was highly upset. I was also covered in mysterious bites and rashes, some of which were clearly caused by MUTANT mosquitoes. While I don’t really find this kind of living situation acceptable, sometimes there isn’t much else you can do but try (and fail) to kill some cockroaches and go to bed. The soles of my feet are covered with a near-constant layer of dirt. I’ve realized that having dusty feet doesn’t mean that I’m dirty. It just means that I’m wearing sandals, and the streets aren’t paved. I reckon it’s nothing a good pumice stone can’t fix.
Rabat was an odd place, clearly more European, almost gentille in a way. But there were plenty of slums, and it was easily the least interesting place I’ve been. After my short, bug-filled stay, I left Rabat for Fez, the cultural capital. Upon arrival, I took a long shower, washed my hair, and washed my clothes in the hopes of killing any bedbugs that might have followed me. I’m staying in a really lovely (CLEAN) riad with a good breakfast included. I explored the medina today, and my natural sense of direction lead me to some of the best sites — the Khoubian Mosque and the Place de S where the metalworkers un/intentionally make music. In fact, I only failed at life when I tried to follow my map. Despite feeling existentially worn down, as I mentioned earlier, I know I can always count on the kindness of strangers to help me when I’m lost. There have been times when people have gone out of their way for me, and I won’t forget that.
You know what else I won’t forget? My favorite game to play here. Not being especially witty, I decided to call it the “Allow Tourists to Gaze at You in Wonder as an Intriguing Specimen of Moroccan Culture” Game (TM). I developed it when I noticed that non-Moroccans would sneakily try to take photos of me. This was especially true in Essaouira and especially true when I wore my bright blue djelleba. I never had the heart to say, “Oh, honey. I’m as foreign as you are.” But after a month of being here and being mistaken for a native, I reckon I’m not exactly the same kind of foreign anymore.
A longer blog entry to come, but suffice it to say there’s been a change of plans: I’m flying to Paris tomorrow. Bslama Morocco, and thanks for the many wake-up calls.
- Yanie
Filed under: Morocco
I must admit, my research hasn’t been going so well. Here more than anywhere else, it’s difficult to know where to start. But beyond that, I find myself stalled by my gender. I was wrong when I assumed before that being a girl would mean that penetrating the community or getting information would be really difficult. No, I’ve met some people willing to help me. The issue is that they keep falling through in rather uncomfortable circumstances, because they’re always men, and they always start insisting on a kind of relationship that I simply do not want to maintain. Initial contact seems promising and then it devolves into these tense, awkward, and uncomfortable situations. Clearly the words platonic or professional do not apply to male-female relationships here. I’m not very paranoid, but I’m not stupid, and I can’t ignore my instincts when I’m out here alone. Connected through the friend of a friend, I sent off an email to the PeaceCorps Resource Manager back in August to hook up with a male PCV as an Arabic/Berber translator. He got back to me today, having passed on my email/plea to the volunteers, but I don’t know what that will lead to, if anything.
It hasn’t been completely hopeless. Right now I’m in Essaouira which is, along with Marrakech, a gateway to gnaoua. If Marrakech is an insane asylum, then Essaouira is a seaside resort. The men are still too insistent, but by comparison, this is a completely chilled-out town dedicated to three things: gnaoua, Bob Marley, and amazing seafood. I’ve been receiving lessons from Majid the hostel worker on the guembri, a type of three-string lute which is central in gnaoua.
I am not good. But it feels more productive than anything else I’ve done. He’ll play common patterns, and I’ll play and sing them back. It’s all about rote memorization. No sheet music to have as a security blanket. Sometimes I’m just content to watch Majid and others play and sing typical songs. We’ve talked some about the history and the structure of the lila ritual. There is a callous growing on my index finger.
However, I’ve decided to move on, heading north in the hopes of… well, I don’t really know. But I feel just a little restless, stuck, stagnant. And though I’m happy in that I meet lovely people at the hostel, eat great meals, sleep well, and all that jazz, I’m frustrated. And I’m realizing that what underlines my frustration is not that these men try to impose some sort of romantic/sexual overtone (UGH), but the fear that they don’t take me seriously. Probably the quickest way to piss me off. As I sit here with my 10-bed hostel room all to myself and eight pairs of hand-washed underwear drying all around, I do believe that Morocco has and continues to inspire my renewed efforts to be patient and persistent. The latter comes easily, the first, not so much. I’m looking forward to my last guembri lesson and am keeping my fingers crossed for brighter prospects. If things don’t change soon, I may leave earlier than anticipated. However, my general plan is to sort of vaguely make my way north. Tomorrow I’m taking the bus back to Marrakech and grabbing the next train to… undecided.
Love,
Yanie
Filed under: Morocco
Marrakech kicked my ass. Within hours of landing on September 8th, I desperately wanted to jump back on a plane. Everything was so overwhelming — the heat, the leering men, the souks, the pervasive smell of everything from spice to leather, and the sheer number of people jostling you. And because I wanted to leave so badly, I stayed.
The transition was difficult, but given time, you can adjust to anything. It took less time than I imagined to match the pace of the life here. Unsurprisingly, the food is amazing, although my body has rejected it a few times. The night market is a startling display of ingenuity, oratorical showmanship, culinary skill, and good company. It’s a reliable choice for cheap, delicious food, and it fosters such a sense of camaraderie. For a few hours every evening, we’re all neighbors. You sit with Germans to your right, Spaniards to your left, Moroccans all around, and an endless stream of calamari, kefta and kebabs before you, all for the mere price of 20 or so dirhams.
Though I continue to be shocked and dismayed by the inappropriate behavior of most Moroccan men (hate to generalize, but it’s actually true), I’ve also met some kind people here. On my first day, I bought some postcards but didn’t have anything smaller than a 100 dirham bill. The shopkeeper didn’t have any change, and he told me to just take the cards and come back tomorrow or the next day to pay him back. That would never, ever happen in the States. Or most of Western Europe, I think. Anyway, I went back to pay him and a few times after that, sometimes alone, sometimes with temporary hostel-buddies to say hello. The man who sold me my first djelleba (photos to come) was also really nice. He showed his hospitality in typical Moroccan fashion by preparing mint tea for me on my third visit. In retrospect he ripped me off, but still.
So, there are some things that I will never accept, such as creepy dudes following me down Avenue Mohammed V even after I’ve told them several times, I am not interested, we can’t be friends, please leave me alone. But everything else is do-able. I got used to sharing the same undefined roads with motorcyclists, bicyclists, and other pedestrians. I got used to always feeling covered in a thin layer of dust and sand. I (mostly) got used to the number of flies. An English boy I met, Pete, made a good point: if England had the same number of open-air markets, there’d probably be the same number of flies. I definitely got used to bartering. You should see me in action: I am fierce.
Key to my successful haggling, other than my natural charm and stubborn nature, is the fact that everyone thinks I’m Moroccan. They are always pleasantly surprised when I reveal that I’m not. I’ve realized that it’s better to not admit I’m American — they ask you where you’re from maybe out of curiosity, but also to gauge how much they can charge you. And it’s clear when they ask me what I am/where I’m from, America is not the answer they’re looking for. I say I’m Caribbean/Antillaise and specify Haitian if they ask. I’m used to the assumption now, but the first couple of times I was asked, I in turn asked them what made me look Moroccan. One man replied, “Everything, your entire visage.” “Oh no, it must be the dress,” I said, because I was wearing traditional Moroccan garb. “No, no, it’s your skin, your eyes, your hair. Are you sure you’re not Moroccan?”
This last question has followed me throughout my travels here. To be mistaken for a native is very cool, of course. Lessens the catcalling significantly (but not completely — I suppose the way I carry myself and my direct eye contact gives me away). But upon further reflection, I realize that what’s even more fascinating is that for the first time ever, my looks are part of the majority. Of course there are Moroccans who don’t look like me — some are lighter-complexioned, some are darker, some with straighter or kinkier hair. But in a purely physical sense, I fit in perfectly, and it’s people with white skin, light hair, and light eyes who stick out. It’s an incredible feeling — empowering, in fact — to be part of the dominant culture, even though I’m actually not. I don’t know that this explanation does justice to all that I’m experiencing here. Fitting in somewhat with this theme of self-discovery and self-possession, I picked up Franz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth in a bookstore yesterday (the first store I saw run by a woman). Not exactly light or happy reading, but it certainly inspires more thought on how I see and am seen in the world.
“Experiencing the city is thus like an overture to its music.” – Jane Pasler, Composing the Citizen (2)
Earlier this week I experienced intense episodes of cabin fever. As much as I’ve grown to love Edinburgh, I also feel an urgent need to get off this island. I’ve fallen into routines — making dinner, watching funny British television, banter with the boys, rehearsals, cultural outings. So, I’m peacing out earlier than anticipated. Strangely, the city has decided to bless me with amazing weather for the little time I have left. It rains a lot here, but instead of being miserable the entire time, my whole attitude about rain has changed. I appreciate sunny days even more and simply accept spontaneous drizzles and downpours as a part of life. Edinburgh is remarkable in that it remains beautiful despite overcast, ominous weather. I’m hoping and praying for sunshine while I’m up in Skye. I want a picture-perfect postcard view of all those mountains and lochs and castle ruins. But no matter what, I think the peace and the simplicity will do me some good.
Today I had a lovely lunch with Kirsty, an archivist at the U. of Edinburgh and National Galleries who also sings in the choir. Tonight was my last choir rehearsal here. Bittersweet. I’ve met some amazing people who really put their hearts into their singing and have such a good time. Last week, my fellow chorister Phemie took me out to eat in the quaint little town of South Queensferry and see the Forth Bridge.
Forth Bridge yay!
My flight for Marrakesh leaves on September 8th from London! And I get to crash at Claire’s place the night before for a much-anticipated reunion. I’m equal parts excited and nervous. Morocco’s a destination that I went back and forth about as I drafted my proposal and even after I received the fellowship. I finally decided that, if nothing else, I should at least try and see how things go. What I’m most fascinated by is the Gnawa Brotherhood (also spelled gnaoua). The Gnawa are an ethnic minority descending from sub-Saharan African slaves brought to Morocco during the 15th and 16th century. The term is also used to refer to the musicians within this group who practice specific rituals of music, trance, and possession, sharing several elements of mystical Sufi worship. Gnawa, like other Tamazight music*, has been marginalized, but it’s gradually becoming recognized as part of Moroccan popular culture. Sounds right up my alley, right?
*Gnawa is not a purely Tamazight genre — it’s a mixture of African, Arab, and Berber influences. They complicate the cultural fabric of Moroccan society which often focuses on the Arab/Berber dichotomy, excluding the Gnawa entirely.
In my mind, there are three major hurdles:
1) While I was able to email numerous contacts and leads for places like Scotland, Morocco’s online presence leaves something to be desired. I’m worried about arriving somewhere without knowing whom to talk to or where to go. However, this will probably force me to be more persistent, open-minded, and spontaneous. All good lessons to be learned.
2) I have no clue how to penetrate the Gnawa community. There are many who don’t believe in opening up to uninitiated foreigners, let alone a female foreigner. As a woman, it’s infinitely more difficult for me to talk to musicians, who are overwhelmingly male, in a society with clear-cut gender boundaries.
3) I speak French, which is very widely spoken in Morocco. I do not, however, speak Arabic, Berber, or Darija. So, even if I do find an enclave of musicians, I’m kind of screwed.
Still, I’m looking forward to the change and the challenge. If I “fail” (whatever that means), I fail, but it will be meaningful regardless. Other things I’m looking forward to are: the EXCHANGE RATE HALLELUJAH. The food. And the warmth of the sun.
So, the seemingly random title of this entry is not so random. I’ve decided to start posting videos of choral pieces I love. I figure hearing more music will give you, faithful reader, a better idea of why it affects me moreso than anything I could write. I’m really getting into this hodge-podge field of acoustemology and sound studies. I think that, more than just studying choral cultures, I want to explore how sound is a way of knowing, a way of experiencing the world, and a way of defining place.
Anyway, some will be works I’ve sung while others will be songs encountered during my travels. And many will be pieces I’ve just stumbled upon. I’ll lean towards music that is less well-known, because a tune like the “Hallelujah Chorus” has already had its 15(0,000,000) minutes of fame. A dear friend recently quoted to me in a message: “In the end, I wonder if the true movement of the world might not be a voice raised in song.” Rings true to me. Here’s one I discovered completely by accident two days ago. This is the Kenyan Muungano National Choir of Nairobi singing the Kyrie from the Missa Luba, a version of the Latin Mass based on traditional Congolese songs.
And so, I hope by casting these voices into the deep void of cyberspace, I share with you some of the comfort and clarity that they bring me. It feels right to say that music, especially the kind composed of human voices, does create a sense of forward motion, inspiring a kind of momentum we feel both viscerally and spiritually. Maybe more musings on that later.
The quote is from Muriel Barbery’s The Elegance of the Hedgehog, the latest addition to my growing reading list. I just finished A Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, suitable for planes and trains, whose success I can only attribute to good timing. I’m working on Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, which I got for 2 pounds at a thriftstore. The fun part is that I’ve got to finish it before my flight, because it can’t fit in my backpack. Ample motivation.
I’ll be off the grid while in Skye, so hopefully I’ll be reporting from Marrakesh in a few days.
xoxo Yanie
