Amal Choucri Catta succumbs to the open air Sharqiyat Fathi Salama, Open- Air Theatre, Opera House, 15 August; Elham Al-Madfa'i, Iraqi musician, Open-Air Theatre, Opera House, 16 August The night Fathi Salama and his band graced the open-air theatre some of humanity's strangest and most primitive sounds were heard. Indeed they were akin to paleozoic drums, and seemed to date to a time prior to the discovery of speech. For some reason I was thinking of Lucy, the primate woman excavated a few years ago by paleontologists and thought to have lived three million years before. Such creatures, I thought, must have screeched at each other the way Pauline from France and Monica from Brazil were doing on stage, with Salama's instrumentalists keeping up the beat in the background. Renowend for his sharqiyat (oriental sounds), Salama has won fame and fortune -- all for these strange performances: a medley of Arabic music and international jazz, to which he adds a touch of techno and a good dose of percussion, mingled in turn with long improvisations and stretches of rhythmic sound. Sound, not melody: the so-called music intended seems to echo from African jungles, sending shivers down the spines of a more or less spellbound audience. At other times, the sound displays a peculiarly ethereal quality, much like the "music of the spheres". Reminiscent of 2001: A Space Odyssey, it seems to come from elsewhere, from another planet or from outer space. At such time I was overwhelmed by an altogether different feeling, the feeling of worlds communicating. All are creatures of the universe, whether they live on blue earth, red Mars, velvet Venus or in any of a million possible worlds beyond. We all belong to the star-studded and misty spaces lying in the midst of our own individual worlds, yet sound seems to be the same everywhere. No amount of extraterrestrial musing could stop Pauline from screeching her head off, nor Salama's musicians from echoing her screams. She is young and talented, but she must do something about her phonetics: you never understand a word she is saying before another screaming tantrum sets in. Older audience members especially did not seem to mind. They paid attention, rather, to Pauline's impressive attire: a long and beautifully embroidered gown that seems to come from Siwa; a red, transparent shawl. Her four numbers over, she disappeared. Monica's lilac dress appealed more to the young: her forever-young look, her deep husky voice, the Arabic salam she breathed into the microphone, opening her arms to stupendous applause. Her singing started with screeching, like a hen having difficulty laying eggs; Monica laughed delightedly at the audience's horrified reactions. Sharp, harsh, shrill: it made everyone shudder. Then she entered a rhythmic fantasy of incomprehensible words and sound. A ravishing, bewitching giant of a singer, with a gigantic voice and larger-than-life potential. She never stopped moving about, sitting down, standing up, walking around, offering all the voice and sound that was in her. Real life is no more than a complex drama, her performance implied, and singing is but a long episode of which she was the mistress. The audience was thrilled. Following Monica, the audience had the pleasure of a remarkable percussionist from Senegal, who joined Salama's very own tam-tam in a bravura session sincerely admired by everyone. And following him, the best of them all: the Algerian Karima Nayed; young, beautiful, sophisticated, demurely elegant in simple black. Nayed had as much voice as poise and a striking presence on stage. She took everything in her stride -- music, beat, rhythm, improvisation. She was a hit. And by the time she finished Salama had once again managed to hypnotise his audience, young and old alike, taking them from the jungle to outer space, then back again to the open-air theatre. They could not have enough. The night of Elham Al-Madfa'i, on the other hand, the venue was bursting at the seams. Spectators who couldn't find a seat stood around in the aisles or sat on the floor. They were mainly Arab, Palestinian or Iraqi if not Egyptian. This was a noisy night, one of the loudest and most agitated at the open-air theatre. The crowd seemed nervous, the waiting endless and the star's eventual appearance on stage greeted with a hefty sigh of relief that echoed through the air. No major surprises here: the Iraqi singer is one of the most prominent Arab folk singers ever. And he was accompanied by a rich an eclectic ensemble of instruments: five different kinds of tabla, drums, keyboard, qanoun, electric guitar and nay. Al- Madfa'i started with an animated love song, a folk tale of romance and passion followed by the rhythmic Allah aliek, with an intermezzo of clapping from the audience. Rhythm was prominent throughout, even in melancholy compositions, like the one Al- Madfa'i wrote on the occasion of the death of his Egyptian filmmaker friend Radwan El- Kashef. His deep, mellow voice drifted into musing chords of nostalgia, reminiscent of lonely moonlit nights and visions of fata-morgana in deserted spaces. The mood was to change suddenly, however, with a rapid beat taking over once again. Al- Madfa'i sang songs of love for his homeland, for country and people and evidently also the lovely lady he left behind there. Sad, tender melodies wrapped in hard beats and dynamic rhythms, the singer smiling to conceal tears as he gave everyone a good time. People loved it. A fabulous guitar player, Al- Madfa'i started his musical career at the age of 12, creating his first ensemble in 1961: a trio of two guitars and drums. It was the first and for a while the only ensemble in Baghdad to offer Arabic music played on Western instruments, modified for Arabic music. He is one of the few who effectively modernised traditional Arabic, in this case Iraqi music -- even though the Iraqi musical elite were harshly reprehensive, accusing him of compromising musical heritage. Al- Madfa'i left for London, where he studied architecture. Yet there too he played the guitar, performing at the Café Baghdad, where he was recognised by several renowned figures, Paul McCartny among them. On returning to Baghdad in 1967 to play Iraqi music on a modified Spanish guitar, he was extremely successful with the younger generations of listeners. Al-Madfa'i subsequently toured the five continents, singing in several European languages as well as Arabic. In 1990 he was back in Iraq, with his own ensemble, widely recognised as a towering figure. Yet his opponents, one of whom sat next to me through the duration of the concert, continue to protest his status. Moving my seat to a different position, I tried to get a better view of the whole concert. And that was when I saw people in the aisles dancing to the beat. Young and old, they seemed to be in a trance as they moved their arms above their heads, clapping, twisting and turning aimlessly, hypnotised by the sound, the words and melody that kept coming back while the singer proceeded from one verse to the next. I realised Al-Madfa'i was more than a music star, he was an idol -- especially to all those youngsters who were having the loveliest time, carried away by the music. The versatile timbre of his voice, ranging from the highest to the lowest register, fluctuating passionately, could cony have enthralled them. When their din became unbearable, the singer would softly plead with them to stay calm. Yet what with the loud beat and the hot and tired ushers incapable of exercising their customary authority, that was next to impossible. So the songs went ahead, and so did the affectionate noise. Nothing on earth was going to hinder Al- Madfa'i or his delighted audience.
