Wagdi Francis: The music played

Wagdi Francis:
The music played
Those were the days, my friend -- and, thanks to the man with the golden voice, they still are
Profile by Fayza Hassan
On the roof of the Semiramis Hotel, the dancers drifted closer together as the foreign singer intoned the first verses of Luna Caprese. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and full worn in bracelets and necklaces by the pretty young women in low-cut dresses, chatting at the tables scattered around the dance floor. The perfume of the flowers was carried on the light breeze, blending headily with the trail of expensive French perfumes smuggled into the country by the lucky few who still had permission to travel. Discreet waiters filled glasses and set out plates of mezze on the bar. It was a perfect night, its very sweetness cutting deep into the hearts of the habitués -- for behind the polished smiles and the carefully groomed appearances, a gut fear of the unknown tore at the very fabric of Cairo's jeunesse dorée. This was the summer of 1964 and few could foretell what the future had in store for them, but they all knew that they were bidding goodbye to an era in which having fun had been the main preoccupation. The word emigration was being whispered frequently and for many it spelled poverty and hard work in a foreign country. None of the young people present had ever been poor, and those among the older generation who had fought their way to the top did not care to remember how gloomy their climb had been.
Signing off, the Italian bandleader thanked the patrons for their appreciation, adding a few words to the effect that this was their last night in Cairo, their contract was over. It was clear that they would not be back the following year. There were persistent rumours that the venerable Semiramis hotel was going to be pulled down to make room for some urban innovation celebrating the advent of socialism. One of the landmarks of the well-heeled elite was about to disappear and it was perceived as symbolic of the tidings brought by the Revolution. Would anyone ever dance again in Cairo?
Well, dance they did, albeit in a different setting. While those whose lives had been turned upside down by the events sought greener pastures, a new generation of revelers was coming into its own. They were taking by storm the old spots abandoned by their elders as well as a number of new ones that had opened around Cairo and Alexandria. Oblivious to the events, they were intent on making the most of their holidays, even if they could no longer spend them in Europe. While their bewildered parents huddled at home, trying to make sense of the 1967 defeat, their children forgot their uncertain future in the Salamlik and Haramlik of Farouk's former palace at Montazah, transformed into a five-star hotel and renamed the Palestine, where the Petits Chats and the Black Coats performed to screams of rapture from an elated audience, indifferent to the fact that their favourites had long passed their prime. "They were classics," says Wagdi Francis, who for years belted out those tunes as the lead singer of the Petits Chats.
"We did not care how old the songs were," says historian Maged Farag. "Wagdi was our idol, and when he sang Ne me quitte pas, all hell broke loose. He was a star, he could do no wrong: the boys tried to copy his attitudes, the girls were crazy about him, about the way he dressed, did his hair and drove his sports car. You can't begin to know what Wagdi Francis meant to our generation. He was our very own home-grown James Dean."
"What does an idol's apartment look like?" I asked photographer Randa Shaath as we looked for the right number on one of the quieter streets of Madinet Nasr. The building, endowed with an intercom system, revealed only bourgeois prosperity. I had forgotten to ask for the number of the flat and there were no nameplates on the board. We were gazing at it, wondering which bell we would ring at random, when a pert young maid came up behind us. "They are expecting you," she told us, and we followed her into the elevator. Before we reached the door of the apartment, the vigorous barking of a dog announced our arrival. Soheir, Wagdi's wife, tried to welcome us as their golden cocker spaniel leapt up and down, informing the world that the Francises had visitors. Soheir's admonitions of "down, Goldie!" only seemed to excite the dog further.
Traditional chic, I decided, looking quickly around at the classic furniture and the knickknacks on the side tables; elegantly framed family photos were displayed on a sideboard, but none that I could see showed Wagdi and his band. It was an affluent executive's abode, with no sign that we had been ushered into the den of the king of golden oldies. Wagdi arrived at this point and we were immediately taken by his warm smile. Comfortably portly, in the way of opera singers, he was dressed conservatively in a black turtleneck and dark trousers. Goldie went wild. "Soheir gave her to me as a present," said Wagdi, trying to get the dog to lie down. "She was not so keen on having an animal in the house herself, but she knew how much I liked dogs, so she came one day holding a little golden thing in the palm of her hand. I couldn't get over how little she was, but from the very beginning she showed a strong personality," he added proudly, pushing her once more to the floor. Goldie settled in a strategic spot where she could get a whiff of the delicious little sandwiches placed on the coffee table.
"The Petits Chats were the end result of several failed attempts to form a regular band," said Wagdi. "During the summer holidays we used to form an amateur group and find a night spot in Cairo or Alexandria whose owner was willing to hire us." At first, in 1965, it was only him and Ezzat Abu 'Auf, for two summer seasons on the floating hotel Isis, docked opposite the Hilton. By this time the foreign bands were no longer coming to Egypt and the Bell Boys and the Stars had disbanded. There was a vacuum needing to be filled and Wagdi saw it as an opportunity.
"I met the late Omar Khurshid and Omar Khayrat and with Ezzat we formed an ensemble. We were university students, all from affluent families and the passion uniting us was music. Ezzat played the organ, Khayrat the drums, Khurshid the guitar and I played bass guitar and sang. After a while I thought it was better if I only concentrated on singing."
At the Jesuits College and later at the Frères, Francis had belonged to the school choir and was told that he had a good ear and a pure tone of voice. He became the youngest solo singer in his church chorale. Among his fondest memories is that of a Christmas midnight mass during which he sang in Latin at the Basilique in Heliopolis. "In those days I had never had a chance to listen to a live band and these were pre-video clip times, so I can't really say that I had a role model, but choir singing had given me a taste for singing in public. It was a kind of urge that kept swelling inside." Not for any kind of music, though; only what is known as "intercontinental" appealed to him. "If I had wanted to make money I would have launched myself in the Oriental genre. I chose to do only what I liked, although I realised at the time that I would be singing to a restricted public, only attracting those who had remained faithful to the old classics."
According to Maged Farag, a whole generation still remembers how in those days the Black Coats regularly brought the house down with their renditions of Elvis Presley hits. "But as the evening wore out," he says, "we invariably moved from the Haramlik to the Salamlik with our favourite girl and floated with her on the dance floor, cheek to cheek, whispering little nothings inspired by the romantic words of Wagdi's songs."
A few months before the 1967 War, having graduated from university, Wagdi and his friends -- with the addition of "a certain Berge" at the guitar -- had devoted all their free time to practicing. They finally decided that they had a decent ensemble and could seek a contract. Eventually they signed up with Casino Miami in Sidi Bishr for a fee of LE7 a night. Before they had a chance to test their mettle however, the war broke out. Wagdi who was heading the group refused to be discouraged by the cancellation of their contract. "I insisted that we go to Alexandria regardless. I did not want us to split up. We finally found a place whose owner was willing to hire us, without a fee, offering us only a free dinner on the nights we performed. This seemed as good as we were going to get and we decided to take it." After each concert, they were duly served a plateful of sticky spaghetti. Although satisfied with their music, they craved a better public and, more than anything, recognition of their talent, which, no matter how they looked at their frugal dinner and the few customers attending their performances, would not be forthcoming any time soon under their present circumstances.
Looking around, they landed a contract at the Agami Palace for LE4 a night. This was their chance. Families who had not fled Egypt congregated in Agami during the long summers, where they could distance themselves from the events and pretend that life was normal. Those for whom the Revolution had been a blessing soon joined them. The Agami Palace dancing soirées offered a welcome chance to mix and unwind. "We finally had the public we deserved," recalled Wagdi. "People were happy to hear the songs that reminded them of better days. We were a smashing success and from that season on we established our reputation. A contract for the winter followed at a floating nightclub, the Omar Khayyam. This was the beginning of our professional career and the birth of the Petits Chats in the summer of 1968, crowned by the matinees at the Palestine Hotel's Salamlik.
These matinees, Farag had told me, were something else. "They started at three on a Friday afternoon and for five or six hours we danced non-stop. There was barely room on the dance floor, the crowd was so dense. We were all well behaved and, although I attended every single matinee, I can't remember a single fight ever erupting. At the door we received a plastic cup filled with a soft drink against our 25-piastre entrance fee. We got to keep the cup on which the name of the hotel was inscribed. We collected the cups to show how many times we had attended. That was the coolest thing young people could do at the time."
Wagdi acknowledges that enjoying the kind of popularity he did can easily go to one's head. "One can simply drift onto the wrong path. But I was always a moderate and enjoyed an orderly life. Music was my passion and it required serious efforts to remain on top. I was not going to be sidetracked by other endeavours which could only have harmed me and destroyed the reputation of my group, so I stuck to the straight and narrow."
In due course he also got a job in the commercial section of the American Embassy, which, oddly enough, he enjoys very much. He married late, only seven years ago ("little wonder," quipped Farag; "with all the girls running after him, he took his time choosing!"). Wagdi met Soheir at a friends' gathering and he liked her but took his time to propose. "Marriage was not on my mind," he explains. At the time of their meeting, he was in the process of buying an apartment in the building where he lives now and asked her to come and see it. "She told me later that when she saw its small size, she assumed that I was intending to pursue my bachelor's life. She was rather disappointed. But I proved to her that I could change my mind given the right circumstances. We took a larger apartment, and here we are."
Probably annoyed that we were paying her too little attention, Goldie had inched towards the table and was holding a paw in the air. "Usually our guests offer her a sandwich or two," Wagdi confided in a whisper, glancing prudently towards the corridor where Soheir was chatting with a friend on the phone. "She doesn't like cheese, though," he warned, as I discreetly extended my hand towards the plate.
With a satisfied Goldie in tow we visited the apartment, especially Wagdi's study where he works on his music. He is currently singing at Los Alamos in Giza, where his faithful public, amateurs of Hervé Villars, Adamo and Frank Sinatra's golden hits, come to reminisce about the good old days and enjoy slow dancing. "I am back where I started with Ezzat," said Wagdi with a smile: "One player at the synthesiser and me singing. Full bands are no longer fashionable. I never gave in to the new fads, though; nor did I venture into Arabic pop. I kept to my style and the songs I love, only recently adding some Latin American tunes," he commented. "It may not be trendy, but you would be amazed at the number of people who still go for this kind of music."
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