home

i've been home for two weeks but i finally feel like i am here. bouts of longing for my second home, morocco, come and go. i look out the window and the trees are slowly sprouting leaves, but no palms swaying to greet me in the morning.

a story for the grandchildren, when nana turned thirty she ran off to morocco without a map. spent three weeks chasing cats and finding creative ways to dance around patriarchy.

i miss everything. i miss harcha for breakfast, i miss stray cats, i miss old men, i miss jasmine, i miss the muzzein, what's not to miss?

cats. cats everywhere. how many pets do i have? who will walk me to the cafe, stand at attention by my feet until i toss a piece of food? sorry mech mech, i don't have any meat for you. do you like butter? ah of course you do!

i have too many memories and soon i will organize them and share them. for now, i sigh facing east. i attempt to recreate the chaotic freeform moroccan radio stations at home. the most gorgeous array of random. songs i forgot, songs i will never forget, songs...i can't name the title or the singer, but still remember. my very first night i heard this in the middle of an hour of frenzied chaabi and gnawa songs. and it made sense. 

 

lady in black

 The Ladies In Black are a strange, unaffiliated contingent of women dedicated to making fabulous apparitions at the grave of fallen silent filmstar Rudolph Valentino, whose death in 1926 led to a level of hysteria not seen again until the death of Elvis.  His New York funeral had a rumored 100,000 people lining up to pay respects, including Pola Negri, who cling to his coffin weeping and wailing.

It is rumored that the idea was another Hollywood publicity stunt years after his death. In the 1930's mysterious woman would show up, veiled, with flowers. Then there were two, then three, until there the annual memorial became sort of Hollyweird spectacle, rival mourners and all.

this is the first known photo of the Lady In Black, taken in 1947. the woman has never been identified.

The first, or so claimed, was a woman named Ditra Flame... pronounced Fla-may. She says that as a sick teenager, Rudy visited her in the hospital. He asked her then to promise to visit his grave when he died. She remained faithful until 1977, dying a few years later at 72 years of age.

There were others, such as Marion Benda, a former Follies girl and Rudy's last date the night he fell ill. Miss Marion, who's real name was perhaps the most hystrionic of them all. Having claimed to be secretly married to him, as well as claiming to be the mother of his lovechild. Sadly she was also suicidal, many attempts before the final overdose of pills in 1951. Here she is, in sunglasses.

unknown mourner

oum

I rang in 2011 with a live version of Inta Omri. I love the crowds excitement as much as I do her voice. I love her pauses as much as her wails. When she reaches a certain climax in the song and the audience loses control, yelling, cheering, jumping out of their seats, because she sings for everyone. I'm glad, because I couldn't be there myself, fate did not allow, so they go crazy for me. 

The details of a woman. Oum Kalthoum. b. December 31st, circa 1900-1904, Egypt. the capricorn. Star of Egypt. Queen of tarab, which is that..."this is MY JAM" feeling you get. Tarab is like a state beyond enjoyment, a state of almost oneness and total ecstasy with the song. There is also a level of audience participation, the crowd moves the singer, who moves the crowd, which allows an especially spiritual element which decades later, you feel listening to these recordings. Enchantment is a popular translation, but the word seems almost too quaint for what I feel when I hear Oum Kalthoum. It is no shock that she has inspired some of my favorite artists, from Nico, to Maria Callas. And of course the marvelous covers of her work by Sapho (Morocco) and Ghalia Benali.


Oum, Umm, Oumme, Ümmü, OM! Her name also translates to Mother, and in her performances she acts as a mother figure, caressing our broken hearts, weeping for us, singing our heartache, our nostalgia, our rapturous heights. Songs go on for hours, she does not leave until every member of the audience has been tended too. 


When I was younger I did not have the patience for her whole songs, skipping here and there. Now, I listen, even repeating parts. Now I understand. 

as a young film star

on cassette, a favored medium for arabic music until recently. i still find tapes at grocery stores and it makes me smile. 

her pearls, at auction. Christies, Dubai

clutching her famous scarf, on stage. the epitome of tarab, you feel it without even hearing her voice. but listen anyway. 

oum kalthoum - inta omry

propaganda

I still remember my first copy of Propaganda. The night before, I saw the Cocteau Twins video for Heaven or Las Vegas. It was my first time hearing the band and I was in love. I went to Atomic Records the next day after school. It was the the last semester of 8th grade. The Cocteau Twins made that summer tolerable, along with said copy of Propaganda (which I only noticed because the Cocteau Twins were listed on the cover) and of course, LOST SOULS by Poppy Z. Brite. But that's another post...

I remember my very last, a frenzied bidding war on Ebay, for the exact same copy that was my first. The one I held so dear, carrying in my bookbag to hid from my mom, between notebooks to hide from teachers, between the mattresses as I slept at night. It was my guarded, secret, a guidebook for depravation, fashionable bisexuality and of course the dark, arty music that would mold my awkward teenage life into something veering towards sophistication. Little did i know, I was just entering an extra cocoon of adolescence, as goth wasn't exactly considered stylish until about 2001 when Moulin Rouge came out. By that time, i had moved on to neofolk.

I owe my eyeliner skills to this issue of Propaganda magazine, and this spread in particular.

Details!

I have no idea what became of the magazine. The last issue I saw was a fairly disappointing affair with some kind of hijab fetish type shoot that I couldn't stomach. There was also that upsetting fascination with Marilyn Manson...

At it's height, it was a portal to a world which may have only existed in my head. But oh, what a world!