The Tip of a Sudanese Iceberg
Saddle up your camels, hold on tight, and come with me on an adventure across the desert of Northeast Africa to Sudan. It’s my pleasure to present a compilation I’ve put together of Sudanese music — music that had been taken from cassettes, digitised and deposited in the Internet Archive. Perhaps it’s an acquired taste, but it’s one I acquired instantly.
Faced with 688 digitised cassettes, each represented only by a small photo of musicians completely unknown to me, I simply scrolled down the pages, chose the ones I liked the look of, clicked on their photo, then clicked on the first track. I couldn’t have skim-listened to even 4% of them, because for every artist I chose, I rejected only one or possibly two others. (O-level maths: “688 cassettes divided by the 10 I chose plus the 10 to 15 I rejected, equals 3.6%, sir”.) That’s what gave me the title of the compilation: The Tip of a Sudanese Iceberg.
I had three main reasons for rejecting the ones I did. Firstly, some were labelled as bootlegs, so I didn’t want to deprive the artists of any royalties, however unlikely that might have been. Secondly, some of the audio quality was too poor to be enjoyable, or at least too poor to share with an unexpectant public more used to clinically clean modern fare. And thirdly, I came across one or two possibly Western pop-influenced artists, who’d used contemporary technology such as unintentionally abrasive synthesizers in the place of traditional strings. Those last ones I left for lovers of unintentionally-abrasive-synthesizer Western pop.
In an attempt to make the songs more alluring or approachable for non-Arabic speakers I’ve given each one an English title. A lot of the files were labelled in Arabic script, so no doubt my anglicised versions will be sub-Google Translate. I know some of them fall short of believability, notably Most Expensive and No Matter How Much I Take it Easy on You (formerly mistitled Whatever I Want Will Be Easy on You). However, I didn’t want to do the Arabic titles too much of a disservice by straying far from what the various translation sites suggested.
By the way, my reason for writing all of this is because I wanted to make a record of why I’d made these particular choices, as a memo to myself as much as to enlighten anyone else. And also because I signed up to Medium maybe a year ago, but have only ever posted one thing there. So below I’ve gone through each track noting the initial impression they made on me, and also mentioning various things I liked about them.
Please note that I haven’t done any in-depth research into the instruments that are actually being played, though I’ve made half-educated guesses and written it as if my guesses are all correct. The few photos I’ve seen show that percussionists in Sudan often have bongos and a range of pot-like drums, the latter having a single stick with which they beat them. In place of expertise I just refer to these as percussion or tablas — an Indian drum that is played with the hands and fingers but superficially has a similar sound. I’ve done even less research into what the songs are about, but for entertainment value and as a creative thought experiment, I’ve written as if I know exactly what they’re about.
Come on in, the sand’s lovely.
[Click on the above box to listen to the compilation]
Track 1 Untitled Instrumental
First up is Bora’i Muhammad Dafallah with the only song I couldn’t find a title for. As you can see, Bora’i appears to be a middle-aged man of serious demeanour. In the photo you can see the top edge of his instrument, an oud — a pear-bodied, 11-stringed instrument that looks similar to a lute.
His cassette starts with a track that sounds mildly classical, then a solo oud song that is more bluesy. The third track opens with a tabla-driven rhythm which is quickly accompanied by a few violins, some thrilling whistles (and no doubt his oud) playing an upbeat main melody. It’s instant. It grabbed me. It’s pop from the desert. And it’s a keeper. The driving rhythm on this song is an aspect shared by most of the songs that grabbed me. And as I say, it did grab me.
Track 2 I Am Destined to Love (Gidraishinna/Quidrechinna)
Abdel Gadir Salim’s name must be on the site in Arabic script because I can’t find it in roman script. I don’t recall how I worked out the title now either, because using translation software today doesn’t bring up anything like it. I digress.
Mr Salim is another oud player, also middle-aged, and pictures of him generally show him wearing a long, ample-sleeved white robe and sporting an abundant white turban. He appears to be quite a serene fellow, but as with Bora’i Dafallah’s instrumental, his music is also upbeat. Mr Salim is backed by a large group of musicians playing a rich blend of jaunty violins, percussion of various sizes, including hand-hit and stick-hit drums, and some flutey woodwind instruments. After a minute he begins to effortlessly sing with a rich voice that has an air of imparting life-learned wisdom that has softened him. Although that would suggest he’s looking back on life, whereas the song title suggests his unworried manner is because he is safe in the knowledge that, as he tells us, I Am Destined to Love. And who could begrudge him?
Track 3 Before Our Appointment (قبال ميعادنا)
I’ve already spoken of songs grabbing me, and Khalil Ismail’s Before Our Appointment is the song that grabbed me most. Its place in the playlist was assured after hearing the first couple of bars — an intro that made me wonder if I’d found where Public Image Ltd got the fantastic and memorable rhythm for Flowers of Romance. I’ve always loved the PiL song and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they did borrow its rhythm and ambience from a song that originated in the Arabic-speaking world. If you know Flowers of Romance, you’ll know its pounding loop of five drum hits, well that’s the same rhythm on Before Our Appointment.
With the rhythm established, the rest of band joins in one by one — a psychedelic didgeridoo (in the absence of visual evidence I’m having to rely on hearing and poetic license), followed by a bank of heavy violins, a snake-charming reed instrument, a Middle Eastern clarinet, and then Khalil sings. His voice bobs in and out in the same way the instruments do, perhaps given that feel because the Arabic language sounds as if it’s mainly vowels and few consonants — a floaty wind-like language. Before Khalil’s appointment he gets quite worked up, and the wind in his voice becomes more blasting, not unlike the Haboob (English translation: blasting) — a wind that creates duststorms in Sudan from May to September, most frequently in the afternoon and evening.
Track 4 The Appointment (Almaweid)
With the scene having been set by Before Our Appointment, fittingly, Mohamed al-Amin brings us The Appointment. It starts with a very straightforward rhythm of two conjoined low beats then two conjoined high beats provided by an assortment of percussionists. The drummers are then joined by what sounds like an accordion, perhaps with sand in its workings, giving it a pleasantly wheezing sound. Having read my description, I suppose it could be a harmonium but my limited knowledge suggests it’s more likely to be an accordion, so I’ll stick with that. Al-Amin starts singing the main refrain, which is a single phrase that sounds like “A shoe”. He does a call and response with an undulating “A shoe” being followed by an equally undulating blast from an accompanying accordion. A chorus of fellow musicians join in for the response parts as the sound builds. The bulk of the song consists of longer verses where he describes what great expectations he has for the appointment. If like me you don’t understand Arabic, you might worry that he’s going to be late. But he’s going to meet someone he’s been admiring for a long time, someone he loves. So bear with him. I love the unrelenting rhythm and accordion, while al-Amin’s musical voice effortlessly propels it all forward. It’s great and very catchy.
Track 5 I’m Lost (El Benredo Tayeh)
The next song is another fantastic find. I subsequently learned that the song’s three-female singing group, known collectively as Al Balabil, were apparently Sudan’s answer to the Supremes when they came out in 1971. A grand claim but this song is evidence that their similarity to the Supremes wasn’t only in looks. I’m Lost is a catchy song about young love and heartbreak. It has all the musical ingredients we’ve already encountered — the driving rhythm, the accordion, the heavy violins, floating and soaring whistles — plus an unfussy, but very interestingly timed bass underpinning it all. Sudan’s answer to Motown’s in-house bass player James Jamerson no doubt. The women sing as one, rather than having a Diana Ross up front. They sing mournfully of being cruelly wronged, possibly by three heartless brothers. I’m on the ladies’ side in this one. Robert Lloyd and trivia fans will be interested to know that “Al Balabil” translates into English as “The Nightingales”.
Track 6 I Sang Songs for You (‘ana ghanit layk ‘aghani)
My most pleasingly titled choice, I Sang Songs for You, is immediately appealing with its floaty flute melody drifting over the top of a gently galloping tabla, while a musical bed of strings sways dreamily, like breezy waves of wind passing through a field of wheat — something that can be seen in Sudan the further you are from the Sahara and nearer the irrigating River Nile.
I can’t hear Abdelazim Haraka’s oud, but the photo suggests that’s what he wrote this song on. Again there’s an electric bass pumping tunefully and pushing the song forward. The bass player’s occasional flourishes are suggestive of someone who gets bored quite easily. Haraka’s singing is accompanied by a woman who matches him stride for gymnastic stride up and down the scales, confirming that he’s not just making the beautiful melody up as he goes along. The fluidity of the melody and the harmonious singing give the song a strong sense of freedom. The past tense of the title, I Sang Songs for You, conveys a sadness that is still painful to the duo. I can imagine the tears freely falling down their faces as now the woman takes the microphone to tell him it wasn’t all her fault. It’s another sad one I’m afraid. I hope they can still be friends.
Track 7 Most Expensive (‘aghlaa alhabayib)
Now here’s a surprise — a jaunty bass and tabla intro. A trio of violins begin playing the melody as we start the song with the chorus. The chorus is repeated, this time with Amani Murad singing the same tune as the violins but with a rich, rippling soprano-clarinet-like tone. (Soprano clarinets are the higher-toned ones.)
Each chorus ends with a few scolding flourishes of the violins. I’ve decided that the title means Amani is selling her wares at the market. She first lists the prices of the wristwatches, then the bracelets, and finally assorted trinkets and other jewellery, each time starting from the cheapest to, you guessed it, the Most Expensive. The punters clamour round her stall, waving their Sudanese banknotes.
Track 8 No Matter How Much I Take it Easy on You (مهما أمري يهون عليك)
The extravagantly named Bahaa al-Din Abdul Rahman Abu Shila (بهاء الدين عبد الرحمن أبوشلة) begins his extravagantly titled No Matter How Much I Take it Easy on You playing a few scales on his harmonium. This could be a soundcheck but turns out to be a pleasant warmup for his suitably extravagantly long song. So settle in for the journey ahead; this is the one you truly saddled up your camel for. This song may be my favourite. It’s the soundtrack for a long caravan of camels heavily laden with blankets and bags stuffed full of mysterious treasures and spices making its way across the desert to a faraway destination — perhaps west to landlocked Chad, or north to prosperous Egypt, or maybe east to the Port of Sudan on the Red Sea.
The small orchestra of musicians sound laidback — relaxed and content to let the music take away the cares of the day. Bahaa himself has a smooth, calming voice with a wide range that finishes most verses with a very effective drop down to some lovely low notes. The orchestra plays respectfully more gently when he’s singing, but then each time he stops they promptly step forward and take the opportunity to confirm everything he’s sung. All the while, bubbling along comfortably underneath, like a warm stream passing over time-worn rocks, is the rounded sound of a collection of percussion. Listen out for a very pleasantly resonant drum which is so musical I mistook it for a stringed bass at first.
There’s plenty of time for contemplation when you’re journeying across a vast desert. But what thoughts have moved our hero to song? Is he singing to his dearly beloved back at home who he’s already missing? Or are his dulcet tones directed at his faithful camel companion? His safety depends on the health and well-being of this uncomplaining beast of burden, so it would be understandable if he was singing as a camel whisperer, softly encouraging it on. The title doesn’t lend itself to either of those options. I’ve decided the song is more suitably interpreted as a paean to his dear young children: “No matter how much I take it easy on you, you will grow up and leave home. No matter how much I love these times, protecting and doing things for you, you will mature and become independent, no longer needing me. But don’t worry, don’t fret, independence and maturity is a blessing that only the fortunate get.” Readers may wonder at such sentimentality, but hey, I’m only reporting possibilities, don’t shoot the messenger.
Track 9 Good Wishes (الأمانى الطيبة)
Shaking us out of our desert reverie, Sumaya Hassan’s (سمية حسن) Good Wishes is a lively skanking number that shares not only the jerky drive, but also the sound quality of an imported 7-inch ska single from Studio One. Like those treasured and uplifting artefacts from Kingston, Jamaica, Good Wishes sounds like a postcard from the past, transported from a place of unknown history and struggle punctuated with occasional bursts of joy and escapism. For me, it’s a remarkable contact with a complete, yet wholly unknown world and culture.
The chopping, rhythmic intro is overlaid with an overdriven accordion playing a wonderfully plaintive tune, which reminds me of one of my favourite moments of music — the accordion that bursts into Johnnie Allan’s Cajun-inflected version of Chuck Berry’s Promised Land. It comes in so unexpectedly, and immediately the song soars. Likewise, the unexpected is exactly what happens when Sumaya begins singing. She sings in a way I was totally unprepared for. How is she doing that? Do my ears deceive me? Surely not. Can she really be singing backwards? It’s amazing. Just as recordings played backwards build to sudden swells, so Ms Hassan’s acrobatic vocals rise and fall. And each time they fall the Sudanese ska picks us up and drives us musically along. It also has an element of the giddy waywardness that you can hear in some of the Ethiopiques series of recordings of Ethiopian musicians — another self-contained world of 60s and 70s music worth exploring. I can’t get enough of this song. Admittedly that’s partly due to the sound quality which makes me want to immerse myself in it more deeply to hear it all more clearly. Good Wishes — why not Best Wishes? — is a song that leaves me wanting more, not because it isn’t good enough but because there’s not enough of it.
Track 10 Dar Umm Badir (دار أم بادر)
I couldn’t find any translations for Dar Umm Badir, which led me to conclude, no doubt erroneously, that Dar Umm Badir is a place name. (🎵 “In the tooown where I was born …” Not now, Ringo.) Based on nothing but the fact that El Fatima Hajj’s (فاطمة الحاج) black-and-white photo looked vintage, I thought Dar Umm Badir might have been of an older song than the others here, but the sound quality suggests it could be one of the more recent recordings.
A duo of unaccompanied clarinetty woodwinds sound quite weary as the song begins, but a large assembly of percussionists, a pulsing drone of some kind (perhaps a bow being drawn across thick strings), and several strident violinists soon wake the clarinettists out of their torpor. El Fatima starts with the chorus and her female backing singers respond with the same refrain. Once the backing singers have got the hang of it, El Fatima joins in with them to give the chorus more oomph. Each time the singing is followed by the orchestra also repeating the melody just sung. It’s as if the orchestra are trying to relay the song’s message to listeners who don’t understand Arabic but instead communicate using the language of music. The assembled players sound as if they have complete faith in this unique method. Listen carefully and see if you can pick up the meaning. A novel thing for me among this collection is that in this one I recognise some of the words — every time the chorus comes around, I can enjoy hearing them repeat the title Dar Umm Badir. But why are they repeating it? My best theory is that Ms Hajj is offering slightly different directions for the best way to get there. (🎶 “Do you know the way to San Jose …?” Not now, Dionne.) And then, as befits music taken from a cassette, it ends abruptly, mid-flow, just like a John Peel radio show recorded onto a C90 and reaching the end of Side B as Mark E Smith is singing¹, ♪“… Cardboard copyright, Make it right, Panic in Sudan — “
¹ Eat Y’Self Fitter, Session 6, 21st March 1983
Acknowledgment: Thank you to Stevyn IronFeather Prothero for originally sharing the Internet Archive link to the Aladdin’s Cave of Sudanese music. If you too would like to open sesame, go here: https://bit.ly/2LYdcXH
