It was only recently that I learned the real significance of that night back in 1994.  It ended a thirty-year period of official ostracism and neglect.  It was the first time that Cheikha Rimitti had been programmed in a proper concert hall, and one that was part of one the most respected cultural centres of the Arabic Diaspora to boot.  Since Algerian independence in 1962 Cheikha Rimitti had been given the cold shoulder by the cultural leaders of the newly independent state and had been forced to earn her living by playing weddings, baptisms and henna feasts on both sides of the Mediterranean.  After enduring three decades of Arabisation, corruption, deception, disappointment, moralising, cultural chastity and linguistic repression, Algeria welcomed la diva du rai back onto an official concert stage (the same welcome still hasn’t been extended by state radio and TV).  She lost no time in reminding her fellow country men and women who they really were, what they had been missing  and how to smile again.

Rimitti sang, as she has always done, in the plain spicy slang of Oranie, the huge province that spreads south, east and west from the port city of Oran in Western Algeria.  She didn’t mince her language or play too many high-minded metaphorical games.  She sang just how the poor rural population of her homeland speak, and to the gathered ex-pat crowd that was a refreshing epiphany of epic proportions.  Rimitti had returned, and she was telling it like it was.   The effect was Bessie Smith, Edith Piaf, Barbara Windsor, Eva Peron and Oum Khalthoum all rolled into one.

With your permission, I’m just going to indulge in a little plain-speaking myself.  My recent interview with Cheikha Rimitti was a nightmare.  We met in late January amidst the luxuriant Arabian nights décor of a Moorish bar restaurant in Paris’ third arrondissement.  Cheikha Rimitti arrived with her manager and producer Nourredine Gafaiti, an old rai svengali who has managed an impressive stable of A-list Algerian stars in his time including the late lamented Cheb Hasni and the husband and wife duo Sahraoui and Fadela.  I’ve always had a lot of respect and a lot of time for Mr Gafaiti.  He’s one of the rare native Algerian showbiz operators who has had the courage to explore and master the ‘western’ way of doing business, and the benefits have been obvious.

Cheikha Rimitti has long harboured a deep mistrust of journalists.  You can’t blame her.  Her kingdom is the spoken word, and the written opinions of hacks belong to a sphere beyond her ken, her interest and her control.  Before I had even asked my first question, I was made aware of the ground-rules in no uncertain terms.  Rimitti doesn’t want to talk about her private life.  Rimitti will not discuss her age or her past.  Rimitti only wants to talk about the music.  Recently, I was told, a French journalist wrote an inaccurate and unkind account of the alleged debaucheries of Rimitti’s past life.   She invented stuff.  We trust you won’t do the same.   Have you got a card?  Thanks, now we know how to get hold of you if you write anything cheeky or false.   Ok, now we can start.

The frustration and nervousness inspired by this onslaught of rules and restrictions was diluted by excitement and a gut feeling that this was a one-in-a-million opportunity that should under no circumstances be screwed up.  After all I was sitting inches away from one of my all-time heroines, a living breathing and impatiently waiting piece of history.  “OK, so let’s talk about the new album then…Haja Rimitti, what were you trying to…”  “It’s just Cheikha Rimitti to you, no Haja if you please!” came the booming riposte.  Legend 1, trembling English hack 0.  Everyone had been addressing Cheikha as ‘Haja’ since the moment she arrived, but it seemed that the title conferred on Rimitti following her pilgrimage to Mecca in 1976 was off limits to all but close friends and family.

OK, so CHEIKHA Rimitti, what were you trying to do with the new album?  She has an amazing way of talking, which is close to her singing style.  Her phrases come out like canon balls, rolling, loud and bass heavy, with little delicate grandmotherly croak trails at the end of each sentence.  Nourredine Gafaiti translated, assuring me that his rendition was unspun and word-for-word.   “In some way I wanted to resuscitate my life’s journey and my repertoire with this album but nonetheless I’m annoyed by all the artists who use my songs without declaring them.  I’ve always been short of money and I’ve been deprived of my rightful income so I hope that all of this will be put right sometime soon…”

BANG, ten seconds into the interview, we’ve already collided head on with Rimitti’s obsession numero uno: the great pop-rai Rimitti rip off.   Basically, it goes like this.  Rimitti has written over two hundred songs in her time, without pen or paper, just straight from her buzzing brain and into the microphone. Some of these songs, like ‘El Hmam’, ‘La Camel’ and ‘Mani Mani’ were snapped up by the younger generation of pop-rai chebs, covered on various releases and then registered with the French Society Of Composers, Authors and Arrangers (SACEM) as if they had written them themselves.   In other words Rimitti was deprived of her rightful ownership of and income from the songs.  It’s a legitimate gripe, which has been exacerbated by the fact that none of the younger generation, like Khaled, Mami, Zahouania, Fadela, Sahraoui and Tahar have ever acknowledged the debt they owe to Rimitti.  It’s that ingratitude that Rimitti still finds deeply hurtful. In fact, she’s obsessed with it.  The subject crops up again and again during our interview, like an unswattable insect buzzing furiously and intermittently in the ear.   Basically, as far as Rimitti is concerned, the only thing any journalist she meets is really good for is to help her broadcast this grave injustice, this heinous crime of base ingratitude.

Which is a pity, because deep down under that time-etched visage is a unique and deeply fascinating life-story.  But it remains resolutely stashed away in the vaults of Rimitti’s memory.  I do get a few tantalizing glimpses; a wayward recollection of performing with M’hamed Benzerga, le James Dean du rai, at a restaurant in Oran in 1959 on the night he was killed in a motorbike accident; a strange story about how a lawyer and music entrepreneur called Belhadj once acted as go-between for the famous traditional Oranais singer Cheikh Hamada whilst he was courting a French woman.  These titbits are thrown at me like choice morsels of roast meat to a hungry dog.

Rimitti also likes lists and takes pleasures in intoning them like a Buddhist boom box.   The famous names of yesteryear who she worked with: Hachlef, El Anka, Skandrani, Abdelwhahb, Mohammed El Badi, Abdoulahi Belkhayat, Fadila Djziriya, Miriam Fekkai, Cheikha Tetma, Mahboubati, Benzerga.  The places where she has performed and triumphed: Italy, Casablanca, Belgium, Canada, Japan, Tunisia, Angoulême, London, Bordeaux, Marseille, Spain, Cartagena, Zaragoza, Bilbao, Portugal, Berlin, Cologne.  The labels she has recorded for: Pathé Marconi, Maison d’Armor, Dounia, Philipps, La Voix de Son Maitre.   The old traditional singers who influenced her: Hamada, Madani, El Khaldi, Hadda, Blaoui Houari, Ahmed Wahby, Benzerga, Ahmed Saber.  The new singers who have ripped her off: Khaled, Mami, Fadela, Sahraoui.  For those with only a passing interest in North African and Arabic music, these lists will be more or less meaningless.  But for those few obsessional Maghrebi music train-spotters out there, these lists are stories in themselves, and mighty impressive ones too.

But when I try to delve deeper into the past, all I get is curtains.  “Why are you asking questions about Cheikh El Khaldi, Hamada, Madani?” Gafaiti translates.  “Because I’m fascinated by that period,” I answer.  “In that case you journalists should write the story of that period and give it some more consideration.”  “But that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”  “I don’t want to talk about others, I want to talk about myself.  What interests me are my rights, my songs and my works.  Ethnomusicology is not my predilection.”

Nor is it mine.  It seems that the real full-bodied Rimitti story might go with her to the grave.  In the meantime, hapless writers and idolizers like myself will have to be content with approaching her as if she were a historical figure, piecing together her story and her significance from the jumble of re-cycled references which can be found in the articles written about her by North African journalists with privileged access and knowledge of her language, especially Bouziane Daoudi of Liberation and Rabah Mezzouane, the musical director of the Institut du Monde Arabe.

Cheikha Rimitti was born in the mountainous region of Tessala, between the garrison town of Sidi-bel-Abbès and the prim wine-growing burg of Ain Temouchent, in western Algeria, on May 8^th 1923.  Algeria was still a part of France, trains still ran on coal and 78rpm shellac was still the only format in town.  She was given the name ‘Saâdia’, which means the happy or the fortunate one.  Her fate did not fulfil the promise of her name, and when she was still young, both her parents died.

The events of Rimitti’s early life remain locked away in her memory, but one can only surmise that it was a testing and tough existence, battered by extremes of hunger, poverty and loneliness.  The young Saâdia no doubt learned what she needed to know to survive, and events forged a character of street-wise steel.  We can speculate what music she must have heard at that age; a mix of the rural Berber folk of her forebears, which had remained largely unchanged for centuries, like the lifestyle it serenaded, and popular poetry known as melhoun, which had been adapted by ‘urbanised’ troubadours who adopted the instruments of rural poor, the rosewood desert flute or gasba and small goblet drum or guellal, and wore the turbans and burnous of the peasantry, to create what became known as folklore Oranais or gharbi, which means music ‘from the west’.  By the 1920s there were already many recordings available by these venerated cheikhs, a title which is equivalent to something like ‘sir’ or ‘the honourable…’

Men like Cheikh Hamada, Cheikh Madani, Cheikh El Khaldi, Cheikh Benyakhlef and Cheikh Elarbi Ben Sari, were a powerful early influence on Rimitti.  But she also had an ear for another tradition, a more risqué, more libertine and less time-honoured one than that of the chioukh (plural of ‘cheikh’).  This style shared the rural sounds of gharbi, but its lyrical content belonged to the same family tree as the zendani, or tavern songs which were paeans to the pleasures and pain of alcohol, carnal love, feasts and all-night revelry, very popular amongst those at the bottom rung of society’s ladder.  These tantalising themes were taken up by the new sirens of the age, women singers who had ventured beyond the pale of respectable society, wilfully or by force of some misfortune such as the birth of an illegitimate child, a violent husband, a forbidden love affair or just grinding poverty. Even though a career in music and entertainment was considered to be base, unworthy and depraved, at least it afforded these ‘fallen’ women some chance of earning a living and being mistress of their own destinies.  It could also bring considerable fame, and some of the favours that accompany it.

By the time Rimitti entered her teenage years, several of these popular divas, or cheikhas, as they were referred to, in ironic contrast to their ultra-respectable male equivalent, had become very popular.  Among them were Cheikha Kheira Guendil, Cheikha Zohra Bent Ouda, Cheikha Zohra Relizania and Cheikha El Ouachma El Tmouchentia. These proud independent women must have offered the young Saâdia a powerful role model.  But her own road to independence was long and hard.  At some point during her teens, Rimitti joined an itinerant troupe of Hamadcha musicians, who lived out their devotion to the Moroccan Sufi saint Sidi Ali Ben Hamdouch by touring the countryside and performing healing rituals animated by music during which ‘patients’ would go into a trance and communicate with spirits or djnoun.  The troupe no doubt afforded Rimitti a powerful musical education and a kind of ersatz family unit.  The young singer lived a hand-to-mouth existence, sleeping rough in public baths, religious shrines or out in the fields under the stars.  Rimitti learned to survive, to sing and to dance.

And it was as a dancer that Rimitti first began to be noticed.  Her grace and daring were incredibly seductive.  She was famed for dancing with a whole tray of glasses full to the brim balanced on her head, her belly a-blur, without spilling a drop.  News of her derring-do antics at fantazias, or traditional demonstrations of horse riding and gunmanship, also began to spread throughout the region.  She was known for mounting horses with rifles in each hand and giving the gnarled old veterans a run for their money, or for diving under galloping hooves.  Meanwhile she continued to perform with other women, in groups called meddahates, who would sing the medh or verses in praise of The Prophet for women only audiences at weddings, baptisms, feast and henna parties.  She would also entertain male-only audiences with other cheikhas, liberating souls from the straightjacket of respectability, sowing dreams of love, alcohol and oblivion until dawn doused everyone with its sobriety.  It was an exhausting existence, but it kept her alive and gave her dignity, however perverse in the eyes of society at large.

At the age of 20, Rimitti settled in the agricultural centre of Relizane, sweltering in the middle of the hellishly hot plains of Oranie.  It was a town that was famed for its vineyards, its watermelon groves, its olive trees and its cheikhas.  Back in the 19^th century it had been the centre of the uprising against the French lead by Emir Abdelkader. The town dominated a territory rich in cultural as well as agricultural produce, and its jealously guarded rural folk music tradition had given the world several renowned chioukh including Cheikh Belabbas Relizani and Cheikh Mohamed Relizani.   Relizane was also the home of several well-known female singers, including one of dominant voices of the 1930s, Cheikha Zohra Reliziana, whose biggest hit was ‘Moula Bagdad’.

At around this time Rimitti met the venerable gharbi flute player Cheikh Mohammed Ould Ennems and set up a ménage with him.  Ennems was famed throughout the region and the protection he gave the young Rimitti was invaluable.  Together they started a family, and Ennems opened the door for Rimitti to many established musical figures, eventually clinching a session for her at a radio station in Algiers.   With this unfamiliar stability in her life, Rimitti began to compose her own songs.  It was a time of terrible hardship in Algeria.  The Second World War was raging in Europe and North Africa, and the Allied invasions of 1943 brought violence, danger and famine in their wake.  Oran and its surrounding regions were also ravaged by a plague of typhus, immortalised by Albert Camus in his existentialist masterpiece ‘La Peste’.  Meanwhile the entrenched apartheid of colonial Algeria heaped misfortune on the native underclass.  Rimitti began to sing about these terrifying realities, not in a polemic or analytical way, but rather like a mirror coloured with cautionary tales, idioms, double entendres, popular epithets and the rich patois of the region, reflecting the woes, aspirations, trials and tribulations of the ordinary man and woman.  And the ordinary man and woman began to love her for it.

Rimitti would travel the region with her retinue of two flute players (Habib and El Manouar were her favourites), percussionist, dancer and berrah, a kind of MC whose job it was to keep the dedications coming and receive the tips in return.  Apart from private weddings and feasts, the public venues she played at were often bars, cafés and cantinas in the red light districts and entertainment quarters of towns like Sidi bel Abbès, Relizane, Mostaganem, Hammam Bouhadjar, Ain Temouchent and Oran.  The main square in the Medina Jdida, or Arab quarter of Oran, which was called the Tahtaha, was a favourite place for chioukh and cheikhates to appear.  Rimitti would often perform completely veiled, especially in front of mixed or male only audiences.  It all helped to heighten the sense of mystery and forbidden allure.  In fact, anonymity was a crucial aspect of the cheikhate phenomenon, and remains so until this day.  They ditched their real names in favour of nicknames which might describe their place of origin, or a salient characteristic.  Later, when their music was released on 45rpm singles or cassettes, a stock photo library shot of an Alpine scene, or the Tour Eiffel or some voluptuous blonde model would be use for the front cover, rather than a picture of the singer herself.  Although extremely popular, no one with the slightest concern for the colour of his own reputation would actually admit to listening to recordings of the cheikhas.  It was a private affair, but none the less potent or widespread for all that.

The story of how Rimitti earned her own stage name is a revealing one, that has been told many many times.   Near Relizane, just by a river called Oued Rhiou, there was a shrine dedicated to Sidi Abed, the patron saint of the region.  Every year, as happened all over Algeria, a festival or wa’ada, was held near the shrine.  Hundreds of white canvas tents were erected and all manner of musical attractions, both extremely famous and less well known were brought in to animate this temporary ‘musical’ city.  There would also be feasting, drinking and fantazias.  One year, Saâdia was walking through the festival with her retinue, accompanied by Cheikh Hamada and Cheikh Bouras, and was caught in a torrential downpour.  She took shelter in a canteen run by a local French company.  There she was recognised and complimented.  Someone suggested that she give thanks to her assembled fans by buying them a round of drinks.  The problem was that the bar was run by a French woman and Rimitti has never spoken more than a few words of French.  So she asked for a panaché (shandy), and then kept saying “Remettez panaché madame, remettez, remettez!”, (“give me another shandy, madame, and another, and another…”) eventually actually putting the words to music and singing it for the benefit of her delighted audience.  When passed through the filter of a thick North African accent, ‘e’s tend to mutate into ‘i’s, and so the assembled crowd started to cry out, “It’s Rimitti, it’s the signer Rimitti!”   “There,” she still says, “I became ‘Rimitti’ thanks to alcohol.  It’s a fine name!”

It was also at one of these wa’adat that Rimitti was spotted by a talent scout for the Pathé Marconi Company and in 1952 she released her first 78 for them, featuring the classic ‘Errai Errai’, followed by ‘Trig Tmouchent’ and ‘Gasmou Tiaret’.   Two years later she released ‘Charrag Gatta’, a barely veiled invitation to virgins to do the deed.  “Tear, lacerate / Rimitti will mend / Let’s caress under the covers / somersault over somersault / I’ll give my love everything he wants / I’m smitten by the wholesale fruit seller / by the one with his turban and his turtledove” went the lyric.  It’s not hard to imagine the effect of such a discourse on the polite Algerian society of the 1950s.  The song was a big hit and Rimitti’s reputation was assured.

But 1954 was also the year in which the first salvos of the War of Independence were fired, and life in Algeria began to mutate irrevocably. Despite all the immense hardships of the pre-war years, despite the racism and apartheid rule of the European pied noirs, it’s astonishing how much nostalgia still exists for those times when life, although not easier, was perhaps simpler than now and blessed with greater degrees of tolerance and diversity of culture, opinion and entertainment.  Rimitti supported the independence cause, as did other female signers like Cheikha Kheira Guendil, but she was also a popular act on colonial radio and TV stations, whose programmers valued the non-political nature of her songs and her immense popularity amongst ordinary native citizens, which was precisely the constituency that the French propaganda machine found hardest to reach.  Thanks to this popularity, Rimitti and the other Cheikhas were deeply distrusted by the cadres of the FLN, MTLD and other revolutionary groups.  As far as these po-faced strategists were concerned, this music was just a frivolous distraction, an opiate that drew the populace away from their true revolutionary Arab destiny.

Thus began Rimitti’s long fall from official grace and favour.  During the ‘60s and ‘70s she maintained her grassroots popularity by performing at hundreds, even thousands of weddings, naming ceremonies and henna feasts.   “I was fed up with doing weddings before you were even born,” she declares during our interview.  In the 1970s the North African community in France multiplied a hundred fold, and Rimitti became a favourite in the cafés of the Arab quarters like Barbès in Paris, Place du Pont in Lyons or Cours Belzunce in Marseille.  Her songs were a potent balm for the sorrows of lonely Algerian men, living in their worker’s hostels and pining for the warmth and sun of the heir homeland.  A horrendous car crash on the road back to Oran from a concert in Algiers, in which three of her musicians died, had a deep effect on Rimitti.  She sings about it in the song ‘Daouni’, one of the best on her latest album ‘N’ta Goudami’.  In 1976 she went on a pilgrimage to Mecca and soon afterwards gave up alcohol, cigarettes and other carnal indulgences.  Since then she has lead a modest and frugal life, split between a hotel room in the Barbès quarter of Paris and a  home in Oran, which she has been visiting regularly during the Ramadan period, when fasting and partying go hand in hand.

Rimitti’s restitution in 1994 came in good time.  She has had another decade of life, and will hopefully have yet another one, in which to prove to the world that she is one of the greatest female voices in the Arab world and a cultural gem that Algerians from every level of society should protect, value and cherish.  Despite the global popularity of the electrified rai sound, Rimitti’s roots formula of voice, flute and drum remains the most arresting, the most evocative and the most enticing clarion-call of the genre.  It takes you straight back to the dusty plains of Oranie, and to the lives of its struggling millions.   The fact that Rimitti and her team of producers and musicians have managed to modernise it so effectively, first on ‘Nouar’, a modern rai masterpiece produced by Algerian Mohammed Maghni and released in 2000, and now on ‘N’ta Goudami’, is something that all of us should be grateful for.  Remettez Rimitti.  Let’s have another one, and another, and another!!!

Ivan Chrysler, (c) 2004

First published in fRoots Magazine, May 2004

The post CHEIKHA REMITTI #2 – Ethnomusicology is not my predilection! appeared first on Andy Morgan Writes.

Someone had the idea of organising a rai festival in the suburbs of Paris.  All the A-List raimen and women were invited: Cheb Khaled, Cheb Sahraoui, Chaba Fadela, Chaba Zahouania….  But only one singer was deemed worthy to open the event.  She was la mamie du rai, a living legend to whom all the younger singers owed their freedom of expression, their linguistic and moral rebelliousness, their sense of unchained hedonism, and a significant proportion of their repertoire too.  She was Cheikha Remitti.

“I had the impression that I was being used,” Remitti explained two decades later to Le Monde. “I suffered, I even cried.  They used me to launch the new rock-rai sound.  I’m the mother of rai music, but I’m rooted in a tradition… Remitti is like the plam tree that provides dates for all and sundry.  But all the young ones have evaporated, and I’m still here.”

Remitti is most emphatically still here, well past her eightieth birthday, sharp, defiant, halogenically lucid, still giving her audiences the proverbial cru-cut with her freight-train baritone holler and still raising the temperature with her shimmying shoulders and pulsating midriff.  Moreover Remitti really does seem to have overtaken and outlived much of the younger generation that she originally spawned.  Her brand new album ‘N’ta Goudami’, is creatively more ambitious and successful than 95% of the rai being recorded by singers one third her age.  It seems like Remitti has trounced the rai youth at their own game.

Under direction from her long-time manager and producer, Nourredine Gafaiti, Remitti took the bold step of recording ‘N’ta Goudami’ at the Boussif studios in the western Algerian seaport of Oran, the city where rai music was born over a century ago.  She also used a 100% Algerian crew of musicians and arrangers.  Younger pop-rai stars have been in the habit of paying through the nose for top-flight studio time and trophy producers from France or the USA, in pursuit of off-the-peg musical credibility.  Remitti likes to keep things 100% homegrown.  Her penultimate album ‘Nouar’, which was produced by the talented and often overlooked Algerian Mohammed Maghni, is a modern rai masterpiece.   Her creative juices are flowing as freely as ever.

To place the Remitti legend in its proper context, you have to take a trip back to a time when Algeria was still under French colonial rule, when 78rpm shellac was still the only format in town, and trains still ran on coal and sweat.  Cheikha Remitti was born on 8^th May 1923, in Tessala, a lost burg near the French garrison town of Sidi-bel-Abbès, deep in the countryside of western Algeria.  She was christened Saadia, which simply means ‘happy’ or ‘joyful’.  The name didn’t deliver on its promise, however, and Remitti lost both her parents at a very early age.  In those remorseless days when the welfare state was still a socialist dream, a young female orphan had to learn the game of survival quickstyle, the hard way.  “Misfortune was my teacher,” Remitti is fond of saying.

The young Saadia would sleep rough in local hamams (‘Arabic baths’) or shrines dedicated to local saints.  She made her clothes from old mattresses, and her coffee from ground wheat germ mixed with syrup.  By day she would earn a few francs working as a maid for French families, or helping out with the harvests.  At the age of 15 she joined a troupe of traditional hamadja musicians, who devoted their lives loosely to some revered Sufi saint, and travelled the countryside entertaining the populace.  In their company, Remitti felt something approaching familial warmth and security.  She also learned how to sing, and dance.

“She used to dance like some kind of possessed spirit,” remembers an old-timer.  Amongst her repertoire of crowd-pleasing tricks was the ability to balance a tray laden with brimful glasses of water, and shake her hips without spilling a drop.  She would also dive under feet of galloping horses at fantazias, which were traditional displays of breakneck horsemanship mixed with gun practice.  Audiences were so aroused by her antics that would shoot their rifles in appreciation, and came close to terminating the young Saadia before she had even begun to make her mark.

At the age of 20 Remitti moved to the moribund provincial town of Reliziane which sat in the middle of the vast hot plains of Oranie, surrounded by vineyards, wheatfields and water melon plantations.   She was still singing and dancing herself to exhaustion at festivals, weddings and henna parties, and her reputation was beginning to grow amongst the rural poor of Algeria’s far west.   But she was also beginning to compose her own songs with the encouragement of the renowned flautist Cheikh Mohammed Ould Ennems, who became Remitti’s protector, partner and champion.  It was he who took her to Algiers to record her first radio broadcasts.

From an early age, Remitti had adopted the style known as folklore oranais or bedoui rurale which was championed by venerable old male singers like Cheikh Hamada, Cheikh Al Khaldi or Cheikh Madani.  These folk troubadours would intone ancient epic poetry which spoke of the heroic deeds of yesteryear over a bed of pounding goblet drums, known as guellal, and the hot breath of rosewood desert flutes, known as gasba. Remitti kept the gasba and guellal but dispensed with arcane verses of the cheikhs. Instead she adopted a rich linguistic stew of local slang and rural patois, liberally sprinkled with metaphors and popular sayings.  It was the language of the common man, and Remitti became its champion.

The late 1930s and early 1940s were a time of intense hardship in Algeria.  The mediterranean was at war, famine was widespread and the western provinces were scourged by typhoid epidemics, immortalised by Albert Camus in his novel, ‘The Plague’.  Remitti didn’t flinch from singing openly and directly about these contemporary miseries, and about the more personal traumas of alcoholic oblivion, lost love, emigration and carnal pleasure.  Her music was like a clear and exhilaratingly sharp mirror, which reflected the daily grind of the poor.  In that sense it was both revolutionary and delectable.  To date Remitti has written over 200 songs on subjects as diverse as sex, alcohol, oblivion, nocturnal pleasure, the telephone, the TGV, virginity, enforced emigration, the carnal desires of workers at a chemical refinery, the offensive nature of forced marriages between older men and teenage brides, friendship, war…and the list goes on.  “Songs canter through my head and I tie them to my memory,” she says.  “I don’t need paper or pen.”   Illiteracy has never posed her the slightest problem in pursuit of her art.

By the her late 20s, Remitti had become the queen of the cheikhate, (plural of ‘cheikha’) a new breed of popular female singer, who would tour the countryside with a retinue of dancers, musicians and berrah, or MC.  In order to protect the reputation of their families and loved ones, the cheikhate would operate behind a soft-focus gauze of anonymity, adopting nicknames, decorating their cassette covers with Alpine scenes or stock library shots of young models and performing infront of their male audiences wearing a veil.  They were martyrs to the hidden desires of the population.  Dealing with the all-pervading moral hypocrisy of the nation required considerable courage, guile and self-belief.

It was sometime during the second world war that Saadia became Cheikha Remitti.   One day, she was performing at one of the biggest Festivals in western Algeria, dedicated to the saint Sidi Abed.  The sky burst open and the rain came down in sheets so Saadia and her retinue were invited to take shelter in a tented watering hole normally reserved for Europeans.  She was recognised, fêted, and to show her gratitude she offered to buy a round for some of her admirers.   The problem was that the bar woman was French, and Remitti has never spoken more than a few words in that language.  So she just kept saying, “Remettez panaché, remettez, remettez!”   (Another shandy, and another, and another).  When spoken by a North African with a strong accent, ‘e’s tend to mutate into ‘i’s.   And so the gathered crowd took up the refrain and started shouting, “It’s Rimitti!   It’s the singer Rimitti!”    “My name became Remitti because of alcohol,” she says, “it’s a great name.”

In 1952, Remitti recorded her first 78 for Pathé Marconi under the name Cheikha Remettez Reliziana.  It was a roots rai standard called ‘Er-rai er-rai’.   Two years later she recorded ‘Charag Gatta’, a barely veiled invitation aimed at young women to trade in their virginity for the pleasures of carnal love.  “Tear, lacerate…Remitti will mend,” she sang.  The song was a monstrous success, and Remitti’s fame was assured.

The bitter war between the moujaheddin of the FLN and France started the same year.

Remitti was unequivocal in her support for the rebels, but she also found it hard to refuse the growing number of invitations to sing on radio and TV.  The colonial authorities knew only too well that Remitti was the most popular singer amongst the poorest of the poor.   If they could only keep the mind of the masses  focused on forbidden love, alcohol and oblivion, then they might dissuade them from thinking too much about rebellion and independence.   To Remitti , the radio was just another gig, another way of making a living.

Nonetheless the FLN, high on hardline Nasserist Pan-Arabic socialism, denounced Remitti as a purveyor of hedonistic frippery and “folklore perverted by colonialsim”.  When independence finally came in 1962, the new government did everything they could to silence the cheikhas, who continued to sing in the everyday language of the streets.    Their high-minded strategy was to try and impose classical Arabic on the nation, a language which noone spoke, and hardly anyone understood.  Remitti was banned from radio and TV.  She continued to perform at weddings and feasts, and to release a few 45rpm singles and later cassettes.   But in effect, her country abandoned her, officially at least.

From the 1970s onwards Remitti became increasingly popular amongst the growing number of Algerian immigrants in France, who led a nostalgic existence in their factories, worker’s hostels and high rise low rent housing, pining for home, stranded in a kind of mental ghetto with no hope of release.   It became a habit to spend the month of Ramadan back home in Algeria, and the rest of the year living modestly in a hotel room in the Parisian immigrant quarter of Barbès, where she would perform regularly in North African bars.  Remitti could command very good fees for wedding performances, but officially, in Algeria, she was still persona non grata.   In 1971, after a rare concert appearance in Algiers, she was involved in a terrible car crash near Mostaganem, not far from Oran.  She went into a coma that lasted several weeks.  Three of her musicians died.  The incident is the subject of the song ‘Daouni’ (JENNY PLEASE CHECK NAME) on ‘N’ta Goudami’.

Perhaps it was this close encounter with death, coupled with her increasing age that prompted Cheikha Remitti to go on the ‘hadj’ or pilgrimmage to Mecca in 1976.   Since then the doyenne of hedonism has actually lived quite an ascetic life, devoid of cigarettes or alcohol, and sustained mostly by rice and water.  This might go some way to explaining why Remitti is still singing, dancing and speaking her remarkable mind at the age of 82.  The disappointment of the Bobigny Rai Festival, and the blatant way in which the new pop rai starts like Cheb Khaled or Chaba Fadela have plundered her repertoire without moderation or recognition, or even thanks, all weigh heavy on Remitti’s mind, but they haven’t managed to destroy her spirit.

In 1994, partial recognition by the self-proclaimed guardians of Algerian culture followed Remitti’s two triumphant performances at the Institut du Monde Arabe in Paris.  For Algerian audience members present, whose lives and hopes were being torn apart by the increasingly brutal civil war back home, Remitti’s appearance was a triumphant homecoming, a deeply moving exposé of Algeria’s true character, which is Mediterranean and not middle Eastern, a handsome mongrel mix of Berber, Christian, Jewish, Ottoman, Spanish, French, and Maltese  influences with a corresponding language of infinite richness which has no better champion than Remitti herself.

Since then Remitti has been hailed in every continent, and fêted at festivals from Tokyo to Toronto.  In 1994 she collaborated with Robert Fripp and Flea from the Red Hot Chilli Peppers on the album ‘Sidi Mansour’, which nudged the creative boundaries of the rai genre out further than ever before.  She has always avoided the spangly cabaret pop approach to rai so favoured by the younger generation.  Even though she has adopted the bare bones of the rock format in her last two releases, the pure essence of the North African blues, whose active ingredients are powerful unpolished vocals, driving trance beats and the searing swirl of the gasba flute, remains the most crucial element in Remitti’s music.

Remitti is nothing less than the living surviving incarnation of Algeria’s long lost lust for life.  Like some dauntless liberated aunt at a dysfunctional family feast, who sings, laughs, chides and surveys the psychological torture going on all around with her knowing eye, Remitti continues to remind her fellow Algerians that spiritual faith can coexist with a love of life and physical pleasure.  No regrets.  Live and let live.   Let’s have another one Remitti…remettez, remettez!

Andy Morgan, c 2004

(Artist biog for Because, 2004).

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The Merlins of this particular hit machine are Magic System from the Ivory Coast.  Their ability to glamorize and internationalise hip-to-the-minute afro-disco styles like zouglou or coupé décalé, has made them just about the most popular African band in the world…for the time being at least.  Back in 2007 they teamed up with top North African rap combo 113 to record the massive hit “Un Gaou Oran.”   A few months ago Magic System returned with “Même Pas Fatigué,” which topped the French charts over the summer.   But this time their partner from the Maghreb was no ‘junior’ rap crew with milk teeth.  Rather they bagged (or was it vice versa) the most famous North African pop singer of all time, the King of Algerian rai music himself; Khaled, sporting a sober but stylish ‘gangster’ suit, a louche tache and that legendary smile.

A few cold winter months short of his 50^th birthday, Khaled, who was once revered as an icon of youth and teen rebellion, albeit the a-political and carelessly hedonistic North African brand championed by rai music, is no doubt overjoyed to be the voice of choice in the French banlieues once again.  The last time he found himself in such a state of showbiz grace was in the mid 1990s, when his tearful love song ‘Aisha’ was the biggest thing since croissants au beurre, and Khaled the most beloved and popular Algerian in French history.  Considering the loveless, well-nigh psychopathic relationship between France and it’s former colony, this was quite an achievement.  His fame then spread to the unlikeliest places, like Brazil, Turkey and India, where it still reportedly rivals that of any US girl or boy wonder you’d care to mention.

After dizzying peaks of success came a series of falls however.   Khaled was harassed by well-publicised matrimonial bust-ups, alcoholic misdemeanours, wrangles with his record label, taunts for being a fat irrelevant tax exile…in short, the usual snarling furies that harass rich and famous pop stars as they stumble gracelessly into middle age.

Not only did Khaled survive this extended slide into hell, but he came out of it smiling and smelling of some very expensive eau de cologne.  For whilst “Même Pas Fatigué” has hoisted his banner amongst French ‘ghetto’ kids who probably weren’t even born when the young Khaled, or Cheb Khaled as he was then known, first came to France from his native Oran in Western Algeria back in 1986, his new album ‘Liberté’ has spruced up his reputation amongst fans and cognoscenti of rai.   Produced by the veteran Frenchman Martin Meissonier, who last worked with Khaled on his landmark album ‘Kutché’ back in 1989, ‘Liberté’ is a back to basics exercise aimed at proving to all and sundry that Khaled’s voice need fear no rival in contemporary Arabic music as it soars like an eagle on a thermal joyride, and that his rai-stew of raw trancey Maghrebi roots and French, Spanish and Middle-eastern pop is best served as simply as possible, with little or no studio frippery and electronic garnitures.

Khaled, who is one of the easiest interviews ever to have blessed the anxious music journalist thanks to a conversational engine that just sparks ups and motors in all weathers, emitting generous expletives and guffaws as it races along, tells me over the phone that ‘Liberté’ encompasses many different definitions of the world ‘freedom’.

“Martin Meissonier knows me too well.  Twenty years after ‘Kutché’, he made me an offer I didn’t dare refuse.  He said, “Listen, Khaled, I’d really like you to sing the way you sing on stage.  I’ll let you be free and I won’t give you a click,”” he says, referring to the computer-generated metronome that some producers use to tie their wayward musicians to the beat.   In effect, ‘Liberté’ relies solely and courageously on good microphones and great musicianship to achieve its epic power.

However, the album’s honesty doesn’t merely reside in its production values.   As he nears his half-century, Khaled has clearly spent some time looking at the man in the mirror; mulling over his rebellious past, the apocalyptic sufferings of his Algerian homeland during the 1990s, his relationship to God and Islam and his tussles with his father, a stern car-mechanic who considered the phrase “a career in music” to be an impossible absurdity.

“I also called the album ‘Liberté, because of the freedom which my father provoked in me.  I wanted to prove something to him, because he always used to say that being a musician means getting involved in drugs, drowning in alcohol, being a tramp, never marrying, never having kids…all that kind of stuff.  Maybe it’s thanks to him that I became Khaled who is known the world over.  I wanted to prove to him that with music you can go far, do great things, and treat it as a profession.”

Khaled has also been busy contemplating the tragedy of Algerian history.  Like most of his contemporaries, born in the euphoria of the early 1960s, when the young Algerian state had only just emerged victorious from its dark and bitter struggle with France, Khaled can’t help looking back with dumbfounded bewilderment and ask, “What the hell went so wrong?”   A deep-seated need to find heroes and mentors untainted by the murky horrors of the civil war of the 1990s has led him to the avuncular embrace of the rai legend Blaoui Houari, who was singing in the bars and cabaret’s of his native Oran when Khaled’s parents were courting back in the 1940s.  During the independence struggle Houari shared a prison cell with a young freedom fighter by the name of Ahmed Zahana, aka Zabana, to whom Khaled dedicates a song on ‘Liberté’.   “He was the first martyr to be guillotined by the French during the war of independence,” Khaled explains.  “Zabana means freedom to me.  He sacrificed his life for freedom, so that’s why I wanted to pay homage to him.”

A national treasure, who has always taken the trouble to stay out of big ‘P’ politics, Khaled has no problem flirting with power.  He’s a good friend of the current Algerian president Abdelaziz Bouteflika, and defends his friend’s decision to play loose with the constitution and seek a third term.  “People like him because he bought security,” says Khaled.  “He’s a real politician, not a mere soldier like our other presidents.  And no one talks about Moubarak in Egypt or that guy in Tunisia, who have decided to be Presidents for life, after all!”

But there’s one specifically north African interpretation of the word freedom that Khaled can really claim to be his own, his offspring, his life’s work, his greatest pride.   It’s the freedom that has always been the cause célèbre of rai music, ever since the original pop-rai revolution of the late 1970s, when Khaled was just a youth with bum fluff and monster flares, burning bridges all over the fizzier parts of Oran, singing his heart out at weddings and baptism parties whilst drowning his sexual, social, and spiritual frustrations in free alcohol.

“The history of rock’n’roll with Elvis Presley and the history of rai are one and the same thing,” Khaled explains with explosive enthusiasm.  “ Rai was banned from television and radio because they said it was misogynistic music which couldn’t be listened to by the family.  It’s also a music that men dance to with their hips, which for a Muslim country, was outrageous.  Only women are allowed to dance with their hips.  Rai was a music that upset people who were a little bit stuck up in the way they lived, or I could also use the word ‘fascists’.”

In truth, the fact that Khaled has survived with his two primary weapons, his voice and his smile, sharp and potent, for so long, is quite extraordinary, illogical even.  Hedonistic, outspoken, devil-may-care, a North African rock’n’roller par excellence, Khaled has walked a tightrope for decades, with angry imams, po-faced politicians and lethal fundamentalist emirs baying for his blood.  This is no exaggeration.  In the darkest days of the civil year, fellow rai-singers and musicians were assassinated fairly regularly, and Khaled himself received numerous death threats.

It’s the smile, the impregnable bonhomie, the voice that transports every North African to some essential and indefinable place where myths and ancestors lurk, that have been his sword and shield from his earliest days.   Khaled was right never to play real Politics.   It’s a strategy that has allowed him never to appear like a real threat, whilst he shook, rattled and rolled his homeland to its moral core.

“I was brought up in a country that was very closed,” Khaled remembers.  “But I was always free thanks to music, because I was communicating the message of love and I’ve always fought for freedom.   The problem is that in a place like Algeria, when you sing about love or about the beautiful things in love, it almost makes you a protest singer.   But you mustn’t fall into the trap of Politics.  Politics is for politicians.  Each has their role to play.”

Andy Morgan.  (c) 2009
First published in The Independent – Sept 2009

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Khaled knows that kind of fame, not only in France, but also throughout North Africa, its diaspora and strange unlikely places like India, Brazil and Japan.  After the release of his second to last album ‘Kenza’ in 2000, it seemed that fame was beginning to take its toll.  There had been stories in the papers about bouts of alcohol-fuelled mayhem, violence towards his wife, niggling paternity suits, drink driving.  There was the very public sparring with his record company Barclay / Universal and its charismatic boss Pascale Nègre, who had signed Khaled was back in ’91 when he was still little more than a North African ghetto hero and then engineered his worldwide success.  There were some atrocious concerts with a bored looking backing band, which registered frighteningly high levels of schlock.  There was the fall-out of 9/11, which made life harder for all Arab singers and musicians, however disarming their smile and virulent their laughter.  There was the very public Internet debate amongst North Africans about whether Khaled had grown old, fat, lost his touch and fallen out of favour with his core constituency. There was Khaled’s own dissatisfaction with ‘Kenza’, and the way in which it had been manufactured piece meal by a gamut of hired-hand producers.  All in all, it was a troubled time; a dark hiatus in what had been an unrelenting hi-gradient climb to stardom over the past decade.  It was a severe test of that seemingly indestructible mischievous smile.

Khaled does a good job of persuading you that he can brave out the pressure, and eyeball the furies of fame, especially the media attention. “When you’re well known you attract that kind of rubbish,” he says with that 24-carat grin.  “It’s very very very hard.  It’s not even hard, it’s hellish.  It’s hellish when I open a paper or my wife opens a paper and reads stuff.  And sometimes she falls into the trap of believing what she reads, even though I’ve been married…legitimately!…to her for ten years now and she’s my one and only wife.  People think I’ve been married to loads of women.  That kills me too.  As for the drink, I’ve been teetotal for eight years now.  When you’re a good artist, you have to have the courage to stand up to all the criticism, because if you answer back, if you react, it will never end.  You just fall into a vicious circle.  And as I always say…the caravan passes and the dogs bark.”  That last little epithet is one of Khaled’s favourites, and he throws it in several times during our long interview, as if to underline the fact that people can talk if they want to, but their words won’t penetrate his defence systems, which are armour plated and impregnable.

In fact, if you consider the long pot-holed road that Khaled has travelled to reach his present state of grace, and tax exile in Luxembourg, where he currently lives, you start wondering what exactly these defence systems are made of.  What is the secret of his survival?  After all, it hasn’t been easy.  Back in Oran in the early 1970s, Khaled’s police mechanic father took a dim view of his burgeoning flirtations with music.  Music was emphatically not a family concern, not even on an amateur level, and like all solid self-respecting Algerians, Mr Hadj Brahim considered the phrase ‘a career in music’ to be an oxymoron.  His young tearaway son saw things differently.  For starters, the only time and place where unbridled hedonism and good times were officially sanctioned by Algerian society, outside of cabarets and brothels, was at weddings, and if you were a musician, you tended to do a lot of weddings.  Khaled always loved to party, still does, so a career in music held a certain unassailable logic for him.  What’s more, being a musician at a wedding conferred a certain ‘useful’ status…people would procure alcohol for you, and treat you well.  In any case, Khaled was already hooked to music and musicians, and was working at emulating, even surpassing his heroes: Johnny Halliday, Elvis, The Beatles, The Stones, Edith Piaf, Jacques Brel, Oum Kalthoum, Abdel Halim Hafez, Blaoui Houari, Ahmed Wahby and Bellemou Messaoud.  The pure raucous innocence of the Spanish boy idol Joselito also stirred his innards, together with the raw emotional power of Spanish pop and flamenco in general.  Critics and commentators often omit to mention this crucial component of rai music.  “Oran is an Andalusian town,” confirms Khaled.  “We’re opposite Almeria and back in the day, rai had more to do with flamenco than anything else.  I was born in La Calera, which is the name for the old port.  It’s Spanish.  Everyone speaks Spanish, all the older people at least…except me ha ha ha.   And the old people used to say, including my father, that flamenco is a ‘cry of love’.  There were taboos in our society and only flamenco said those words of love.  There was even the dance of the Toreador…it was an erotic dance.  Well that’s rai.”

So flamenco was the only means in town to say things straight, at least until the blunt plain speaking sounds of Nass El Ghiwane crossed over the border from Morocco and hit the youth of Algeria, including Khaled, like a tornado.  This epoch making invasion occurred in the early 1970s just before the conflict in the Western Sahara brought Moroccan-Algerian relations to a bitter low.  Khaled remembers the authorities rounding up truckloads of Moroccans living in Oran, including some of his close school friends, stripping them of their goods and property, and shipping them back over the border.  “Oran was full of Moroccans. I grew up Moroccan. Although I was only small, I remember the shame and the hatred of those times,” says Khaled.  “It still upsets me today.  I can’t get it out of my head.  I’ve even said as much to the King of Morocco, who’s a friend.”  With his newly formed group, Noujoum El Khams (‘The Five Stars’), Khaled would play Nass El Ghiwane songs at weddings, even though Moroccan music was frowned on for a time.  “With Nass El Ghiwane, for once, we had a group that were committed to singing about the reality of what was going on,” remembers Khaled.  “They weren’t scared.  They were the business as far as I was concerned. I had this small accordion, and when I played at weddings I would play with Noujoum El Khams, but after midnight I would take my accordion and sing rai.  And that’s how I was discovered by this cassette producer who invited me to make a record.  My challenge, when I went into the studio, was to bring together three cultures: the rai of Cheikha Remitti, the reality lyrics of Nass El Ghiwane that broke the taboos and the sax and trumpet of Bellemou Messaoud.  And I recorded ‘Trig Lycée’, which means ‘The road to the Lycée’.  It goes ‘The road to the Lycée bores me’.  And on the b-side I sang, ‘We’re watching the girls climbing up into the mountains, so that we can look at their bums from behind’ …hahaha…and we would shout out “Come on wind!  Lift up their skirts!  Come on wind!””

I’m bored with school.  Wind, lift up the girl’s skirts.  It’s hard for us, living in our carefree havens of western liberalism to appreciate how utterly shocking such sentiments were in the Algeria of the mid 1970s.  But Khaled was doing nothing more than vocalising the appetites and frustrations of a generation; his own generation.  He was born on the cusp of independence when the whole nation still had the lustre of hope and expectation in its eyes.  He came of age at a time when that hope was turning sour and rancid.  “Rai music back home was about breaking taboos and talking about everyday things,” Khaled remembers, “talking about life that’s lived back home by a teenager who says, “I’m fed up.  I’m pissed off.  I’m here.  I’m propping the wall. I do fuck all.  I haven’t got any pastimes.  The government shuts me in.  If I want my passport I have to do two years of military service.”   I talked about all of that, me.   I talked about it all.”  By the time Khaled left for France in 1989, he was already a big star in Algeria, crowned ‘King Of Rai’ at the 1985 Rai Festival in Oran.  And fame was already forging irons for his feet.  Bitter jealousies were biting at his heels.  Stack’em’high and sell’em’cheap cassette producers were throttling any real musical talent he had.  The army wanted him to do his military service to set an example to the rest of the youth.  Unlike his hero Elvis, he refused, and his musical career was saved.  Instead he left for France, signed a deal with a subsidiary of Polygram, the biggest record label in the world, recorded ‘Didi’ with Don Was and sold a million copies.  With ‘Aisha’ and the album ‘Sahra’ he sold a million more.  The 90s were his decade.  And just when Algeria was plunging itself into a civil conflict of barely imaginable bitterness and horror, his own songs of love, life and good times were becoming the internationally recognised musical emblem of his homeland.  But the irony never killed him, although fellow countrymen were being murdered in their thousands.

Four years ago, after the release of  ‘Kenza’, the second album named after one of his daughters, Khaled hit turbulence.  He had just turned 40, a difficult age for an erstwhile pied piper of youth.  His father died in August 2001.  He was forced to go back to Algeria to answer charges brought by a cassette company called Zeid El Youm, who claimed that he had broken a contract signed way back in the 1980s.  He played his first concerts in Algiers and Oran.  His third daughter Röhsen was born.  He argued with his label.

What next?

Somehow during all those years in France, working with the best producers in the best studios, Khaled had never had the opportunity to really indulge his instrumental talents in the studio, and prove to the world that he was a musician as well as a singer without equal.  The French producer Philippe Eidel, who had worked with Khaled on and off since the beginning, coaxed Khaled back into this central role.  After Khaled had worked out a few very simple ideas on his Apple Mac at home, he brought them to Eidel and they then went into the studio with a few choice musicians, with the aim of turning these ideas into the songs in situ, live and direct, with a minimum of cut’n’paste and trickery.  “We get eaten up by electronics and we forget,” says Khaled. “We forget the old sound, like some really well arranged rock’n’roll from the sixties.  Or in France, it’s musette, it’s the accordion, and now they’re beginning to lose all of that.  The youth are forgetting it.  Machines are good for creating and working fast on a demo.  But when you finalise your work you have to bring along real musicians.”  Thus a new heartbeat was reintroduced into Khaled’s music, stripped bare of the anxieties of infinite choice that synths, sequences, midi et al can bring, featuring the convivial warmth and groove of a tight coterie of musicians and a faithful posse of producers; Eidel, Don Was, the young Algerian talent Farid Aouameur and ex-member and founder of Caribbean zouk giants Kassav, Jacob Desvarieux. The new album ‘Ya Rayi’ was taking shape.   Its opening track ‘Mani Rani’, a languid tale of despondency and heartbreak, set the tone beautifully with it loose sepia shuffle and dreamy piano intro.

But there was a deeper tale unfolding.  Something in Khaled’s state of mind was impelling him to revisit old fires, old loves, old longings.  Maybe it was that inevitably painful entry into middle age.  Maybe it was the death of his father.  Maybe it was need to rekindle the flickering warmth of family, friendship, community and ‘bled’ or home-country that had succoured him as a child in the bright hopeful days of the 1960s.  Maybe he wanted to reaffirm the lifeblood of rai music: fun, partying, good times and hope.  Like other journeys back to the roots, to the source, by Buena Vista Social Club, Salif Keita, The Gypsy Kings and others, Khaled’s was motivated by a desire to revisit a golden age so that some of its glow could light up an otherwise grey present and even bleaker future.

Khaled reunited two childhood heroes to help him travel back into the past.  The first was Blaoui Houari, le papa du rai, a singer and songwriter from Oran who had cradled the hopes and dreams of his parents and grandparents back in the 1940s and 50s.  The second was Jewish pianist Maurice El Medioni, the keel of the cabaret style of 1950s Oran which blended US boogie, Latino syncopations, Arabic inflections and the sentimentality of French chanson. “I wanted to come back to 100% rai songs,” explains Khaled, “that’s to say, the style of the old timers, in order to hope, to talk about the same things that they talked about.  That’s to say, we still don’t have that rosy life that they had, or that they were expecting to have soon.  It was also to show that there wasn’t any racism in Algeria.  That’s a Jew and an Arab who knew each other in Algeria even before I was born.  What’s more, they were mates back then.  I still love that old music today.  There was a purity there.  There’s stuff we can learn from that time. “

Khaled paints a picture of this epic meeting with child-like wonder and enthusiasm.  “You should have seen it.  I created this surprise.  They didn’t know that they were going to meet each other again after a space of forty years.  I invited them both to this studio in Paris to play on ‘H’mama’, an old Blaoui song, which means ‘Dove’.  Blaoui almost had a cardiac arrest, the poor guy.  He’s an old bloke and he brought along this guitar that he’s been playing for more than fifty years.  There’s was Medioni on the piano, Blaoui on the guitar, and I was in between, the little boy, with my little percussion.  I asked them to play an intro and I just improvised some singing and we recorded it on tape.”

A short film about the recording that comes packaged with initial copies of the new album ‘Ya Rayi’ shows Khaled buzzing around in the studio, orchestrating the individual parts of the musicians, banging out rhythms on a derbouka, or sparring on his favourite instrument, the accordion.  His smile is constant, beaming, switched on, like the red recording light by the studio door.  He looks like he’s having the kind of ball that he hasn’t had in a long time. He looks like he has rediscovered something important that had been missing in his art.  And this conviviality, this party atmosphere has soaked into the music.

Houari, Medioni and Khaled are all names that are synonymous with Oran.  So is ‘Ya Rayi’, the title of the new album.  It’s the age old holler of rai music, its equivalent of “check one, check two” or “let’s rock” or “ain’t it funky now”, and it could be heard over a century ago in the guttural cries of rural rai cheikhs who would entertain the masses in the squares and cafés of the Medina Jdida, or old Arabic quarter of Oran.  Rai is the child of Oran, and it was born with the same characteristics, the same soul as its hedonistic parent.  “You know, when there was the terrorism in Algeria, Oran was a town that wasn’t touched,” Khaled explains.  “In other parts of Algeria, especially the triangle of death near Blida, people would refer to Oran as ‘Geneva’.  Because it’s neutral.  There’s no war.  Since even before independence, Oran was known as being a port city and a city for music.  You can never change that mentality…the showing-off, the youth, the flirtation, the cabarets and that desire to show you’re the most beautiful things on earth.  That’s Oran.  They don’t give a fuck about the government, as long as they live well.  That’s why Oran is a special place.”

Khaled is also a child of Oran, unmistakably so.  “My politics is making music, making people happy, giving them joy, and doing beautiful things,” he says emphatically.  In conversation, it slowly dawns that his core values are actually quite conservative, with a very small ‘c’, and tied to respect of family, of religion, of country and community.  He admonishes the famous Kabyle singer Matoub Lounes, who was murdered by the GIA in 1998, for having worn a T-shirt proclaiming his atheism and recorded a protest song based on the Algerian national anthem.  “That man had guts and I take my hat off to him,” says Khaled.  “We were like mates together, but when I saw some of the things he was doing I said, “Stop.  Stay as you are.  You’re the symbol of the Kabyle people.  You’re fighting for a cause which is real.  Those people have made the whole world tremble.  Don’t touch that.”  You don’t muck around with the national anthem.  He became the man to strike down.  One mustn’t antagonise those people.  One mustn’t publicise their cause.  You have to know how to fight them with kindness.”

Fighting with kindness.  That’s Khaled all over.  When he talks about his ‘enemies’, his words are always wrapped in smiles, punctuated by chuckles or spiced with loud guffaws.  He has the knack of making confrontation look like partying.  You just don’t feel like being aggressive towards him.   It’s easy to interpret his stubbornly a-political musical approach as a cop-out, a piece of cowardice.  But if you consider that his name has no doubt been high up on the hit list of the GIA or the radical Salafist militias that still exist in Algeria for more than a decade, then this worldview seems smarter and craftier on reflection, like one belonging to a man who is determined to have the last laugh.  Back in the ‘70s and ‘80s Khaled spearheaded an a-political youthful rebellion, anchored in sex, alcohol, fun and good times.   Middle Algeria reacted to him just like the good folks of Mississippi and Arkansas reacted to Elvis in the 1950s.   But politics wasn’t part of the mix. “One mustn’t fall into the trap of politics,” he says firmly.  “Politics is for politicians.  Each has their role to play.”

Fame is dangerous in Algeria.  Music is dangerous in Algeria.  Partying in dangerous in Algeria.  Khaled has epitomised all three, and yet managed to survive.  Those who have dismissed him as an intellectual lightweight have completely missed the point.  The game of brinkmanship he has been playing since the age of 14 is truly wondrous.  It’s one that declares, “I am a Muslim and I party.  I am an Algerian and I love good times.  I respect my family and my country and I’m a musician.  I’m a man of the people and I’m famous.”   The new album ‘Ya Rayi’ proves that Khaled is still up there on the high wire, and still smiling like there’s no tomorrow.

Andy Morgan.  (c) 2004
First published in fRoots – May 2004

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