Raucous barakas

>> The trance-state truths and tribulations
of the Master Musicians of Jajouka

THE HILLS ARE ALIVE: The Master Musicians of Jajouka

by RUPERT BOTTENBERG

Over the years since they were discovered, in the 1950s, by beat-era luminaries Brion Gysin, Paul Bowles and William S. Burroughs—and later heralded to the world by the late Rolling Stone Brian Jones—a certain mythology has accumulated around the Master Musicians of the village of Jajouka, in the hills of northern Morocco. The first time this writer heard about them, it was in the context of a spooky yarn involving electric lights flipped on and off as though by unseen hands, as the now-legendary 1971 album Brian Jones Presents the Pipes of Pan at Jajouka played (and fat, funky hash joints no doubt made the rounds).

The attribution of supernatural powers to the Master Musicians of Jajouka, even laughably mundane ones easily duplicated by the purchase of a Clapper, is perhaps to be expected. The group’s traditions have been passed down hereditarily for as long as 1,300 years now, with roots reaching back to pre-Islamic pagan rites, and that’s plenty of time for myths and legends to accrue. Their otherworldy sound—keening oboes and lutes, and propulsive drums attuned to a rhythm that eludes easy comprehension—amplifies the mystique.

Once more with healing

A certain potency, however, is sincerely attributed to the music, and by no less than Bachir Attar, the group’s present leader. The music of Jajouka is connected to the Sufi strain of Islam, a mystic, artistic variant for which the trance state—a transformative experience that shatters the oppressive shackles of the abstraction we call time and offers a brief glimpse of the divine—is a key element.

Sufism spans the Islamic world and beyond, and in myriad forms—Attar, brash and friendly over the phone from Jajouka, confesses that the recent celebration of the 800th anniversary of the birth of the iconic Sufi poet Rumi was of less relevance to him and his clan than it might be to adherents in, say, Turkey or Iran. “But our music is Sufi music too,” says Attar. “A lot of parts of the music are Sufi. For healing sick people, and putting them in a trance, this is part of Sufi music.

“Sick people, completely out of their minds, they become normal—that’s a baraka, a blessing from Allah! We are working for that.”

Such a remark would sound like stage-magic hokum if Western science, in recent years, hadn’t begun to recognize the legitimacy of music as a tool for mental health. Attar, mind you, claims physical applications exist as well.

“I know somebody, of the royal family of England. He’s very, very rich, this man, he’s a lord. This was in the ’80s, it was my father and the musicians, we were on a tour in Europe, and this lord, his son, he couldn’t walk. The music healed him, he could walk and everything, everything was gone. But this lord, he never asked about Jajouka anymore. I asked him for just something, to help here, some money or something—but he didn’t answer!

“We are tired of that, really. I’m sorry if I say that, but yes, the rich people out there, they must understand this blessing, this baraka of Allah. Only a few, they open their hearts for this kind of healing.”

Keeper of the flame

Attar’s remarks come from a place not of arrogance but of exasperation. As the leader of the Master Musicians, as was his father before him, he’s been tasked with guiding the preservation of the village and its musical legacy. “It’s special, this music,” says 42-year-old Attar. “Nobody else can play this music in the world. Only we still got to play this music.”

Until European occupation, the musicians of Jajouka enjoyed centuries of patronage by Morocco’s royal court. Today, they rely on donations through their Web site, on tourists and pilgrims to Jajouka, and on collaborations with Western musicians, including Ornette Coleman, Bill Laswell, Talvin Singh, Sonic Youth’s Lee Ranaldo and, for their 1989 album Steel Wheels, the Rolling Stones. Attar’s a bit lukewarm about these interactions—“Some people, they come for business, but some of them, they love Jajouka music.”

Occasional performances abroad also help fill the coffers, though Attar finds a certain poignancy in their Montreal show. As part of the Festival du Monde Arabe, it’s a rare chance to play for their fellow Arabs.

“I hope we’re meeting good people at this festival. We never travel and do shows in Arabic countries, only sometimes in Morocco. We hope we can play this music for Arabic people in some Arabic countries. But we’ve never been.”

Any open ear, though, is one Attar welcomes. “We are just like you—this music is for everybody, you know, not only for us.”

At Théâtre Maisonneuve (Place des Arts)
on Saturday, Nov. 10, 8 p.m., $29–$49