| On 3 February 1975, exactly 25 years ago today, an extraordinary woman, Umm Kulthoum -- or simply Al-Sitt (the Lady), as she was called -- passed away. Today, we tell her amazing, incomparable story, in an attempt to understand why, 25 years later, it's as if she had never left us. The story of this absence, so intangible and yet so vital, is told here through interviews with those who were closest to her, a visit to the small village where she was born and raised, and an examination of the many ways in which her legend has not only lived on, but become stronger. Umm Kulthoum's voice is only one part of this glorious story. It is her entire being that still fills everyone's heart |
The singer not the song
NOSTALGIC REPLAY:
By Maurice Guindi
NOSTALGIC REPLAY:By Maurice Guind
"Let me sing sweet tunes,
Making listeners sway in rapture,
Sending the daffodil and the jasmine into a swing,
Enticing the caravans to echo me as they trek through the desert."
These lyrics came from the lips of Umm Kulthoum in one of the six movies she made during
a 50-year singing career that entranced Egypt and the entire Arab world. They are a fitting
description, if not an understatement, of the impact she had on her listeners.
The prodigy, who rose from a peasant child chanting religious hymns in Nile Delta villages to
become the queen of Arab song and rub shoulders with heads of state, first ladies and
princes, died 25 years ago today. She came back to us in all her glory as we watched a
recent 37-episode television series chronicling her life in the context of the artistic, political
and social conditions prevailing in the better part of the 20th century.
Walking on the streets today, you may well see a verse from one of her songs painted on the
trunk of a taxi, or hear her unmistakable voice coming from a coffee shop radio, or find a boy
chanting a line from one of the poems she sang.
"She is a memory that renews itself endlessly," wrote Ni'maat Ahmed Fouad, Umm
Kulthoum's foremost biographer, whose book was the main source for the TV series. "She
is a fragrant memory that never loses its perfume." Mohamed Abdel-Wahab, Egypt's top
composer, who also sang in his early years, said Umm Kulthoum's voice had a royal ring
that inspired "awe and respect". When she sings, he said, "you feel you are in the presence
of an
emperor... Her voice combined power, emotion and sensitivity." Music experts said Umm
Kulthoum's voice could sweep through two octaves, up and down the musical scale with
perfect ease, clarity and articulation.
Laying aside expert assessments and speaking as a fan, I can say that Umm Kulthoum gave
me 25 years of bliss. From 1947 to 1972, when she ended her public performances, I
regularly attended her monthly concerts organised by Radio Cairo. I did not miss even the
private concerts she sometimes gave in provincial centres. This devotion had its roots in my
childhood. As a primary school pupil in the Suez Canal city of Port Said, I used to sit in bed
listening, on the night of the first Thursday of every month, as Radio Cairo broadcast her
concerts. My mother and father used to entertain friends to dinner before clustering round
the radio set for the ritual, which bordered on the religious. I was not allowed to join because
I was a child.
As a Cairo University undergraduate in 1947, I came into my own and made it to the concerts
in person. My first -- my initiation into a magic world -- was at the American University's Ewart
Memorial Hall. After the concert ended in the small hours of the morning, I walked home -- a
distance of some five kilometres -- almost in a trance as I 'chewed the cud'. I did not take a
taxi because I wanted to absorb privately and peacefully what I had sampled on that
memorable night.
From then on, I was a fixture at Umm Kulthoum's concerts. My Radio Cairo friends helped me
secure tickets for the same seat wherever she sang -- at the Ezbekiya Theatre until the
mid-'60s and at the Qasr Al-Nil cinema afterwards. Throughout those 25 years, I paid LE2 for
my seat in the front stalls.
Upon Umm Kulthoum's insistence, ticket prices were never increased. Some of her
masterpieces were presented during that period, including 10 compositions by
Abdel-Wahab in the last eight years of her career.
Umm Kulthoum's repertoire included more than 300 songs with themes ranging from love to
nationalism to religion. The majority were in colloquial Arabic; some were in classical
Arabic, written by famous poets. Umm Kulthoum was extremely selective in the choice of
verses and frequently had the authors change words if their resonance for her was not
perfect.
It was after she presented Enta Omri (You Are My Life), Abdel-Wahab's first work for her in
1964, that I interviewed the two giants at Umm Kulthoum's villa in Zamalek. That song was
dubbed "the summit encounter" and had come about at the urging of President Gamal
Abdel-Nasser. The president's eagerness to see the two artists join in a single work was
vindicated by the resounding success of Enta Omri. For more than four decades of her
career, Umm Kulthoum shied away from Abdel-Wahab's music. She belonged to the Oriental
school and did not savour the ever-increasing Western touches and instrumentation in his
music. When he eventually composed for her, his Western inclinations were kept within
limits and the results were a breath-taking blend of essentially Oriental music with an
occasional subtle Western tinge. The two artists complemented each other beautifully.
My two-hour interview with Umm Kulthoum and Abdel-Wahab was conducted for the
international wire service I worked for at the time. The "summit encounter" had evoked much
interest in many parts of the world. Dressed in a sober suit with hardly any make-up, Umm
Kulthoum spoke softly -- a far cry from the stage appearances I was used to -- and chose her
words carefully. I was struck by her modesty. Despite the heights of glory and self-assurance
she had reached, she told me she continued to suffer from stage fright when the curtain rose
and she faced her audience. Her perennial handkerchief -- initially a small white one and
later a large one, close in size to a scarf, matching her dress -- was not an appendage of
vanity but a simple practicality. She said she needed to dry her hands because they became
clammy due to her awe of the audience.
The staggering end came in early 1972, when she gave her last concert. She started off with
Abdel-Wahab's Leilet Hobb (A Night of Love), giving a sparkling two-hour rendition with
numerous variations of her own that left the audience dazed. Her second song, a religious
one about the holy sites, required a high pitch at many points. At one of those points, and
without advance warning, her voice cracked, sounding a discordant note. She froze and the
orchestra stopped playing. There was dead silence in the hall for a few seconds followed by
frenzied applause from the 1,800-strong audience. The outburst seemed to reflect a mix of
love, encouragement, compassion and maybe pity. I was dumbfounded, telling myself that
the slip was just the result of exhaustion after the strenuous effort made in the first song and
that the lady would bounce back.
But this was not to be. Umm Kulthoum retired after that concert. Like most great performers,
she knew when to stop. She died on 3 February 1975, after a protracted illness during which
the nation held its breath and newspapers ran headlines and editorials imploring the public
to pray for her. As the bureau chief of a wire service, I was responsible for the coverage of the
funeral. But I stayed away from the scene, sending an assistant to cover it. I just
could not bear to be there.
I relived that beautiful period of my life as I watched the 37 episodes of the TV series with a
multitude of feelings -- love, respect, admiration, nostalgia, yearning and thankfulness for
having lived that long with Umm Kulthoum. I consider the TV series an outstanding success:
not only did it give an honest and minute portrayal of that unique songbird and her
achievements; it also projected her integrity and commitment to her art, her friends and to the
nation.
Analysts say that the series, in addition to its intrinsic value, has served to nudge young
Egyptians, who were not born or were just children when Umm Kulthoum died, into full
awareness of her art and her sterling character.
The unbounded popularity of Umm Kulthoum, the deftness of the scriptwriter, Mahfouz
Abdel-Rahman, the meticulousness of the director, In'am Mohamed Ali, and the magnificent
acting by the heroine, Sabrine, and the rest of the cast all contributed to a consummate
production that made headlines and drew accolades everywhere.
NOSTALGIC REPLAY:
By Maurice Guindi
NOSTALGIC REPLAY:By Maurice Guind
"Let me sing sweet tunes,
Making listeners sway in rapture,
Sending the daffodil and the jasmine into a swing,
Enticing the caravans to echo me as they trek through the desert."
These lyrics came from the lips of Umm Kulthoum in one of the six movies she made during
a 50-year singing career that entranced Egypt and the entire Arab world. They are a fitting
description, if not an understatement, of the impact she had on her listeners.
The prodigy, who rose from a peasant child chanting religious hymns in Nile Delta villages to
become the queen of Arab song and rub shoulders with heads of state, first ladies and
princes, died 25 years ago today. She came back to us in all her glory as we watched a
recent 37-episode television series chronicling her life in the context of the artistic, political
and social conditions prevailing in the better part of the 20th century.
Walking on the streets today, you may well see a verse from one of her songs painted on the
trunk of a taxi, or hear her unmistakable voice coming from a coffee shop radio, or find a boy
chanting a line from one of the poems she sang.
"She is a memory that renews itself endlessly," wrote Ni'maat Ahmed Fouad, Umm
Kulthoum's foremost biographer, whose book was the main source for the TV series. "She
is a fragrant memory that never loses its perfume." Mohamed Abdel-Wahab, Egypt's top
composer, who also sang in his early years, said Umm Kulthoum's voice had a royal ring
that inspired "awe and respect". When she sings, he said, "you feel you are in the presence
of an
emperor... Her voice combined power, emotion and sensitivity." Music experts said Umm
Kulthoum's voice could sweep through two octaves, up and down the musical scale with
perfect ease, clarity and articulation.
Laying aside expert assessments and speaking as a fan, I can say that Umm Kulthoum gave
me 25 years of bliss. From 1947 to 1972, when she ended her public performances, I
regularly attended her monthly concerts organised by Radio Cairo. I did not miss even the
private concerts she sometimes gave in provincial centres. This devotion had its roots in my
childhood. As a primary school pupil in the Suez Canal city of Port Said, I used to sit in bed
listening, on the night of the first Thursday of every month, as Radio Cairo broadcast her
concerts. My mother and father used to entertain friends to dinner before clustering round
the radio set for the ritual, which bordered on the religious. I was not allowed to join because
I was a child.
As a Cairo University undergraduate in 1947, I came into my own and made it to the concerts
in person. My first -- my initiation into a magic world -- was at the American University's Ewart
Memorial Hall. After the concert ended in the small hours of the morning, I walked home -- a
distance of some five kilometres -- almost in a trance as I 'chewed the cud'. I did not take a
taxi because I wanted to absorb privately and peacefully what I had sampled on that
memorable night.
From then on, I was a fixture at Umm Kulthoum's concerts. My Radio Cairo friends helped me
secure tickets for the same seat wherever she sang -- at the Ezbekiya Theatre until the
mid-'60s and at the Qasr Al-Nil cinema afterwards. Throughout those 25 years, I paid LE2 for
my seat in the front stalls.
Upon Umm Kulthoum's insistence, ticket prices were never increased. Some of her
masterpieces were presented during that period, including 10 compositions by
Abdel-Wahab in the last eight years of her career.
Umm Kulthoum's repertoire included more than 300 songs with themes ranging from love to
nationalism to religion. The majority were in colloquial Arabic; some were in classical
Arabic, written by famous poets. Umm Kulthoum was extremely selective in the choice of
verses and frequently had the authors change words if their resonance for her was not
perfect.
It was after she presented Enta Omri (You Are My Life), Abdel-Wahab's first work for her in
1964, that I interviewed the two giants at Umm Kulthoum's villa in Zamalek. That song was
dubbed "the summit encounter" and had come about at the urging of President Gamal
Abdel-Nasser. The president's eagerness to see the two artists join in a single work was
vindicated by the resounding success of Enta Omri. For more than four decades of her
career, Umm Kulthoum shied away from Abdel-Wahab's music. She belonged to the Oriental
school and did not savour the ever-increasing Western touches and instrumentation in his
music. When he eventually composed for her, his Western inclinations were kept within
limits and the results were a breath-taking blend of essentially Oriental music with an
occasional subtle Western tinge. The two artists complemented each other beautifully.
My two-hour interview with Umm Kulthoum and Abdel-Wahab was conducted for the
international wire service I worked for at the time. The "summit encounter" had evoked much
interest in many parts of the world. Dressed in a sober suit with hardly any make-up, Umm
Kulthoum spoke softly -- a far cry from the stage appearances I was used to -- and chose her
words carefully. I was struck by her modesty. Despite the heights of glory and self-assurance
she had reached, she told me she continued to suffer from stage fright when the curtain rose
and she faced her audience. Her perennial handkerchief -- initially a small white one and
later a large one, close in size to a scarf, matching her dress -- was not an appendage of
vanity but a simple practicality. She said she needed to dry her hands because they became
clammy due to her awe of the audience.
The staggering end came in early 1972, when she gave her last concert. She started off with
Abdel-Wahab's Leilet Hobb (A Night of Love), giving a sparkling two-hour rendition with
numerous variations of her own that left the audience dazed. Her second song, a religious
one about the holy sites, required a high pitch at many points. At one of those points, and
without advance warning, her voice cracked, sounding a discordant note. She froze and the
orchestra stopped playing. There was dead silence in the hall for a few seconds followed by
frenzied applause from the 1,800-strong audience. The outburst seemed to reflect a mix of
love, encouragement, compassion and maybe pity. I was dumbfounded, telling myself that
the slip was just the result of exhaustion after the strenuous effort made in the first song and
that the lady would bounce back.
But this was not to be. Umm Kulthoum retired after that concert. Like most great performers,
she knew when to stop. She died on 3 February 1975, after a protracted illness during which
the nation held its breath and newspapers ran headlines and editorials imploring the public
to pray for her. As the bureau chief of a wire service, I was responsible for the coverage of the
funeral. But I stayed away from the scene, sending an assistant to cover it. I just
could not bear to be there.
I relived that beautiful period of my life as I watched the 37 episodes of the TV series with a
multitude of feelings -- love, respect, admiration, nostalgia, yearning and thankfulness for
having lived that long with Umm Kulthoum. I consider the TV series an outstanding success:
not only did it give an honest and minute portrayal of that unique songbird and her
achievements; it also projected her integrity and commitment to her art, her friends and to the
nation.
Analysts say that the series, in addition to its intrinsic value, has served to nudge young
Egyptians, who were not born or were just children when Umm Kulthoum died, into full
awareness of her art and her sterling character.
The unbounded popularity of Umm Kulthoum, the deftness of the scriptwriter, Mahfouz
Abdel-Rahman, the meticulousness of the director, In'am Mohamed Ali, and the magnificent
acting by the heroine, Sabrine, and the rest of the cast all contributed to a consummate
production that made headlines and drew accolades everywhere.
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