Tribute to the Memory of Abderrahman El Gadi
It was with a deep sense of loss that I learned of the passing of Abderrahman El Gadi, a name that resonated through my life from afar. Living in the United States, I often found solace in his recordings, where the strings of his long-necked lute wove tales of Moroccan Amazigh culture. Among his pieces, the track "Aghour Ash Tawaada" (Beware of Departure) captivated my heart, embodying a warmth that transcended mere musical celebration, inviting listeners into an intimate space of emotional resonance. However, it was only later that I discovered the artist behind these melodies had left this world, leaving a profound silence in the wake of his departure.
El Gadi hailed from the small town of Ksar El Kebir, nestled in the heart of the Middle Atlas region. Neighboring towns like Ait Ishaq, the birthplace of the illustrious Amazigh singer Hadda Ouaki, share a musical lineage that finds its roots in the mountainous terrain of the region. The lute that El Gadi mastered is emblematic of this vast musical geography, where voices, instruments, and poetic lyrics have long circulated between cities and villages, through weddings, markets, and intimate gatherings. As I delved into the sparse online tributes following his death, I encountered an intriguing phenomenon: while his birthplace was frequently cited, the specifics of his birth year remained elusive. Even the date of his passing was shrouded in ambiguity, as if the details of his life were as transient as the music he created.
The Quest for Knowledge Behind the Music
As I navigated through the digital landscape, I found it relatively easy to locate recordings of El Gadi, often featuring collaborations with various female singers, in performances across Morocco and among expatriate communities abroad. There were relics of his earlier works, intimate sessions, and concerts held in France and Germany, alongside snippets shared by his admirers. Yet, the deeper I sought to understand the man behind the music, the more elusive his personal narrative became. I yearned for a comprehensive obituary or a detailed biography that would illuminate his artistic journey, his influences, and the evolution of his craft, but instead, I was met with more melodies that echoed across borders.
The sound of his lute could travel thousands of miles to reach me through my computer screen, yet piecing together the fragments of his life proved to be an insurmountable challenge. His musical journey spanned far beyond what his life story could convey. What continually drew me back to those recordings was not merely the pursuit of novelty or innovation, but rather a profound sense of familiarity and security. The soothing quality of his lute playing, the rich heritage of the Izlan melodies, and the harmonious interactions with the surrounding female vocalists created an atmosphere of musical dialogue rather than mere accompaniment. The lute seemed to converse with the human voice, responding to each lyrical phrase, allowing the music to flow seamlessly without overshadowing the vocals.
Reflecting on my own upbringing in the Ziz Valley oasis in southeastern Morocco during the mid-1970s, I vividly recall my family's first cassette player, a small Grundig model that arrived from Germany, brought by a local migrant. It found a prominent place in our living room, capable of bridging distant worlds to our home. We tuned in to the BBC Arabic service, Radio Paris, Spanish stations, and Moroccan broadcasts, and every evening we eagerly listened to the brief Amazigh programming from Rabat, a daily window that connected us to our valley's language through the national airwaves.
The cassette player also became a medium for migrants, who would send cassette tapes filled with voices, greetings, and news back home. Long before international phone calls became commonplace, the cassette carried the familiar sound of Europe back into homes in the Ziz Valley. Thus, well before I encountered concepts like globalization or transnationalism, I felt their presence through sound, as the world reached us in auditory form.
That Grundig device was more than a status symbol; it became a cherished artifact that integrated into the social fabric of our village. My father would host gatherings of tribal elders in our garden, sharing tea and stories while the Grundig played local news or music from further afield. At times, someone would introduce a cassette, allowing the German device to blend into an older rhythm of hospitality, conversation, and listening, seamlessly becoming part of our world.
However, we soon discovered a flaw in the Grundig: its batteries drained quickly, outpacing our financial ability to replace them. Living in a village without electricity meant that listening required careful planning; while playing music was feasible, rewinding a tape was not. We resorted to using a Bic pen to rewind cassettes manually, conserving battery life for what mattered most: the music.
For my brother, the attraction to the cassette player was even deeper. His fascination led him to carry it close to his chest, prompting my mother to teasingly suggest that the cassette player didn’t need to be breastfed. We all laughed, for that little device had become almost a family member. Looking back on those days, I am amazed by the myriad journeys intertwined within that small box: a migrant carrying it from Germany to the Ziz Valley, the shortwave signals arriving from London, Paris, Madrid, Rabat, and Algeria, recorded voices echoing from Europe, tribal men listening around tea cups, and children discovering recorded music—all facilitated by a simple Bic pen that contributed to the continuity of sound.
Years later, when I left Morocco for the United States to pursue my academic studies, I packed several cassettes from the renowned artist Mohamed Rouicha, one of the most significant musical figures of the Middle Atlas in my generation. Some were in Amazigh, others in Moroccan Arabic. At the time, I didn’t realize I was preserving a memory; I simply carried them out of love for listening. I wasn’t transporting an archive; I was bringing along music that brought me joy, and it wasn’t until later that those cassettes transformed into an archive.
The cassette was an ideal medium for migration and movement, its small size, low cost, and reproducibility allowing music to travel with people. In his historical study of cassette culture in Egypt, Andrew Simon illustrates how cassette technology intertwined with human mobility in the 1970s and 1980s. Although my journey was different, I benefited from the same technological advantage: I was leaving Morocco without having to leave its echoes and sounds behind.
Technologies surrounding cassettes have come and gone. Cassette players faded, CDs emerged and receded, music became digital files, and finally, a touch on a phone could summon it. Ultimately, platforms like YouTube have made recordings accessible in seconds that once required purchasing, copying, or awaiting broadcasts over the radio. Yet, the cassettes themselves remain steadfast in their place.
Those cassettes have traveled with me through decades of academic wandering across the United States. While I no longer need them to listen to Rouicha, that is not why I hold onto them now. When I grasp those cassettes today, I am not merely holding onto music; I am holding onto a moment of departure and migration, taking me back to the Ziz Valley, to my high school years, and to a Morocco before I fully realized the meanings of travel and transition.
As reported by achkayen.com.
