The night’s supporting act was corto.alto, a jazz collective founded by the Glasgow-based multi-instrumentalist, composer, and producer Liam Shortall. The bassy, brassy textures of the set belied the fact that there were only three musicians on stage: Liam on trombone and guitar, Mateusz Sobieski on sax, and Graham Costello on drums. This weightiness came partly from Shortall’s skilful, electronic production, which often veered into heavy dub, and Costello’s dextrous drum patterns. This group are at the frontiers of electronic jazz, and certainly ones to watch.

The most obvious change with Nubiyan Twist since 2019 is the permanent addition of Sheffield-based vocalist Aziza Jaye up front. She is as comfortable spitting bars in patois as she is with silky R&B melodies, and her charismatic presence quickly helped to warm up a slightly shy Cambridge audience.

As for the ensemble, the big-band sound, muscular bass lines and tight musicianship are as infectious as ever, making for an exceptional live experience. The wellspring of musical sounds from which they draw inspiration seems deeper than ever; styles from ethio-jazz to dancehall all found a convincing place within tonight’s musical tapestry, prompting exuberant dancing as the night progressed.

Most of the evening’s songs came from the group’s latest album, with highlights including Slow Breath, an afro-beat number that draws upon traditional Malian musical idioms. A contemplative guitar solo towards its close from the bandleader Tom Excell provided an atmospheric punctuation to an otherwise very full-on musical experience. The fierce Woman was a gritty feminist anthem, for which Jaye channelled her best Little Simz energy, while the horn section blasted triumphantly in support. For the lilting R&B number So Mi Stay (here on YouTube), Jaye encouraged us to “engage our hips”, while Carry Me elicited an audience call and response, which was interspersed with delicious horn licks.

The rousing anthem Pray For Me rounded off this lively evening in suitably enthusiastic fashion.

The post Nubiyan Twist and corto.alto at Cambridge Junction first appeared on UK Jazz News.

As Simcock revealed from the stage, the principal motivation for this endeavour was his delight in music’s capacity to bring together old friends (he has worked with Deurloo on numerous previous occasions) and new (this is the first time he and Peirani have joined forces). Through the agency of the exploratory musical instincts of all three, knotty musical questions about whether this would work must have easily resolved themselves – because it certainly did work. 

Most of the evening’s music was composed specifically for the ensemble – and not just by Simcock. Four works by Peirani demonstrated the playful impulse at the heart of his own music-making. This playfulness was abundantly evident in the magnetic physicality of his playing: every sinew of his body was attuned to even the most delicate of rhythmic push-and-pulls. His frequent vocalisations intertwined with his instrument so subtly that the accordion bellows seemed to become his own lungs. At other times he drummed the accordion like a cajon, and extended the taps and beats to his own body. It was great fun to watch – sitting in between Simcock (so closely engaged with the keyboard) and Deurloo (poised and relatively still), Peirani’s corporeal liveliness glued the trio together visually. 

Laying bare their respective classical training, Simcock and Peirani opened the show in tight unison with a fast-flowing Bachian melodic line for the tune “Atmospheric”, composed by Vincent.  The work gradually unfurled into a rich musical canvas that saw Deurloo soaring over the punchy texture with a strident “vocal” line. Her background as a saxophonist was evident, informing her vibrato technique and sensitive attention to the rounding off of melodic lines. The obvious hazard in pairing a harmonica with an accordion is that the versatility of the latter risks drawing attention to the relative limitations of the former. But Deurloo’s agility on the instrument prevented such an issue.  In the second work, “The Hijinks”, composed by Simcock for the group, the piano and accordion often respectfully stepped back from their furious dueting and intricate contrapuntalism to allow for a homophonic texture led by the harmonica. 

A nostalgic poignancy characterised Simcock’s “More Than Those Words”, beginning with a woozy harmonica solo that piano and accordion slowly fleshed out with soft dissonances. The ending was a masterclass in musical tone-painting, evoking a twinkling starry night sky. Vincent’s composition “Air Song” (influenced by Indonesian gamelan) had touches of Reich’s minimalism at the start; indeed, Reich’s own appreciation of “music as a gradual process” seems to be shared by the group in their attention to motivic unfolding and evolving patterns.

The following two works “90 Minutos” (Simcock’s composition) and “Did You Say Rotenburg?” (by Peirani) were wonderfully elastic, and gave opportunities to appreciate how post-bop energy on the piano can be edgily enhanced by certain sonorities on the accordion. Simcock’s “Love at Every Sight“ (a homage to his young son) slowed the tempo of the evening once more: a passage of sustained accordion chords and delicious suspensions compelled the audience to close their eyes and acknowledge a period of exquisite stillness. After the contemplative “End of the Line” came “Antics”, a reworking of Simcock’s 2012 solo commission for the “Play Me, I’m Yours” outdoor pianos in the City of London Festival. The familiar “ner ner na ner ner” playground taunt was wittily chopped up, stretched and thrown around between the instruments – it was clear that the musicians relished this riotous finale to the evening. But we had one more treat in store, courtesy of the encore,“Salsa Fake“, composed by Peirani. It careered along, teasing us with its Latin-inflected (but not-quite salsa) rhythms – at one point Peirani toyed with launching into Bizet’s Habanera, greatly amusing the audience.

In short, this rare meeting of instruments was extremely gratifying and the concert was also very well attended. Here’s hoping there’s an album in the works … 

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The five-time Grammy winner, nicknamed the ‘Queen of African music’, is as celebrated for her adventurous and wide-ranging collaborations as for the power of her voice. This concert paid homage to these partnerships, with brief guest appearances from the British singer Laura Mvula, the up-and-coming Ghanaian dancehall star Soundbwoy, the Franco-Lebanese trumpeter Ibrahim Maalouf and the Senegalese singer Youssou N’Dour. But the first half was reserved primarily for Kidjo’s personal, strident musical cris de coeur, accompanied by the Chineke! Orchestra.

Many of these original songs touch on themes close to the singer’s heart: the lullaby-like ‘Naima’ (sung in Fon, a native Beninese language) is a tribute to her mother and to the strength of women across the globe. ‘Ominira’ (translated as ‘Freedom’ in Yoruba) addresses the individual and collective struggle against oppression. For the joyful ‘Kelele’ (which was revisited as an encore), Kidjo invited the audience to join in the chorus – an appropriate gesture given the song’s meaning as a call to celebrate the joy of music-making. Other songs, such as the popular ‘Malaika’ (meaning ‘Angel’ in Swahili), have a longer history as well-known love songs; Kidjo’s fondness for this particular piece stems from its association with one of her heroines, the South-African singer Miriam Makeba.

The astonishing resonance of Kidjo’s voice permeated every inch of the Albert Hall’s auditorium. Her voice is defined by an intensity and fierceness that is the ideal musical channel for the types of themes addressed in her lyrics. Even without comprehending the words, one picks up on a kind of poignant defiance: her music uplifts and stirs. Most of these brilliantly orchestrated songs have their foundation in a range of West-African musical idioms, such as the complex interlocking rhythms of Yoruban juju. But a few foreground popular Western styles: ‘Petite Fleur’, a Sidney Bechet cover, was reinvented as a decadently romantic orchestral ballad.

The second half (which saw Chineke! replaced by Kidjo’s band) gave further opportunity for the singer to show her love for melding diverse genres. Youssou N’Dour (described by Kidjo as the “prince of the voice”) joined her for an arrangement of Dylan’s ‘Chimes of Freedom’ (a song chosen, no doubt, for its relevance to one of the main themes of the evening – solidarity with the downtrodden). She was also joined on-stage by Ibrahim Maalouf for ‘Once in a Lifetime’, taken from her well-received 2018 album Remain in Light, a reimagining of Talking Heads’ album of the same name. Kidjo’s further ‘Africanization’ of a song that already owed something to the Afrobeat of Fela Kuti was playfully altered in this particular version, by Maalouf’s extended improvisatory jazz passages on trumpet. It was enormous fun – as was the final song, ‘Afirika’ (also known as ‘Mama Africa’) for which she invited all her soloists and Chineke! back on stage.

A number of songs from the evening can be found on Kidjo’s 2015 album Sings, a collaboration with the Luxembourg Philharmonic Orchestra (which won the Grammy for Best Global Music Album in 2016). The musicians of Chineke! (conducted by Chris Cameron) easily matched the finesse and vigour of the Luxembourg players, but their presence on stage held particular symbolic importance for the singer. As Europe’s first majority black and ethnically diverse orchestra, Chineke! was founded in part to prove that music (of all kinds) exists for all people – a mantra also at the centre of Kidjo’s own musical motivations.

Kidjo’s advocacy of cultural and societal freedom is not confined to the concert stage; as a tireless ambassador for children’s education (she works closely with UNICEF and OXFAM), she is almost as busy off-stage as on. But there is cohesion between these two missions, and we saw this on stage at the Albert Hall. For the second half of the concert Kidjo changed into a majestic striped purple dress. The fabric was made, the singer told us, by a vulnerable adolescent African girl, who had been given the professional skills (through Kidjo’s own Batonga Foundation) to enjoy a stable and financially independent future. This symbolic gesture underscored the spirit of bold optimism that defined this moving and memorable occasion.

The post Angélique Kidjo at the Royal Albert Hall first appeared on UK Jazz News.

Master of the Moroccan gnawa musical tradition, Nassoulidemonstrated the mesmerizing quality of this spiritual musical style, which relies on repeated complex rhythmic patterns that encourage the listener to enter into a trance-like state. The warm timbre of his guimbri (a three stringed bass with a body carved from a log and soundboard of stretched camel skin) contrasted with the metallic chattering of the qraqab, castanet-like instruments used to propel the music forward with intricate polyrhythms. This central musical element of gnawa was provided by two Moroccan musicians known collectively as koyos; their role in underscoring a sense of musical momentum was amplified by their rocking body movements. At several moments the audience were on their feet swaying and dancing in direct response. Gnawa, after all, is a musical form at the heart of communal celebration.

Layered over these textures were Nassouli’s velvety vocals, complemented by ‘choral’ responses from the koyos. Each arrangement was anchored by a number of short melodies that were developed over the duration of the piece, and, at times, picked up and elaborated upon by another star soloist on stage: the Israeli jazz pianist Omri Mor.A moment of ingenious musical inspiration came at the beginning of the song ‘Ya’ala Ya’ala’ (an arrangement of a liturgical song by a 16^th-century Jewish poet). Here, Mor treated us to an extended taksim (prefatory musical improvisation) that proved the aptness of fusing Arabic vernacular music with jazz. At other times Mor engaged in a direct musical dialogue with Nassouli, or underpinned the guimbri riffs.

The orchestra itself, whose large string section frequently moved in unison like one body, gave us glimpses of many Middle Eastern timbres – the crystalline tinkling of the qanun (a dulcimer-like stringed instrument), the elegant rounded sound of the oud and the mournful fluting of the ney were given solo roles at various point. Towards the end of the evening Cohen proved his own instrumental abilities by joining in on his mandolin for one of Mehdi’s own compositions, ‘L’kbida’ (meaning ‘Liver’ – apparently a homage to the prevalent use of metaphors relating to bodily organs in Arabic love songs).

The exuberance of Cohen in conducting mode on stage is remarkable – dancing and leaping on the podium with indefatigable enthusiasm, he imparted seriously high octane energy to both the orchestral players and the audience. The clarity of the tempi changes, smooth oscillations between duple and triple time, and sharp definition of the frequent musical pauses were testament not only to his conducting but to the synergy between soloists and ensemble.

The Barbican received some backlash, as reported in the Guardian, for hosting an event that was supported by the Israeli Embassy, and, indeed, a small protest formed outside the Barbican entrance before the show. The uncomfortable entanglement of culture in politics should be acknowledged (the term ‘artwashing’ has been applied in this particular context to imply ‘distracting’ from harmful actions through the celebration of artistic endeavours). But this music deserves to be felt and appreciated for itself, on its own terms – especially when it has as its very heart the promotion of mutual understanding. The interweaving of beautifully hypnotic Gnawa rhythms, Western harmonies, Middle Eastern musical traditions and bursts of virtuosic jazz made for a wonderfully rich cultural experience.

The post Jerusalem Orchestra East & West at the Barbican first appeared on UK Jazz News.

Of course, fusing beloved classical works with the language of jazz is not in itself an original endeavour (we might think of Jacques Loussier, the Baroque Jazz Trio and Christina Pluhar’s l’Arpeggiata as among the most prominent examples). But the set up of tonight’s performance was less one of ‘fusion’ and more of stirring contrast. A sequence of works from Monteverdi’s collection of sacred music Selva morale e spirituale (1640-41) was interspersed with ‘responses’ from Joseph on piano and Mark Hodgson on the double bass. The programme dutifully listed each of Monteverdi’s works followed by ‘+ jazz’ to indicate Joseph’s and Hodgson’s contributions. Only on two relatively brief occasions (for a musical ‘introduction and a ‘segue’ section) did ‘Baroque’ and ‘jazz’ truly come together in tantalizing synergy.

Building (subtly at times, overtly at others) on the harmonic architecture and melodic shapes of Monteverdi’s compositions, Joseph crafted succinct, energetic interludes to these exquisite choral works. Continuities between the two musical styles were certainly played upon. The basso continuo tradition of Baroque music came to seem comparable to the ‘anchoring’ role played by the double bass in jazz. We also saw glimpses of a kinship between the ornate flourishes on the harpsichord (played by Alastair Ross) and the improvisatory bursts of modern jazz. But, ultimately, this was not an equal partnership; as soon as one’s ear became attuned to the subtly of Joseph’s pianistic meditations, the strident lines of Monteverdi returned. Not enough musical space was given for the expansion of Joseph’s musical ideas, and at times his passages felt like interruptions rather than worthwhile developments. The ambition behind the concert was a worthwhile one, the musical calibre was faultless, and there was undoubtedly a sense of playfulness to the event, but the collaboration felt a little superficial, and could have been pushed further.

The post The Sixteen with Julian Joseph at Kings Place first appeared on UK Jazz News.

The Finnish-born guitarist, oud player and composer has absorbed the vernacular sounds of the countries in which he has lived – Finland, Tanzania, Jordan, Oman, Lebanon and the United States – and brought them to bear on his own compositional style. Reflecting his desire for intercultural synthesis, Reijonen hasbrought together a group of nine musicians from across the globe. Joining him are the American trumpeter Jason Palmer, drummer Vancil Cooper and bassist Kyle Miles; Turkish trombonist Bulut Gülen and microtonal pianist Utar Artun; Jordanian-Iraqi violinist Layth Sidiq; Palestinian cellist Naseem Alatrash, and Japanese percussionist Keita Ogawa.

The first movement, “The Veil” begins with a haunting solo from Naseem Alatrash on the cello, which is then fortified by Gülen’s trombone; slowly, with the help of the thudding bass drum, momentum is built, only to drop away again to accommodate a more relaxed improvisatory feel. This ebb and flow continues throughout the seven-minute movement, up until a pleasingly drawn-out resolution in D minor. Layth Sidiq shines in the second movement “Transient”, the electronic amplification of his violin generating an expansive feel to the modal Middle-Eastern melody. Sidiq gives way to a crystalline oud solo from Reijonen, accompanied by an off-beat pattern from Ogawa on percussion. The effect is one of slow, weighty movement – perhaps of unhurriedly ‘passing through’ a place, in the sense of a transient journey.

Reijonen’s guitar riffs in “The Weaver” give this movement a gentle rock feel, but any sense of stable diatonic harmony is soon dismissed by bold discordant string entries. A brief pizzicato violin solo provides the next prominent musical idea; it appears later in the cello and guitar, acting, like Reijonen’s initial guitar riff, as a motivic glue within the movement. The textural ‘ebbs and flows’ that have characterized previous movements are taken to a new extreme in “Verso” (which in Finnish means “to sprout” or “to grow”). An undulating, introspective opening led by Reijonen on guitar is suddenly subverted by an exuberant burst of sound from the full band; piano glissandi and furious improvisatory flourishes on the strings throw the listener off course in a playful manner. Palmer on the trumpet then strikes up a musical conversation with Sidiq on the violin, allowing both musicians the chance to flaunt their virtuosic instrumental flair. The intertwining mournful melodic lines in the final movement, “Median”, build slowly into a wash of musical colour, before slowly fading to a concluding passage of contemplative stillness.

This is an album meticulously pulled together into a dense fabric of diverse musical threads. It merits repeated listening; with each fresh listen, the richness of Reijonen’s intercultural vocabulary becomes more apparent.

The post Jussi Reijonen – ‘Three Seconds / Kolme Toista’ first appeared on UK Jazz News.

Turquazz’s director Batu Akyol joined forces with Nardis’s owners, the guitarist Önder Focan and his wife Zuhal, to showcase the breadth of contemporary Anatolian jazz culture through documentary screenings, a ‘noon raki’ session and live music – complemented throughout by Turkish culinary delicacies courtesy of Fahrettin Acar, chef at the Gallipoli restaurants in Islington. The three live shows on the Saturday (which followed a busy line-up on Friday, including a performance by Önder’s own quartet) were fittingly diverse in musical expression.

Indeed, Batu’s remark that “Anatolian musicians have the courage to take steps towards integrating an international music genre like jazz with other genres” rang true particularly in the first show, a largely improvised set by the Anatolian Fusion Ensemble. Ozan Baysal produced some wonderful passages of taqsim (prefatory melodic improvisation)on the double-necked bağlama, immersing the audience in a quintessentially Arabic soundscape. His playing style – known as şelpe (an Anatolian technique that dispenses with the plectrum) – allowed for subtle manipulations in tone quality. His long meditative melodic lines were anchored by the sensitive drumming of Burak Ersoz and the gentle electric bass of Bora Bekiroğlu. This calmer lyricism was woven together with passages of stomping hard rock, Anatolian rock and progressive rock elements. The overall effect was of slowly undulating musical wave forms. It was clear that Tolga Zafer, on electronics and keyboard, was in his element experimenting with timbral variations, switching nimbly from celeste-like flurries on keys to resonant synth wails that soared over the musical texture.

The second concert, Female Voices of Turkey, introduced three young singers who are garnering recognition both in Turkey and abroad. London-based Sezin Angelova is clearly inspired by the silky sound of neo-soul singers (from Erykah Badu to Cleo Sol). Sitting poised and perfectly still surrounded by the house band, she sung wistfully about emotion after heartbreak (Nowness – her own composition) and about escaping from the city (Gentle Breeze). The most intriguing number of the set was her bossa nova-tinged arrangement of the Turkish musician Benja Brozel’s song Chains. Sibel Demir, who trained as an opera singer,demonstrated an impressive vocal range, and her lively stage presence was infectious: an energetic version of Sonny Rollins’ St Thomas had the audience clapping along. As a direct nod to her classical training, Demir performed a jazz arrangement of Giulio Caccini’s Ave Maria, which worked well. The band’s trombonist Bulut Gulen and Gianni Boscarino on keys were given ample opportunity to flaunt their prowess.

The final singer Dolunay Obruk put on a particularly theatrical performance: drama and eccentricity were her watchwords (and it was of no surprise to learn that she also works as an actress). Obruk’s arrangement of the classic Turkish song Kalamis (by Munir Nurettin Selcuk) fused jazz idioms and vernacular styles to great effect. Three of her own compositions (Bakkal, Korktun Mu and Düğün) demonstrated her mischievous sense of humour; her animated gestural vocabulary translated the character of the songs for the non-Turkish speakers like me.

The grand finale of the Nardis celebration was given to bass player Ozan Musluoğlu’s quartet, who paid musical tribute to the composer, pianist and sax player Tuna Ötenel (born in 1947) – jazz mentor to many of today’s greatest Turkish jazz musicians. Indeed, as Ozan explained, Ötenel had taught each member of the group, who have been playing together since their college days (Uraz Kıvaner on keyboard, Batu Şallıel on saxophone and Ferit Odman on drums). Some years ago the quartet had the chance to play their reworkings of the maestro’s tunes to Ötenel himself (many of which come from his seminal recording Jazz Semai, originally released in 1978), who was profoundly moved by their efforts. From Saturday evening’s performance, it is clear why: each member of the group channelled their astonishing virtuosic capabilities to prove just how colourful these compositions are. Şallıel on sax delivered intricate and seriously complex lines in Rüyadaki Sesler; Ali’yi gördüm Ali’yi (a version of a traditional Turkish melody from the 16^th century) was characterized by playful tempi changes. Köy Yolu and Şenlik (which had a spirited samba beat), were boisterous, exuberant triumphs. Polonya was a suave number (from Ötenel’s 2005 How Much Do you Love Me?), with delicious harmonic progressions. All of the tunes bore subtle traces of Ötenel cultural heritage, blended with a more ‘universal’ jazz style in such a way that demonstrated their intrinsic musical malleability of the Turkish vernacular. This was a world-class performance, and a fitting way to round off Turquazz’s tribute to the fertile contemporary jazz scene in Turkey.

If Nardis were a permanent fixture in London, especially with the likes of Musluoğlu’s quartet as guests, it would be a resounding success.

The post Nardis Jazz Club – London Pop-Up by Turquazz first appeared on UK Jazz News.

Acknowledging this, the singer and his London-based band have inventively, and sensitively, arranged a collection of works from the so-called ‘Golden Era’ of Egyptian song, seamlessly intertwining them with several standards from the Great American Songbook (we heard Charlie Chaplin’s Smile, and Cole Porter’s So In Love). Naturally, the show was in part a nostalgic homage to a bygone era of black and white films, to Egyptian film stars, and to the Arab musical luminaries of the mid-twentieth century (principally Abdel Halim Hafez and Mohamad Abdel Wahab). But there was an exciting freshness to the show, thanks in part to the infectious enthusiasm of Harfoush himself. Towards the end of the show, audience members (many of whom were non-Arabic speakers) migrated to the aisles to dance.

Joining Harfoush on stage were band members Stefano Marzanni (piano), Ian Marcus (double bass), Dom Hall (drums) and Tom Smith (clarinet). The ensemble was tight knit and precise, with the character of each song skilfully defined by the musical ‘conversations’ that played out between Smith and Harfoush. Kan Agmal Yome (by Mohamad Abdel Wahab) provided a case in point: Harfoush’s melodic lines were echoed playfully by motifs in the clarinet, creating a particularly agreeable musical ‘grammar’. In other tunes such as Ya Albi Ya Khali (Abdel Halim Hafez), punchy ‘stabs’ in the clarinet helped to propel the rhythm forward.

The energetic walking bass in the medley Bee Albak / Mashghoul (Abdel Halim Hafez) gave the song an effective sense of solidity that mimicked the thick orchestral scoring of the original tunes. The condensing of orchestral textures down to four instruments was a challenge embraced by Harfoush with many of these songs: the famous Abgad Hawwaz (sung by the singer and actress Leila Mourad in the 1951 film Ghazal El-Banat) worked particularly well, as did Bokra we Baado (Abdel Halim Hafez). The generally exuberant mood was suspended briefly for a poignant rendition of Balash Etab (Abdel Halim Hafez), arranged for voice and piano; Marzanni’s rhapsodic piano introduction set the tone for this mournful love song. The long melodic lines offered Harfoush a wonderful opportunity to demonstrate his vocal sensitivity.

The site of this particular performance – the cavernous neo-Gothic church of St Mary Magdalene near Paddington (otherwise known as Grand Junction) – seemed strangely suited to Harfoush’s ambition to celebrate the universality of his country’s music. The erosion of perceived cultural barriers between ‘Western’ music and ‘Middle Eastern’ music seems to be at the core of the Egyptian Jazz Projekt. Within this imposing ecclesiastical environment, the audience were compelled by the band to come together and dance to these treasures of Arabic music.

The evening was presented by Arts Canteen, an organisation which empowers and celebrates artists from the Arab world, in collaboration with Grand Junction as part of EFG London Jazz Festival.

The post The Egyptian Jazz Projekt at Grand Junction first appeared on UK Jazz News.

Even before their first meetings in Paris at the Café du Trocadéro in the 1980s, Marcel (sometimes referred to affectionately as the Bob Dylan of Lebanon) had been busy setting Darwish’s poems to music. Some of his best-loved musical settings appeared on the politically-charged album Promises of the Storm in 1976. If the audience at the Barbican show were expecting an evening of intimate Lebanese folk ballads in the vein of this album, they were in for a surprise. Bachar had masterminded an eclectic, high-energy affair that was thoughtfully crafted so as to showcase the political messages in the poems as well as his close musical relationship with his father. Subtle monochrome visuals and texts projected on a screen behind the musicians helped in the construction of a narrative, especially for non-Arabic speakers.

The opening song, an ode to Beirut (“Beirut is our tent / Beirut is our star”) was based on a Darwish poem marking the Israeli invasion of the city in 1982. The accompaniment to Marcel’s rich vocals alternated between soulful cello lines and soft piano touches (Bachar often dampened the piano strings to create a velvety texture), and the fuller forces of percussion and guitar. The next song was dedicated to a city etched in the minds of many as Beirut’s “twin” – Haifa. Darwish spent his teenage years in the city, but was unable to return after becoming synonymous with the Palestinian struggle. The song was based on his poem “Haifa Started Here”; Anthony Millet’s haunting and mournful melodic interjections on the accordion tied in well with the poignant line drawing of a face behind barbed wire projected behind the band. The following number (based on Darwish’s “This Sea is Mine”) paid tribute to a third city, London, beginning with a bluesy conversation between double bass and guitar. The work gave Sary Khalifé (the nephew of both Marcel Khalifé and the oud virtuoso Charbel Rouhana) an opportunity to demonstrate his virtuosity, with a precise microtonal solo that soared to the upper limits of the instrument. The song ended with a powerfully plaintive passagein which Marcel repeated Darwish’s words Ana lastu li (“I am not mine”).

Up next was “Birds of Galilee”, which Bachar arranged in his own characteristic fashion, playing with frequent changes in texture and tempi. After a wistful interpretation of Darwish’s “Afraid of the Moon”, the band left the stage, leaving father and son to perform an intimate duet “I am Joseph, Oh Father” (which incorporates a passage from the story of Joseph in the Qu’ran, causing Marcel to face criminal prosecution for blasphemy in the 1990s). Bachar then moved to the synthesizer, where a sombre chord sequence on the organ set the mood for his father’s recitation of Darwish’s “My God, Why Have you Forsaken Me?” All of a sudden, the sober ceremonial – almost liturgical – mood was interrupted by Bachar’s switching to an upbeat, punchy synth motif, matching his father’s crystal-clear articulation.

As the musicians filed back on stage, each paused at the microphone, reading a phrase from Darwish’s poem “Wait for Her” in their native language. The motivation for this celebration of the band’s diverse backgrounds became clear as Marcel plucked the opening riff of one of his most iconic songs, “Passport”. Doğan Poyraz’s thrilling manipulation ofArabic beats, which underscored this riotous, ecstatic reworking of Marcel’s original 1976 solo setting, got the crowd clapping and dancing in their seats.

The evening drew to a close with Marcel alone on stage, transporting the audience to a more contemplative musical space which allowed for more interaction between the oud player and his audience. Requesting the auditorium lights to be raised so that he could see the crowd, Marcel invited us to sing along to one of his best-loved ballads “Rita and the Rifle” (written by Darwish as a love letter to a Jewish girlfriend in the context of the Israeli occupation). This was followed by the equally popular “My Mother”, after which the ensemble gathered back around Marcel, with some of them taking up riqs (traditional Arabic tambourines) to accompany “The Pigeons Fly.” The standing ovation at the end of the concert reflected in part the breadth of the show’s appeal: the evening was a masterful union of Mahmoud’s lyrical poetic texts, the best of Marcel’s oud playing and compositions, and Bachar’s ingenious musical ideas.

The post Marcel Khalifé and Bachar Mar-Khalifé – ‘Mahmoud, Marcel and I’ at the Barbican first appeared on UK Jazz News.