Joel Schalit

East Meets West

Not long after 9/11, my favorite local record store began stocking up on European reissues of Turkish psychedelia from the late sixties and early seventies. Perhaps the third wave of musical imports from the greater Middle East that I can remember being taken up by American hipsters (beginning with their adoption of Ofra Haza in the mid-nineteen eighties,) the timing was entirely appropriate. Amidst the wreckage of the World Trade Center, American music fans were instinctively finding themselves drawn to the sounds of the Islamic equivalent of New York, London, or even San Francisco.

Indeed, if one wants to take a sampling of what makes the music of the eastern Mediterranean so unbelievably great, you can’t do any better than listen to what’s been coming out of Istanbul over the course of the past fourty years. Thus, I was reminded, as I delighted in the strangely familiar sounds of an American album whose arrangements epitomized what’s best about Middle Eastern pop. The second full-length to be issued by Madlib‘s younger brother, Oh No, Dr No’s Oxperiment is the closest thing that one will get to an archetypal Lebanese or Israeli Arab hip-hop record like Clotaire K‘s Lebanese LP, or DAM’s more recent album, Dedication.

Relying exclusively on regional source material, if there is a recording that reflects a Middle East-impacted American zeitgeist, this album is ground zero. Opening with the Turkish fuzz guitar of “Heavy”, to the mournful Arabic vocal part of “Down Under” near the it’s end,  Dr No is an excellent example of how organically Middle Eastern music and American hip-hop speak to each other. As cheesy as that sounds, it’s the political metaphor implied by that conversation’s fluency that’s so crucial. Think back to the pretense of the album’s title. It’s like a book report about the positive things Americans may have learned from their Iraqi sojourn. Baghdad Calling, anyone?

San Francisco to Lebanon

“They’re extending their range of fire,” my father said as I answered my mobile phone. Before I had a chance to ask him why, he stated, “They finally managed to hit Afula.” Almost a week into last year’s war, this was not reassuring news to hear. “Well, Abba,” I responded, trying to sound comforting, “That’s still far away from your home. At least they didn’t point the weapon southwest. ”

What more could I say to my clearly anguished father? That a strike on a nearby town was better than one on our own? Of course not. He knew what I meant. But with each missile fired at Israel’s north, it was clear that they were slowly getting closer. “Well,” my father said, clearing his throat. “Our pilots are doing the best that they can to knock these things out…”

I’d taken the day to work out of my house, and was standing in front of a local, Arab-owned convenience store as my father and I spoke about the situation. When we were done, I told Elie that I loved him, and walked inside to buy some smokes. “Your family in Israel?” asked the clerk, who clearly had overheard the conversation. “Yes,” I said, feeling a little uncomfortable. “They live in the north.”

“My parents are under fire too,” he said. “In a Christian town, just across the border.” “Have you had a chance to speak to them?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied, sounding worried. “Apparently their power has been cut off, and they’re running out of food. I am puzzled by this, because they are Christians, not Shia. Why are your people targeting us? It’s stupid. We used to be your allies.”

Though I have since quit smoking, I have gone by the convenience store several times, hoping to say hello again to the fellow and hear what ended up happening to his beleaguered family. He’s never reappeared. Since then, I’ve chatted several times with his replacement. A Christian from Bethlehem, he told me that he’d escaped to the US during the siege of the city in May, 2002.

Spotting him sitting outside the store yesterday, I wondered if his Lebanese colleague’s parents were lucky enough to have done the same. Oftentimes, I ask myself why I just don’t ask him what happened to the guy, whether his parents survived. Seeing as several rockets did eventually fall near my parents’ home, I think it’s because something inside me prevents myself from asking, as though I already know why.

Back in Black

We’re home. And already thinking about how we’re going to get out of bed tomorrow morning. Brazilian espresso, anyone? Its absolutely wonderful, makes a first-class crema, and only costs eight dollars a pound.

Word up to my homey Ron, who shouted me out today about the WBAI show getting posted. For folks interested in listening, click here. An MP3 will load up immediately, courtesy of the always amazing Doug Henwood.

I just listened to the program over dinner, and was really surprised that the background noise didn’t drown it the least bit out. Big up to the Bob Hope Airport intercom for being our friend.