This is Paul Misso's own words on his discovery of Jajouka.
For more on Paul, visit his healing site at http://www.healing-spirit.com/
Paul is a photographer. You will love his photos of jajouka here:
My Jajouka Story by Paul Misso
In the summer of 1972, a time forgotten or never enjoyed, a representative of The Master Musicians of Jajouka saw my night picture of The Pyramid Stage at the first Glastonbury Festival from the summer before, at Bill Harkin’s, the stage’s creator’s, Revelation offices, and said, "I want the guy who took that picture to come with me to photograph a village of musicians in Morocco". The year before, I’d been the stills photographer for Nick Roeg’s film crew at The Glastonbury Festival, another story entirely, and Revelation had used my Pyramid night shot as the fold out album cover of their commemorative triple album, a very rare and precious groove. This extraordinary picture was blown up to 3 foot by 2 foot and can be seen at Web Designer Mark Hopkins?excellent site: www.alternate-creations.com along with other just released images of that seminal event. As an interesting serendipitous footnote to this entirely divergent story, Bill Harkin has been married to my eldest son’s mother, Dee for nearly 25 years, and yes of course, we’re all the best of friends!
Anyway I digress, the chap rang me up and came round and explained that the album that Brian Jones of The Rolling Stones had recorded The Master Musicians of Jajouka, in the late ?0’s, had recently been released as the first issue on The Rolling Stones' own record label, but since Brian had died, nobody was interested in promoting it, and The Musicians were unlikely to get any badly needed money from the project. A team was being put together to do another album with the hope of garnering the village some funds, and would I like to come? My expenses would be paid, but there would be no fee. I was somewhat intrigued and readily agreed to the trip, as I knew it would be life changing, and I’d not been to any part of Africa before.
We took a 3 week return student flight to Tangiers, about 2 weeks later, around the middle of August, along with a planeload of hairy students, and on arrival, waiting patiently in the intense heat, were all denied entry, and told, in no uncertain terms to return to London, as we weren’t wanted here. The reason for this was that the whole country was in uproar, as two days before, there had been an assassination attempt on the King, the present King’s father, who was flying back from Paris with his family on his private jet, when 2 Moroccan fighter planes strafed the jet. The king dashed the length of the plane to the cockpit, and got on the radio and told the pilots that they had successfully killed the King, and that they were Heroes of the Revolution, whereupon they disengaged and flew off, presumably to a very uncertain future. The village representative, there to meet us, did some serious magic on the officials, and we were eventually all allowed in, much to the astonishment and obvious relief of the 150 or so students, who were very grateful to our party, otherwise, they would all have probably missed their trip of a lifetime, in the vibrant melting pot of North Africa in the early 70’s.
After a few days in the benign madness that is Tangiers, we drove south, through numerous roadblocks, manned by very twitchy machine gun-toting soldiers, to the relatively innocuous town of Kasr el Kabir, the scene in 1578 of an infamous quasi-Shakespearian tragedy, The Battle of the Three Kings, which left 2 Sultans and the King of Portugal dead, and led to the annexing of Portugal by King Phillip II of Spain, into his burgeoning empire. Just outside the town, the road stopped at a sentry box, in front of the local Caid’s palace. The Caid, being the King’s representative for the region, we were ushered into his office to present our credentials. He was a very imposing figure, in his cream silk djellabah, with gold tassels and slippers, but was delighted to hear of our mission, and promised to join us in Jajouka in a few days for the festivities. The road from then on up the mountain was nothing but a dirt track, and we bumped our way up, until we came onto a plateau beneath the summits of the surrounding mountains, at the head of the 80-mile long Rif valley. It was like going back 4000 years, and in fact The Musicians have been dubbed "The 4000 year old Rock and Roll Band". It was close to dusk when we arrived, and I sat outside the musicians long low hut, smoking kif, watching the Constellations forming themselves in a 360 degree ring just above the surrounding mountain tops, with The Milky Way piercing the eternal blackness and cutting a swathe directly above. I knew I was in Heaven.
The Rif Mountains, what magic they conjure, and as Jazz, Rock and Blues musicians may know, gave rise, through The Master Musicians of Jajouka and other Musicians throughout Africa, to the essence of contemporary music "The Rif", being the continuously repeated phrase of musical notes, which forms the core of much modern music, exemplified in "Hamsa ou Hamsin" one of their primary pieces of healing music. This Healing music was given to them by the Sufi saint Sidi Ahmed Sheikh in the 16th. Century AD. In return for this, the village of musicians, high in the Rif Mountains of northern Morocco, promised to look after his Sanctuary in perpetuity, which they do to this day. He had travelled from Persia to bring Islam to North Africa, and ended his days in Jajouka. Here I was, in 1972, more than half my life ago, soaking up the sounds and aromas that seemed to rise up from the very core of Mother Africa. I felt privileged, excited, yet also tremulous, as I’d been informed imperiously by The Chief of The Musicians, that other peoples' photographs had not come out, and that mine, only if they wished, may do so. Fortunately, the word "Jajouka" translates as “Something good will come to you" and all my pictures were fine. Jajouka had been "discovered" by the Beat geniuses of the fifties, Brion Gysin, Paul Bowles and William Burroughs and I recommend the reader to the liner notes to Brian Jones album “The Pipes of Pan at Jajouka", also, Brion Gysin’s powerful book “The Process" and the writings of Paul Bowles.
These writers have done far greater justice to the magic that is Jajouka than I ever could. As I’m writing this, my computer is playing their healing music, and to hear "Hamsa ou Hamsin" which means "55" is to transport me back and forward in time, my arms tingling and the hairs on the back of my neck standing to attention. This particular rendition lasts 58 seconds, not bad, not quite "55" but close, very close. 55 is the magic number of attainment, and when Ornette Coleman, "Giant of Jazz" played with the Master Musicians in the village in early 1973, they gave him "49" which, for a western musician, in the words of the Jajouki is “Good, Very Good" (See his excellent biography called ’The Adventures of Ornette Coleman or The Harmolodic Life?by John Litweiler, published by Quartet Books, pages 133 to 136.)
As a western ‘psychic weakling’, I was subtly probed and played with by the musicians, every waking hour a new and sometimes terrifying challenge was set, only to reveal a gently laughing relief, and another illusion or delusion crumbled, these people are Magicians, after all. I lost, not only a stone and a half in weight, but also many ridiculous notions, all superfluous and forcefully blown away by The Music. The first time I heard the wail of the oboe-like gaita, I was physically blown 3 feet from where I was sitting, very powerful stuff. Every night was a party, with endless pipes of kif and tiny glasses of strong, sweet mint tea. The musicians would play till dawn and we’d all take turns to dance and cavort shamelessly.
In the 2 weeks that I was in Jajouka, I was introduced to some of their mystical rituals and mind-bending shenanigans. Being born and raised in the east end of London, during the 2nd world war, of mixed race parentage, Malayan and English, and brought up vegetarian, eating in Jajouka meant me picking out little bits of rice from a mass of meat. Never having eaten meat or fish, I was well versed in the peer-pressure of predominant carnivores, but in Jajouka this was a whole different ball game. I’d certainly never experienced pressure like this, which reached its climax one day near the end of our stay, when I was "ordered" to stand ready to photograph an important ritual, which turned out to be the halal slaughter of a sheep under an ancient olive tree. As it turned out, this was actually a fascinating and engrossing affair. The sheep was gently led to the waiting elder officiating, who, all clad in white, proceeded to whisper softly in its ear, as he swiftly slit its throat, whereupon it swayed briefly and fell to the ground in slow motion, with little blood spilt. A young man came over, verified its death, broke all its legs, made a slit in the skin of one of its thighs, and proceeded to blow very hard and long into this hole. The result of this was that the carcass blew up like a balloon, separating the fur and skin from the actual meat, and when this was completed, another man blew into the anus, forcing all the waste matter out of the gut, so that it could, later become a string for his 3 stringed instrument, the gimri. No wonder they can sustain a drone note on their pipes for hours, via circular breathing, with this sort of practise. Utterly extraordinary!
Later that day, I was summoned: “Agi……….agi……….come, come…….” I was led up into a spacious room in one of the houses, obviously used for ceremonial gatherings, and sat cross-legged around a large low table, there were 13 of us in total. No one spoke, all were looking down being discreet, in their own special place, but the air of charged expectancy was palpable. A village elder intoned a solemn prayer, as a large tray of steaming meat was born ceremoniously in by one of the young men, and placed pointedly right in front of me. The silence seemed heavy and interminable and still all heads were bowed, as I tentatively extracted, with my right hand, a small piece of, what later I came to understand as stomach, the left hand being used for other purposes not conducive to dipping into a communal food dish. Nobody seemed to move or even breathe as I placed it in my mouth and masticated for what seemed like a lifetime. Eventually, I managed to mash it into small bits, as alien to me as rubber, and swallowed noisily, licking my lips with apparent relish, whereupon the whole room erupted into a raucous cacophony of laughter and song. The huge tray of meat was whisked away to the centre of the table, and a slightly smaller one, with a wondrous feast of steaming eggs, vegetables, salad, bread and cheese was placed triumphantly in front of me. I’d obviously passed this, for me, most rigorous of tests. As a footnote to this day, when I eventually retired, just before dawn as usual, to my ‘room’, the very cold and hard back of the small van that had brought us up the mountain, with only a tiny blanket, more like a hand towel, for covering, I was greeted by a sumptuous bed of rugs, cushions and blankets to cosset me, sheer bliss.
One very special night, I was initiated into The Healing Touch through demonstration and Healing Presence. As usual, it was another impromptu party, that gathered momentum and frenzy as the night wore on, and I was dancing in a way that was just a bit too salacious and self-important, and the looks I was suddenly given were more than enough to bring me down to earth, making me slink, shamefacedly, out into the solitude of the night. But alone, I was not destined to be. I was followed by 2 teenage boys, half my age, who led me quietly into the middle of the space, one standing behind me and one in front. They put a hand over my heart, front and back, and after a short time of silence they uttered a prayer in unison and one whispered in my ear: “Tu doit faire mieux les gens qui souffres…. tu peux faire le meme chose, comme ca……”, loosely translated as: “You must make better the people who suffer…..You can do the same thing……..like this……”
There was a blinding flash of white/green light in front of my half-closed eyes, and a lightning bolt of energy jumped through my chest, knocking me to the ground.
The boys helped me up and I groggily teetered back to the party, to be greeted by knowing smiles from several of the elders, and affirmative and enthusiastic nods from the boys.
On another night, with the music gently ululating in the background, it being very late, as chance would have it (fat chance!), 13 of us were all hunkered down on the rugs, in a circle. As I looked around me, I noticed that everyone of the Jajouki had a totally different appearance, as if from completely widespread ethnic backgrounds, and all of them were speaking different but appropriate languages, and I could understand everything being said, replying in each and every language as could everyone else. Speaking in tongues, real Tongues.
These experiences actually in many ways defy description, yet powerfully reaffirmed in me our innate capacity for tuning into higher realms of consciousness, as earlier and later experiences in my life have strengthened my conviction that we are rapidly moving into an era that we are perhaps little prepared to embrace, yet if we ignore, we do so at our peril. I ought to now go into an impassioned diatribe about how unique is the combination of these ancient healing techniques and mind-blowing music, and how imperative it is, that Jajouka be nourished and helped in these difficult times.
Keeping these vital traditions alive and thriving is a monumental task, and having just spoken to Bashir on the phone, for the first time since their European Tour of 1980, I could sense how heavily this responsibility weighs on his and others’ shoulders. Let us see, Inshallah.
Returning from Jajouka, we spent the last few days at a flat in Tangiers and were primed that we would be meeting Ahmed ‘Hole-in-the-Head’, a legendary dope dealer who serviced all the western luminaries coming to Morocco for kicks. He was known as ‘Hole-in-the-Head’ for the obvious reason that his ‘concoctions’ apparently induced euphoria and paranoia in equal doses, and it was with certain trepidation that I met this benign and jovial chap. Having indulged in his generosity, with them airily assuring everybody else in our party that they would get me to the airport on time, and they, if they wished, could suffer the indignities of the bus. They duly hurried off, leaving us discussing the depths of the Cosmos. Time stretched into infinity with me growing increasingly alarmed at the prospect of missing the plane, and being stuck in this madness forever. Eventually at about 6.30 pm, they decided it was time to leave and after a breakneck dash to the airport, we arrived at 7.05, with the plane due to leave at 7.10! The airport was practically deserted with just 2 people in the departure lounge, one laconically sweeping the floor, and the other ostensibly tidying up some paperwork. Out of the window, I could see my plane, the last of the day to leave, belching out black smoke on the edge of the runway, about half a mile away, champing at the bit to take off.
As far as I was concerned, I was doomed to miss my son Kid’s first birthday, the very next day, and be sucked up into the maelstrom of Mother Africa, never to be seen again, as I had very little money with me and certainly no credit cards. One of the guys strode up to the guy at the desk, flashed his magic square bit of paper, an urgent phone call was made, I was kissed and hugged goodbye, and urged to run out the door and onto the tarmac. At the same time, from a hangar, far off to my right emerged a chap running to the plane, pushing a set of wheeled steps. We both arrived at the plane, huffing and puffing, at the same time, and as I dashed up the steps, the door opened and a very astonished stewardess peered out, as I burst through the door, to the complete astonishment of all the students and the rest of my party, who of course had given me up long before. She ushered me to my seat, belted me up and left with a look of bewilderment and disbelief on her face.
A minute later we took off, and when the plane levelled off, she came back and handed me a bottle of champagne (on a student flight!), and said this is with the captain’s compliments and would I like to go up to the cockpit, as he’d like to meet me. I entered the cockpit, still slightly out of breath but definitely elated, and the very British pilot and his fellow officers looked a rather scruffy me up and down, long and hard, and said that never in their long and illustrious careers had they ever experienced such a late arrival, and that they had been ordered to allow me onboard by the Moroccan representative of the King, even though they were perfectly at liberty to leave without me. He said I must be an extremely important person and have very powerful friends, so I just pointed heavenwards and grinned, thanking him for waiting and giving me the champagne. Needless to say when I emerged from the cockpit to regain my seat, all the other passengers were looking at me somewhat strangely, with the rest of my party eager to hear how the impossible had been pulled off. “Well………I began, "The Magic of Jajouka……………………"
On our return to so-called civilisation, I believe that there was great difficulty getting an album deal for this venture, but a limited edition tape was produced, and I got back into my daily life of fighting the daily battle of survival for my young family, and so my photographs languished, half-forgotten in a drawer. I’d shot these pictures on transparency film, assuming that they would be reprographically reproduced, but to print them photographically, at that time, was exorbitantly expensive. Now, with the digital revolution, that happily isn’t the case. Some short time after this trip, Jajouka unexpectedly came to me, in the shape of a self-styled sultan of Jajouka and his Czech born girlfriend, whose name escapes me, even though she also was on the trip to Jajouka. There was no doubt she was a formidable white witch, large in stature and power, with serious charisma, and they, staying for a couple of days had us at their beck and call 24 hours a day, racing here, there and everywhere, banging desks, ostensibly on behalf of Jajouka, and shouting at tremulous record company executives all over London. On the last night of their harrowing, and nerve-wracking stay, blonde witch-bitch, took me aside, put her face very close to mine, and looking deeply into my eyes, stated that Dee, my partner, was in love with someone else and that we would stay together for a while longer, but eventually part and remain life-long friends. All true. A minute later, I felt an intense wave of extreme nausea and unaccustomed faintness, rushed to the bathroom, and vomited a golf ball sized lump of black hard stuff. Better out than in, but very unnerving at the time. This chap was last seen not long after, apparently, disappearing into the night with actor Anthony Quinn, of Hollywood fame.
During my nervous breakdown, some 7 years later in 1979, a definitely much-needed psychic shit, probably subtly implanted by my extraordinary experience in Jajouka, amongst other sagas, I felt very strongly that Jajouka was calling me. Sure enough, a month or so later I got a call, out of the blue, to inform me that 30 of The Musicians were coming to Europe for a 10-week tour in the following summer of 1980, and would I like to help. I was delighted, as I knew that The Master Musicians of Jajouka were just the tonic I needed, and on my own home ground I could repay them for all they’d shown me. So when they arrived in England, in a rather ramshackle second-hand coach, I dutifully and joyously became one of their roadies. One of my self-imposed duties being to transport the musicians, 4 at a time in my car to the local public baths from our digs in London, a squat that used to be the Cambodian Embassy, close to Regent’s Park. With 30 musicians badly in need of a hot bath, this was effectively an all day event.
Nobody had seen or heard anything like these guys, and they were a sensation wherever we went. I accompanied them around England and on to Germany and France, but didn’t take any photographs, as I was too busy, and it wasn’t that kind of trip for me, but it was truly a magical and spiritually uplifting saga. It ended for me in Paris, where The Musicians played in a beautiful old theatre at an anniversary bash for "Actuel", the French equivalent to Time magazine. The 2000 audience of the Paris media elite were completely blown away by the raw power of the Musicians' un-amplified music. Sadly, I had to leave the tour at that point, because my then wife being pregnant, needed me at home. To my utter amazement, the chief of the Musicians solemnly handed me an envelope, containing 200 pounds, and embracing me, thanked me for all my help. I was deeply touched, and departed in a rush of emotion, to catch the ferry back to England. I’d spent more than a month on the road with The Musicians, and it had been an exhilarating and deeply bonding experience, but sadly, that was the last time I saw them. Life, with all its vagaries just seemed to always get in the way.
However, since then, The Rolling Stones have apologised to them over ignoring their record with Brian Jones, have included them on an album, plus made a TV documentary of their reunion, and Bashir Attar, one of the young dancing boys in my pictures, has become The Chief of The Musicians, and a world-renowned musician in his own right. Remember, Jajouka means ‘Something good will come to you? I’m now getting a strong feeling of their pervasive presence, and feel that soon I will revisit them in Morocco, to bring them my treasured photographic memories, from so long ago, and hopefully to capture some more, "Inshallah".
It seems that anyone who is exposed to their music, shares a common sense of purpose and mystery, and I’ve subsequently met a number of illustrious "aficionados" including William Burroughs, Brion Gysin, George Chkiantz, Brian Jones’s excellent engineer, Stephen Davis and Joel Rubiner, among others. Appropriately, Rachel, my now wife, being a big Rolling Stones fan, is one of the very few of her generation who knows about Jajouka, and actually owns the video of the Stones and the Master Musicians playing together, which I’d never seen, only heard about, and she was amazed that I’d been there, as early as 1972, when she was only 2 years old.
Now, somewhat mysteriously, life and Jajouka magic have conspired to encourage me to fetch my photographs, from that magical summer, out of the archive, dust ‘em down, and get them out there into the ether. This is a day I always knew would come, and I hope that my photographs begin to show something of the timeless magic that is Jajouka........Enjoy.....and tell your friends!
Copyright: Paul Misso April 2004 www.healing-spirit.com
Jajouka website: www.jajouka.com
More images can be seen at: www.wellhungart.co.uk
Jajouka Oasis Webring:
