MADA MASR

Meet The 92-Year-Old Egyptian Who Invented Electronic Music

Electronic music pioneer Halim El-Dabh
Electronic music pioneer Halim El-Dabh
Maha ElNabawi

CAIRO — Last week I shocked a musician friend in Cairo by telling him the first maker of electronic music wasn’t German, as he thought, but the then-23-year-old Halim El-Dabh, who manipulated recordings of an ancient healing ceremony in the early 1940s.

In this hypnotic two-minute excerpt expand=1], known as “Wire Recorder Piece,” a distant, distorted, chant-like vocal reverberates out of an echo chamber, looping over itself again and again like a coiling snake with an occasional pause for breath — only to unravel as a spiraling howl. A longer version, titled “The Expression of Zaar,” was transferred to magnetic tape and presented to the public in 1944 at a Cairo art gallery, the name of which now seems to be lost.

A few years before, in 1939, American composer John Cage discovered a pile of records featuring tonal pieces in a Seattle radio station and used them with two variable-speed turntables, a muted piano and cymbal to compose “Imaginary Landscape No. 1.” But El-Dabh was the first to record, compose, manipulate and layer sounds by means of a wire recorder — a precursor to the tape recorder — thereby making the first-ever piece of purely electronic music. Four years later, French composer Pierre Schaeffer would use the same method to pioneer “musique concrète” at Radio France, starting with his “5 études de bruits.”

I first heard of El-Dabh a couple of years ago when interviewing musicians in Egypt, particularly those involved in sound art. After developing a fascination for the trailblazing composer, I was finally able to get in touch with him this month. I spoke to him on the phone — he was at his Kent, Ohio, home, which I called from Cairo. I had concerns that the interview wouldn’t go well, considering that he is now 92 years old, but I quickly realized that his mind, memory, humor and ambitions are still very much intact. One might even say they are vibrating at an effervescent frequency.

He started young

Born into an agricultural family in Cairo’s Sakakini district on March 4, 1921, El-Dabh said he was exposed to music from an early age.

“I was the youngest of nine children, so my family was often very experimental with my upbringing,” he said with a giggle of remembrance. “At age three, I studied French at the Jesuit school in Cairo for some years, but when I came home only speaking French, my parents enrolled me in elementary school in Heliopolis.”

He continued, alternating between Arabic and English, “My brothers and sisters all played musical instruments, so it was natural that I would follow suit. My brother Adeeb was becoming a known musician at the time, and my other siblings were constantly fighting over the piano, so I gravitated towards drums — tabla, doff drum, etc.”

At age 11, El-Dabh discovered contemporary music when his brothers took him to a concert at the historic 1932 Conference on Arabic Music in Cairo. He was overwhelmed by the works of musicians like Béla Bartók, a Hungarian composer and one of the founders of ethnomusicology, and German composer Paul Hindemith. It was there that he was first exposed to music recorded on a wire recorder.

El-Dabh studied agricultural engineering at Cairo University, but by 1942 his piano skills saw him drawn into the circles of a young Egyptian prince, who heard his compositions on the radio. He also won first prize in piano composition at the Egyptian Opera House. After graduating in 1944, El-Dabh said he joined his brothers in discussions at a local youth center, focused on avant-garde art and thought. He remembers conversing with anti-colonial intellectuals like novelist Naguib Mahfouz and socialist thinker Salama Moussa.

“These sessions very much shaped my ideologies and cultural interests. There was never much talk of religion, but more so the urgent need to move past colonialism as a means towards Egypt’s self-determination, national identity and modernism,” he said.

El-Dabh continued his agricultural work, traveling to villages to advise farmers on crop-growing strategies.

“It was these travels that really piqued my interest in sound and music,” he explained. “At some point I realized that I could mix my love for both, so I began studying the possibilities of controlling and preventing bugs and pests from attacking the corn, wheat and bean crops through sound. Maybe it’s because I was born during a thunderstorm, but I’ve always been highly sensitive to sounds, watching the vibrations of the birds and mostly the scarabs, who seemed to yell in conversation. From this, I learned how to create noise with metal instruments, clacking together sharp elements to discourage the bugs. I would use mirrors to discourage the bees, in order to let the crops grow.”

The eureka moment

These experiments led him to Middle East Radio, a small independent station in Cairo that had wire recorders. After trying one out, he decided to alter the sounds he had recorded, unwittingly creating the building blocks for electronic music.

After recording a zaar ceremony in 1943, El-Dabh modified the recordings using studio techniques, including reverberation, voltage controls, and a re-recording room with movable walls. He told me he hoped to re-create the fundamental vibrations generated in the act of bodily transcendence and healing.

“I’ve always been interested in zaar, particularly since it’s a women-only ceremony,” said El-Dabh. “Women are the center of our civilization. They are the balance to our very existence. I wanted to capture that, their sound and the healing elements of their chants. I didn’t know I was making electronic music at the time, I just found a great importance in zaar because of the whole concept of transformation. This transcendence that happened by the movement of the body, the thought process, the vibrations, different ideas through different engagement, all in accordance to the sound that was being created. It’s truly a different world.”

Remembering “Wire Recorder Piece,” he said, “It was all women and it was all chanting. I wanted to find the inner sound, that vibration that’s always necessary for transcendence. I eliminated the fundamental tones of the harmony by changing the voltage — it changes the quality of the music, it seeks another quality in the voice, the hidden material, the inner part of the voice. That’s what the whole idea of electronic music is about. You have a recording and you go inside the recording to find the hidden meaning.”

Skipping Juilliard

His 1948 piece based on the war in Palestine, “It is Dark and Damp on the Front,” which involved placing objects around the piano’s strings, won him much attention. In 1949, after performing at Cairo’s All Saints Cathedral, he was invited by the U.S. Embassy in Egypt to study at the famous Juilliard School in New York.

“When I was finally accepted to go to the States,” he remembered, “I went to the library of the American culture center in Cairo and there was a nice Egyptian lady. I told her I’m going to America and I’d like to hear American music. She gave me 20 LPs of Native American music and from that moment I was hooked.”

So having received a Fulbright Fellowship, El-Dabh insisted on studying at the University of New Mexico to explore Hopi music instead of going to Juilliard.

In the years after his move, El-Dabhset about composing a vast body of work and collaborating with some of the most legendary artists and musicians of the 20th century. He composed dance music for choreographer Martha Graham, and worked with Cage, Vladimer Ussachevsky and Otto Luening at the innovative Columbia-Princeton Electronic Music Center, becoming one of the first outside musicians to be invited to work there after its founding in 1959.

Mixing spoken word, singing and percussion with electronic signals and processing, El-Dabh stood out from other electronic pioneers, as music scholar Thom Holms has written, because his interest in ancient and folk music, rather than math, gave his works an organic quality. His piece “Leiyla and the Poet” — part of a remarkable electronic opera, but released by itself on a compilation by Colombia Records in 1964 — influenced many young composers. Overall, El-Dabh has created more than 300 operas, symphonies, ballets, chamber music pieces, and electronic music works, and says he has hundreds more still unpublished. In 1961, he became a U.S. citizen, but he has continued to divide his time between Egypt, traveling through Africa as an ethnomusicologist, and his home in Kent.

They pyramid theory

In the late 1960s, El-Dabh was invited back to Egypt to work under Minister of Culture Sawrat Okasha by order of Gamal Abdel Nasser — it was then that he created the score for the Sound and Light Show at the Giza Pyramids. He says when he last went, in 2006, they were still using it.

El-Dabh thinks that chanting contributed to the building of the pyramids by producing a feeling that enables people to carry weight beyond their natural ability.

“The way I look at the pyramids is that they were built by Egyptians dancing and singing and playing with these huge blocks,” he said. “When I was in the Congo I was with a certain tribe. They would chant, and one person would jump and stay levitated for a moment horizontally. So I thought, maybe this is how they moved those pyramid blocks. Surely if you had that energy, you could actually hold these rocks with easier weight and place them.”

El-Dabh has undertaken ethnomusicological research field trips to villages in Egypt, Ethiopia, Congo and Zaire at the request of the Egyptian government, recording and investigating the lost music of Africa with a particular focus on the relationships between each country’s zaar traditions. He has received numerous awards and fellowships, and in 2001 he accepted an honorary doctorate from Kent State University, where he has taught since 1969. From 1974 to 1982 he was consultant to the Smithsonian Institution’s Folklife Programs for a project on Egyptian and Guinean puppetry.

El-Dabh in 2009 — Photo: Wikimedia Commons

“My research was about how to live with different communities all over the world. Researching is also self-discovery,” he said. “What I love about music is it connects me with the universe. It puts me in contact with every human being. Music is not just what your ear can hear, but what your body can experience. Every human being has a gesture, and that gesture explains your life history in a way — the way you use the body. There are thousands of gestures to explain a culture of a society, between the gesture, which I’m very interested to learn, and the relation to sound, a fantastic tool to become liberated and find yourself.”

Thoughts on contemporary Egypt

Near the end of the conversation, I asked El-Dabh for a few words of wisdom regarding the current situation in Egypt.

“Egyptians have a hugely rich tradition. The country is wealthy with an enormous amount of resources. So why fight ourselves? The direction for the new world is to understand one’s position. The world is getting smaller, so the only way to better one’s life and one’s income is to know one’s resources,” he advised.

“I’m hoping people back in Egypt realize that everyone is important, every human is an important unique component of life. I hope people will not be tied up in negative thoughts, but rather will become open to positive action and positive engagement in rebuilding the country,” he said. “It is the arts that constantly produce positive energy — we must understand the ancient in order to understand the future. You don’t need to be literate to acquire knowledge, and that’s why the arts are more important than ever in Egypt. Anyway, we all always have more to learn, no matter what we think we’ve accomplished. I’m 92, but I feel I haven’t done anything yet.”

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Green

Ecological Angst In India, A Mining Dumpsite As Neighbor

Local villagers in western India have been forced to live with a mining waste site on the edge of town. What happens when you wake up one day and the giant mound of industrial waste has imploded?

The mining dumpsite is situated just outside of the Badi village in the coastal state of Gujarat

Sukanya Shantha

BADI — Last week, when the men and women from the Bharwad community in this small village in western India stepped out for their daily work to herd livestock, they were greeted with a strange sight.

The 20-meter-high small hill that had formed at the open-cast mining dumpsite had suddenly sunk. Unsure of the reason behind the sudden caving-in, they immediately informed other villagers. In no time, word had traveled far, even drawing the attention of environment specialists and activists from outside town.

This mining dumpsite situated less than 500 meters outside of the Badi village in the coastal state of Gujarat has been a matter of serious concern ever since the Gujarat Power Corporation Limited began lignite mining work here in early 2017. The power plant is run by the Power Gujarat State Electricity Corporation Limited, which was previously known as the Bhavnagar Energy Company Ltd.

Vasudev Gohil, a 43-year-old resident of Badi village says that though the dumping site is technically situated outside the village, locals must pass the area on a daily basis.


"We are constantly on tenterhooks and looking for danger signs," he says. Indeed, their state of alert is how the sudden change in the shape of the dumpsite was noticed in the first place.

Can you trust environmental officials?

For someone visiting the place for the first time, the changes may not stand out. "But we have lived all our lives here, we know every little detail of this village. And when a 150-meter-long stretch cave-in by over 25-30 feet, the change can't be overlooked," Gohil adds.

This is not the first time that the dumpsite has worried local residents. Last November, a large part of the flattened part of the dumpsite had developed deep cracks and several flat areas had suddenly got elevated. While the officials had attributed this significant elevation to the high pressure of water in the upper strata of soil in the region, environment experts had pointed to seismic activities. The change is evident even today, nearly a year since it happened.

It could have sunk because of the rain.

After the recent incident, when the villagers raised an alarm and sent a written complaint to the regional Gujarat Pollution Control Board, an official visit to the site was arranged, along with the district administration and the mining department.

The regional pollution board officer Bhavnagar, A.G. Oza, insists the changes "aren't worrisome" and attributes it to the weather.

"The area received heavy rain this time. It is possible that the soil could have sunk in because of the rain," he tells The Wire. The Board, he says, along with the mining department, is now trying to assess if the caving-in had any impact on the ground surface.

"We visited the site as soon as a complaint was made. Samples have already been sent to the laboratory and we will have a clear idea only once the reports are made available," Oza adds.

Women from the Surkha village have to travel several kilometers to find potable water

Sukanya Shantha/The Wire

A questionable claim

That the dumpsite had sunk in was noticeable for at least three days between October 1 and 3, but Rohit Prajapati of an environmental watchdog group Paryavaran Suraksha Samiti, noted that it was not the first time.

"This is the third time in four years that something so strange is happening. It is a disaster in the making and the authorities ought to examine the root cause of the problem," Prajapati says, adding that the department has repeatedly failed to properly address the issue.

He also contests the GPCB's claim that excess rain could lead to something so drastic. "Then why was similar impact not seen on other dumping sites in the region? One cannot arrive at conclusions for geological changes without a deeper study of them," he says. "It can have deadly implications."

Living in pollution

The villagers have also accused the GPCB of overlooking their complaint of water pollution which has rendered a large part of the land, most importantly, the gauchar or grazing land, useless.

"In the absence of a wall or a barrier, the pollutant has freely mixed with the water bodies here and has slowly started polluting both our soil and water," complains 23- year-old Nikul Kantharia.

He says ever since the mining project took off in the region, he, like most other villagers has been forced to take his livestock farther away to graze. "Nothing grows on the grazing land anymore and the grass closer to the dumpsite makes our cattle ill," Kantharia claims.

The mining work should have been stopped long ago

Prajapati and Bharat Jambucha, a well-known environmental activist and proponent of organic farming from the region, both point to blatant violations of environmental laws in the execution of mining work, with at least 12 violations cited by local officials. "But nothing happened after that. Mining work has continued without any hassles," Jambucha says. Among some glaring violations include the absence of a boundary wall around the dumping site and proper disposal of mining effluents.

The mining work has also continued without a most basic requirement – effluent treatment plant and sewage treatment plant at the mining site, Prajapati points out. "The mining work should have been stopped long ago. And the company should have been levied a heavy fine. But no such thing happened," he adds.

In some villages, the groundwater level has depleted over the past few years and villagers attribute it to the mining project. Women from Surkha village travel several kilometers outside for potable water. "This is new. Until five years ago, we had some water in the village and did not have to lug water every day," says Shilaben Kantharia.

The mine has affected the landscape around the villages

Sukanya Shantha/The Wire

Resisting lignite mining

The lignite mining project has a long history of resistance. Agricultural land, along with grazing land were acquired from the cluster of 12 adjoining villages in the coastal Ghogha taluka between 1994 and 1997. The locals estimate that villagers here lost anything between 40-100% of their land to the project. "We were paid a standard Rs 40,000 per bigha," Narendra, a local photographer, says.

The money, Narendra says, felt decent in 1994 but for those who had been dependent on this land, the years to come proved very challenging. "Several villagers have now taken a small patch of land in the neighboring villages on lease and are cultivating cotton and groundnut there," Narendra says.

They were dependent on others' land for work.

Bharat Jambucha says things get further complicated for the communities which were historically landless. "Most families belonging to the Dalit or other marginalized populations in the region never owned any land. They were dependent on others' land for work. Once villagers lost their land to the project, the landless were pushed out of the village," he adds. His organization, Prakrutik Kheti Juth, has been at the forefront, fighting for the rights of the villages affected in the lignite mining project.

In 2017, when the mining project finally took off, villagers from across 12 villages protested. The demonstration was disrupted after police used force and beat many protesters. More than 350 of them were booked for rioting.

The villagers, however, did not give up. Protests and hunger strikes have continued from time to time. A few villagers even sent a letter to the President of India threatening that they would commit suicide if the government did not return their land.

"We let them have our land for over 20 years," says Gohil.

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