March 05, 2015
GENEVA — She was known as Enheduanna. Remember that name. A Sumerian priestess living in Ur, in Mesopotamia, in 2,300 BC, she’s the first known writer of love songs. Some actually identify her as history's first songwriter of any genre.
Her existence was discovered thanks to a disk — made out of alabaster, not vinyl — unearthed from the Iraqi soil by British archeologist Leonard Wooley, in 1927. The finding revealed the name of the woman, and her function of devotion to the cult of the goddess Inanna.
This is how music historian Ted Gioia begins his latest book Love Songs, The Hidden History, a study that reveals many surprises and paradoxes.
Other excavations were necessary to discover the works supposedly left behind by Enheduanna, engraved on calcite tablets, and it wasn’t until 1968 that somebody dared to publish a translation. That was because these compositions were made to accompany the “sacred marriage” ceremony, during which the king of Ur would sleep with the Sumerian goddess Inanna (or rather her incarnation) to secure his society’s prosperity.
Through the singer’s voice, the goddess celebrated the “rising cedar” between the king’s thighs but she was even more eloquent when it came to describing her own intimate place, which she compared to a horn, a barque for the skies, a crescent moon, a fallow land about which she wondered “Who will plow it for me?”
And here’s the first step. A love song is first of all a song about sex, and simultaneously a sacred hymn. A full millennium passed by before this changed. A millennium during which, on the other side of the Red Sea, Ancient Egypt’s dynasties followed one another. By the time the 19th or 20th dynasty came, between 1,300 and 1,100 BC, the kingdom started to produce a new kind of serenade.
Sex was still very much a part of it. As a matter of fact, in those songs, sex was polymorphous and sophisticated. Thus, the singer of a poem known under the name “Seven Wishes” fantasized while thinking about his remote lover, “If only I were her Nubian maid / her attendant in secret. / If only I were the laundryman / then I’d rub my body / with her cast-off garments …”
What was new about it then was the emotion. These songs are “surprisingly close to today’s love ballads in their tone and intention,” as well as in their “psychological depth and emotional content that have hardly aged,” Ted Gioia writes.
The tone is singular. The “ardent longing for the absent beloved is a new ingredient in the love lyric,” he explains.
The reason is simple. “Unhappy love songs had no place in a society that depended on the exemplary coitus between king and deity,” as was the case in Mesopotamia. Egyptians, on the other hand, “reveal a fascination with romantic frustration, with thwarted desire and its impact on the emotions and imagination.” They will even establish a whole genre, called paraklausithyron, which expresses the “lament outside the door” which, for the lover, remains closed.
From then on, the closed door theme continued to bear fruit for a long time. That’s where the Rolling Stones drew their inspiration for the seven-minute long “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking?” on their 1971 album Sticky Fingers.
In the meantime, the ancient love song reached its peak of accomplishment with Sappho. A poetess from ancient Greece, she mastered the art of mixing very personal content with her view on society, making her in today’s terms “a singer-songwriter akin to Patti Smith or Joni Mitchell,” Gioia writes.
Let’s fast forward to the 8th century, in Spain, then known as Al-Andalus, after the Muslim conquest of the Iberian peninsula. “A mixture of musical cultures inevitably ensued and had a decisive and still poorly understood impact on the later evolution of the Western love song,” Gioia notes. A new genre appears, muwashshah, written in Classical Arabic (or in Hebrew), but with a conclusion ("kharja," in Arabic) in which the love bursts out without restraint. This kharja is sung in dialectal Arabic or in a Romance language and the singers allow themselves to say such things as “mess up my hair, rub my breasts, drink my saliva” or “raise my anklets up to my earrings.”
Arabic culture didn’t allow such words to be sung in the Classical language; European culture didn’t allow them to be sung at all. But in the multicultural and polyglot Muslim Spain, Ted Gioia believes that “the creative friction between two very different cultures ultimately served as the key catalyst.”
The friction point, where the two prohibitions met, created a space for freedom that would have a brilliant future ahead of itself. Even if musicologists took a long time to admit it, the courteous love we find in medieval troubadour songs is indeed a continuation of the muwashshah from Al-Andalus.
14th century troubadours — Source: Wikielwikingo
“The aristocratic singers of the time felt a particular delight in assuming a carefully cultivated position that turned them into servants and slaves of their beloved ladies,” Gioia writes. Strange, because why would the members of the ruling elite want to sing as if they were slaves? For a lot of reasons, probably, but for one striking and little-known reason in particular. “We are left to wonder whether this fixation is a carry-over from a day when love songs were the specialty of actual slaves." That was the case in the Arab-Andalusian world, where slave singers were called the qiyan.
Before that, the dominant culture from ancient Rome was one that rejected any sort of sentimental outpourings. Love? No thanks, it makes you a slave. It’s only logical then that slaves where the ones singing love songs at the time. As paradoxical as it may seem, slaves male or female — and according to Gioia, women are more often than not responsible for the invention of new forms of love songs — therefore enjoyed an area of freedom that their masters didn’t have because it was considered shameful.
These were forms of reparations for the slaves. “It conferred a precious measure of dignity, even grandeur, to a condition that was otherwise nothing but degrading.”
This is an underlying theme that we still find in today’s music. It is slaves who, once again, renewed the history of love songs in the United States in the 19th century. Blues music reintroduced an existential depth and range of emotions into a genre that was then falling into decrepitude with soppy, prudish ballads and the bogus sexuality of cabarets.
Today, Ted Gioia believes we’re back to square one. Sex is omnipresent in pop culture. The “hidden history” will need new pariahs to rewrite itself once again.
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A neo-Nazi has been buried in the former grave of a Jewish musicologist Max Friedlaender – not an oversight, but a deliberate provocation. This is just one more example of antisemitism on the rise in Germany, and society's inability to respond.
Eva Marie Kogel
October 24, 2021
BERLIN — If you want to check the state of your society, there's a simple test: as the U.S. High Commissioner for Germany, John Jay McCloy, said in 1949, the touchstone for a democracy is the well-being of Jews. This litmus test is still relevant today. And it seems Germany would not pass.
Incidents are piling up. Most recently, groups of neo-Nazis from across the country traveled to a church near Berlin for the funeral of a well-known far-right figure. He was buried in the former grave of Jewish musicologist Max Friedlaender, a gravesite chosen deliberately by the right-wing extremists.
The incident at the cemetery
They intentionally chose a Jewish grave as an act of provocation, trying to gain maximum publicity for this act of desecration. And the cemetery authorities at the graveyard in Stahnsdorf fell for it. The church issued an immediate apology, calling it a "terrible mistake" and saying they "must immediately see whether and what we can undo."
There are so many incidents that get little to no media attention.
It's unfathomable that this burial was allowed to take place at all, but now the cemetery authorities need to make a decision quickly about how to put things right. Otherwise, the grave may well become a pilgrimage site for Holocaust deniers and antisemites.
The incident has garnered attention in the international press and it will live long in the memory. Like the case of singer-songwriter Gil Ofarim, who recently claimed he was subjected to antisemitic abuse at a hotel in Leipzig. Details of the crime are still being investigated. But there are so many other incidents that get little to no media attention.
The grave of Jewish musicologist Max Friedlaender
Crimes against Jews are rising
Across all parts of society, antisemitism is on the rise. Until a few years ago, Jewish life was seen as an accepted part of German society. Since the attack on the synagogue in Halle in 2019, the picture has changed: it was a bitter reminder that right-wing terror against Jewish people has a long, unbroken history in Germany.
Stories have abounded about the coronavirus crisis being a Jewish conspiracy; meanwhile, Muslim antisemitism is becoming louder and more forceful. The anti-Israel boycott movement BDS rears its head in every debate on antisemitism, just as left-wing or post-colonial thinking are part of every discussion.
Jewish life needs to be allowed to step out of the shadows.
Since 2015, the number of antisemitic crimes recorded has risen by about a third, to 2,350. But victims only report around 20% of cases. Some choose not to because they've had bad experiences with the police, others because they're afraid of the perpetrators, and still others because they just want to put it behind them. Victims clearly hold out little hope of useful reaction from the state – so crimes go unreported.
And the reality of Jewish life in Germany is a dark one. Sociologists say that Jewish children are living out their "identity under siege." What impact does it have on them when they can only go to nursery under police protection? Or when they hear Holocaust jokes at school?
Germany needs to take its antisemitism seriously
This shows that the country of commemorative services and "stumbling blocks" placed in sidewalks as a memorial to victims of the Nazis has lost its moral compass. To make it point true north again, antisemitism needs to be documented from the perspective of those affected, making it visible to the non-Jewish population. And Jewish life needs to be allowed to step out of the shadows.
That is the first thing. The second is that we need to talk about specifically German forms of antisemitism. For example, the fact that in no other EU country are Jewish people so often confronted about the Israeli government's policies (according to a survey, 41% of German Jews have experienced this, while the EU average is 28%). Projecting the old antisemitism onto the state of Israel offers people a more comfortable target for their arguments.
Our society needs to have more conversations about antisemitism. The test of German democracy, as McCloy called it, starts with taking these concerns seriously and talking about them. We need to have these conversations because it affects all of us. It's about saving our democracy. Before it's too late.
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Die Welt ("The World") is a German daily founded in Hamburg in 1946, and currently owned by the Axel Springer AG company, Europe's largest publishing house. Now based in Berlin, Die Welt is sold in more than 130 countries. A Sunday edition called Welt am Sonntag has been published since 1948.
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