What my (genius) Percussionist taught me

authentic egyptian dance bellydance bellydancing joana me musicians orchestra oriental saahirah what my (genius) percussionist taught me what my egyptian musician taught

In more than 20 years of career, one that grew abnormally fast, I was privileged to work with the best musicians in the field of Egyptian Music and Dance and even luckier to call them "my teachers".

Unlike so many dancers I knew, especially in Cairo where it´s not uncommon at a certain level of career to "own" your own orchestra, I listened to my musicians as if they were mentors, family, friends, creation and soul partners.

Make no mistake: they listened to me, as well. I was their "maestrina" and boss; I was the star of the show, the one who hired, and the engine that kept the machine running. But, in reality, underneath the protocol, we were one. A team in constant dialogue.

Hierarchies are imposed in this 3-dimensional world, and especially in Egypt, but, to be honest, I never cared for them. As a rebel who has always carved her way, despite what everyone else´s doing or thinking, I´ve paid a high price for my contempt towards hierarchies - the game of the "Master Versus Servant" - but I don´t care. Paying my dues can be a pleasure.

Despite the well-intentioned warnings of the ones who surrounded me, I made a point in dining with my musicians, after our shows; I shared my heart with them, showing them my vulnerability on many occasions; I knew their families and they knew mine; I headed to late-night shows around Cairo with them - for research, for work, for pleasure -; I considered them my safe world within the dangerous world of the Cairo Oriental Dance scene.

I could write an entire book on what I´ve learned from the musicians who shared the stage with me - in Egypt and abroad - but today I´ll focus on one musician and one lesson; today, I´ll tell you about a particular genius-crazy-ticking bomb percussionist who was the heart of my orchestra in Egypt.

He was a "Shaabi" badass guy with scars (knife cuts) on his face, who came from one of the oldest, most traditional, and conservative neighborhoods in Cairo - Sayeda Zeinab.

He´d worked, from a very early age with family members, learning the craft on the stage, doing it, observing the eldest; as a teenager, he was already performing with Nagwa Fouad and other of the biggest names of the music and dance of the 70s, 80s, and 90s.

When he arrived at my life, and orchestra, he was beaten up - by drugs, overwork, sleepless nights, and life -; I could see his madness, rage, exhaustion, and genius. Oh, I could see his genius.

We hit it off immediately. An artist recognizes another artist when he/she sees her/him.

It was "love at first sight".

During the years we worked together, we grew closer, as close as the star of the show can get to one of her musicians, and he taught me a lot.

One of the things he taught me was to trust my Darkness. And to release it through my dance.

I was going through a terrible period.

I´d lost someone I loved and I cried more frequently than I´d like to admit. My musicians knew it. They saw me every day - puffy eyes, gaze stuck to the floor, shoulders down; they felt my mood, my heart, each breath I took. They were mirrors who informed me, with absolute accuracy, of my state of being.

- Madam, are you ok? - He asked me, as he saw me arriving at the backstage room. My assistant held my bags and one of my hands. I looked at the floor in order not to cry.

- I´m ok, ya Mohsem. Thank you. - I answered, trying to close the conversation.

- You know, ya Madam, you can dance your sadness. Go crazy. Tell us about it with your performance. It´ll make you feel better.

Usually, Egyptian musicians aren´t good with words but, that day, those words were all I needed to hear.

Without further ado, we hit the stage.

And I did dance my sadness. And my madness, rage, frustration, fear, despair.

I took the darkness that weighed on my heart and shared it with my musicians and audience as if I was the subject of open-heart surgery.

At the end of the show, I felt lighter. My problems hadn´t disappeared but by God, I felt lighter. Furthermore, my musicians felt more connected with me than ever. And so did our audience.

From that moment on, I used the stage as a therapy room, an untold truth shared by artists without explanation.

Years have passed and many other lessons have been exchanged - me, as the receiver; me, as the giver - but this one remains at the center of my career. And life.

P.S: The photos in this blog post glimpses of my shows in Cairo, Egypt.

Want to discover more PRECIOUS LESSONS I´ve learned from my musicians?

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What my (genius) Percussionist taught me

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