Revolutionary Music B y the early 1950s, Moroccans had begun to imagine independence. For many, it may have sounded like Elmaghribi. In tandem with a national struggle waged by the Istiqlal political party in global forums like the United Nations, Elmaghribi was sating Moroccans back home with what he called his “sensa- tional revolution in Oriental music.” And it could be heard nearly everywhere: from the concert hall to the radio and from the royal palace to the marketplace. His revolutionary music celebrated urban and rural, north and south, locations in the French protectorate and the Spanish one, while making no distinc- tion between Arab or Berber nor Muslim or Jew. All were Moroccan. But if his nationalism was more capacious than that of the political parties it was no less nationalist. On the country’s largest stages and on its most sym- bolic ones, Elmaghribi donned the national colors, toured alongside Muslims, and sang of and for the nation. In each setting where his music was performed, Elmaghribi’s audiences learned to perform his inclusive brand of Moroccan nationalism as well. “The echoes of your brilliant success,” Simon wrote to his brother from Marseilles on Feb. 17, 1950, “have reached me all the way up here.” By early 1950, Elmaghribi’s success was so compelling that Simon en- couraged him to remain in Morocco instead of joining him on a permanent basis in Mar- seilles. In late summer 1950, Elmaghribi, whose music was already broadcast with regularity on Radio Maroc, embarked on his first concert tour of Morocco. “Les Samy’s Boys,” his six-piece orchestra, accompanied him on stops that included Rabat, Fez, and Mazagan. In the promotional materials for his 1950 tour, Elmaghribi demonstrated the independ- ent style, sartorial confidence, and musical modernism that helped set him apart. The poster for his Sept. 9, 1950, concert in Mazagan, for instance, which adorned kiosks throughout the city, first carried his slogan of a “revolution in Oriental music.” It also included a large photo of a dapper, perfectly coiffed Elmaghribi, bespoke in white suit at the microphone, surrounded by Les Samy’s Boys. With all eyes fixed on their bandleader, his orchestra practically swooned in admira- tion. “For the first time in Morocco,” the post- er announced in French, “Samy Elmaghribi and his dynamic ensemble, ‘Les Samy Boys’ (before their departure for Paris),” were to appear. Catch him for a hometown show, the marketing suggested, before the rest of
“Then came the congratulations of all the Muslim personalities, which touched me”.
Pathé promotional photo of Samy Elmaghribi, ca. 1951.
the world grabbed hold of him. And with rea- sonably priced tickets, Moroccan audiences could afford his revolution. That rebellion of “modern music and song” was true to form and included such styles as “Franco-Arab, flamenco, Egyptian, Algerian, Tunisian, [and] Moroccan.” As his advertisements promised, Elmagh- ribi’s early set lists included music that ranged across North Africa and the Middle East, across styles, and across languages. Emblematic were his breakout record “Luna lunera,” a bolero written by the Cuban composer Tony Fergo, which Elmaghribi translated into Arabic while maintaining whole verses in Spanish. But it was one disc
in particular that ingratiated Elmaghribi to a wide swath of the Moroccan public: “Lukan al-milayin” (If I had millions). Perhaps it was its aspirational quality that endeared the singer and the song so. In “Lukan al-milayin,” Elmaghribi dared dream the impossible so long as French rule persisted in Morocco. In the song, Elmagh- ribi articulated the lengths he would go to pursue the love of his life. Ay ay ay, if only I had millions I know what I would do with them at that time. On boats—in planes I would cross oceans and traverse the skies To search for my love in every place.
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