LITMIR.BIZ

      Maṭla: The Muṭriba and the Restaurant

      Arriving in Damascus one cool November evening in 1996, I found Syria awash in banners celebrating the twenty-sixth anniversary of the “Great Corrective Movement,” a national holiday marking the coming to power of Ḥāfiẓ al-Asad on November 16, 1970.¹ Every plaza in the city center was strung with banners, every fountain was alight with colored lights, and at every major intersection nationalist jingles could be heard crackling from battered speakers dangling from light posts or the facades of buildings. No one seemed to be in a festive mood, however. When I asked my taxi driver what was going on, he turned down his radio, glanced at me in the rearview mirror, then turned the radio back up and continued driving to the hotel.

      Later in the evening, as I settled into bed, a young woman vocalist (called, somewhat grandiosely, a muṭriba²) began to sing from the roof-top garden of a nearby luxury hotel, filling the night air with the latest Arab pop hits. Her performance included a rendition of what was easily the most popular song in Syria that year: the Egyptian superstar Amru Diab’s “Ḥabībī yā nūr al-ayn” [Beloved, O light of my eye]—perhaps the most popular Arab song of the 1990s. Her throaty and to my ears melodramatic vocals were enhanced by their passage through an enormous PA system with heavy reverb—I was to learn throughout my stay in Syria that high volume is an important feature of the aesthetics of most live music, the implicit principle seemingly being, “If you can’t feel the sound reverberating through your body, then it isn’t loud enough.” The so-called muṭriba was accompanied by the sound of what has become the standard pan-Arab pop orchestra: the org or synthesizer; the ṭabla (goblet drum) beating out the fast and repetitive baladī beat (sometimes replaced by or even in conjunction with a drum machine)³; and there may have been an electric guitar and bass to round out the ensemble, as is common in hotel lounge bands in Syria, Lebanon, and Egypt. Such groups rarely include the oud (ūd, Arabian short-necked lute) or nāy (end-blown reed flute), instruments more often associated with the classical music traditions of the Arab East. I found the music grating and had a hard time falling asleep, despite my jet lag.

      Yusef al-Azmeh Square, Damascus, 1996.

      After a mostly sleepless night, I decided the following evening to avoid the well-microphoned muṭriba and head to the Old City of Damascus for some “authentic” Arab music. I also was keen to dine on the justly celebrated Syrian cuisine. My guide book to Syria described the Omayyad Palace restaurant as offering “delicious Syrian food in an authentic atmosphere,” adding that the restaurant featured a live band playing “traditional” music, so I decided to go. Located just steps from the seventh-century Umayyad Mosque, one of the glories of Islamic architecture, the Omayyad Palace takes its name from the Umayyad Dynasty that ruled the early Islamic empire (661–750 A.D.) from its seat of power in Damascus. The restaurant is said be located on the site of the grand palace of the first Umayyad prince, Muāwiyya Ibn Abī Sufyān. All that remains of the palace is its large cellar, occupied by the present restaurant.