Raqs Nerd: Tarab, and what we miss

This week I'm back to writing about music and emotion - picking up from where I left off a couple of weeks ago (if you're new here, you can read my past newsletters here)

I've been thinking a lot this week, again, about the phenomenon of Tarab (طرب) - the state of enchantment or ecstasty produced by music.

My feeling is that dancers from outside the source cultures are often quite drawn to or fascinated by this topic (as indeed, I have been)...

And as dancers, if we're not from the source cultures ourselves, then by and large we know it's a feeling of some sort; we know it's important somehow; we really want to "get it". But, clear information (or to be honest, any information at all) is frustratingly hard to come by, within the world of bellydance workshops and festivals.

Most of the helpful knowledge I've been able to find over the years has actually come not from dance teachers, but from Egyptian and Arab musicians deeply embedded in the culture - through classes, conversations, and quite a lot of reading (most notably this book, which I feel like I reference constantly here at this point😅)

And based on a decade-odd of striving to understand it, and going out of my way to experience it: these are four of the more important points I think we as dancers are often missing when it comes to Tarab:

One - it's not all about emoting, or taking the words too literally

By this I mean, it's not all about the emotional content of the lyrics, or even the heartfelt emotional expression of the singer. Yes these things matter, but they're only one part of the whole. Purely instrumental, purely abstract music - taqasim especially - absolutely can and does create Tarab experiences... IF it has the right qualities. The layali, vocal improvisation without (much) lyrical content, likewise.

It is not just a case of emoting intensely along with the words of the song as expressed by the singer, but I think a lot of the time non-native dancers feel a lot of pressure to do this: we get the impression that maybe this is what ihsas - feeling - is; that this is what Tarab requires. And there's a risk that we fall into acting out the emotions, without the internal feeling - or feeling the story of the lyrics but not the experience of the music itself - as we try to live up to the pressure.

Two - it's not the song itself (it is in the how not the what)

There's a lot of understandable confusion here, because in the bellydance festival/workshop scene Tarab is often used as a shorthand for a certain category of songs - specifically, classic orchestral "long songs" of the mid-20th century, as exemplified by artists like Oum Kalthoum and Abdelhalim Hafez.

And yes those songs, in their original forms, certainly were created and played so as to create Tarab in their audiences.

But the capacity to create Tarab doesn't live in the composition itself, nor in the lyrics of the song, nor in the genre. It is all in how the music is played, the improvisational skill and artistry and emotional depth of every single musician involved, in that specific performance.

Musicians can play in a way that inspires Tarab in the classic repertoire of songs that usually get described today as "tarab music"... but also in many other genres, across time periods, regions, and social classes.

Which is to say, it is entirely possible to perform a so-called "Tarab" song in a way that carries little to no possibility of enchantment or ecstasy (even if it sounds pleasant). And it's also entirely possible for baladi music, rural sha'abi folk music, urban sha'abi popular music - genres that are hardly ever talked about in this context - to be played with the kind of skill, artistic feeling, and collective flow state that to a listener in the right headspace, feels like flying.

Three - mood matters, and vibes matter (we're not machines)

I said "in the right headspace" in the last section, because this does matter. It is vital, for artists and audiences alike - we're all complicated, inconsistent human beings (that is the nature of being a living creature). Our feelings and internal experiences don't run on a convenient schedule, and we definitely can't pre-choreograph them, however much we might like to.

Tarab is, in its way, an altered state of consciousness (though a mild one, in the grand scheme of things), and therefore requires a level of vulnerability. To go there, we need to feel safe to let our guard down, both physically and emotionally. Like we're among music-loving comrades on the same path, sharing the same experience - not surrounded by people who will be watching and judging our vulnerable receptiveness to being moved. And, we need the time and space to let the experience unfold.

Tarab happens when music does something to our nervous systems. And it can only do that if we let it in. Which means deep and attentive listening - actively inviting the music into our ears, and from there inviting it into our nerves, our consiousnesses, our souls. If we're distracted (from the music), unfocused, or stressed out, it's not going to have a good chance of ever hitting the parts of your psyche that it needs to reach to do its thing.

So even the most incredible music may not create a Tarab experience if you aren't able to focus, or are feeling tense and on edge. And on the other side, music that's not so inherently powerful can sometimes punch far above its weight, for someone who happens to be in the right mood, feeling the right vibes.

Four - it's not all-or-nothing

I think there's a tendency to see the experience of Tarab as quite black and white - either you're feeling it or you're not. Either you're in touch with the music or you're not.

But like most feelings, there are definitley different degrees and intensities. And they are all real.

You might find yourself involuntarily melting a little inside and breaking into a smile as you get to the taqsim section in your favourite dance piece... or you might, at the end of a musical performance, feel as if it has simultaneously lasted forever and for no time at all and you've been in some enchanted other realm.

And for us in dance practice and performance (where realistically, we often do have to navigate stress and distractions - and to dance to music that's not alwaysTarab-oriented, especially if we're performing in commercial settings), the little flickers - like a musical equivalent of noticing a beautiful flower or a sudden magical reflection of sunlight on water as you're out walking, and just letting it fill you with joy for a moment - are especially worth noticing, and holding on to. We could, perhaps, see this as another aspect of inviting the music in: to recognise and acknowledge the moments when it does move us, even the tiny sparks, and to treasure them.

What we look for, we start seeing more of.

What we focus on experiencing, we train ourselves to experience.

When we experience something real from the music, our dance begins to glow with it from the inside.

Final thoughts...

This week's letter is not actually on the topic I meant it to be when I started it - but apparently it is the one I needed to write. I don't claim to be an expert on this by any means, but an appreciative listener, and an ardent admirer of this musical culture that dance has brought me into contact with.

I would like to perhaps elaborate on some of these points in future - and if there's one in particular you'd like to hear more on, please let me know!

With Love,

PS - I am working this week to get the final details in place for Raqs Roots Intensive: Ihsas el Musiqa - a unique weekend of musical and cultural immersion with Nisaa / Heather D Ward and Reda Henkesh. The dates this year are Friday 20th to Sunday 22nd of November, in Manchester UK. And if you enjoy the kinds of things I write about here in Raqs Nerd, then I am pretty sure you are going to love it :D

PPS - every part of this newsletter is written by me, a flesh and blood human being, using my own thoughts, feelings, opinions, and writing style - now and always. This is a generative AI free zone 🚫🤖