Listen/read: Cheikha Rabia: a destiny tied to the continuous reinvention of rai, by Lafawndah

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I met Cheikha Rabia in her apartment, in the 19th arrondissement of Paris. She is in great shape, sharp and witty. We conduct our interview in French– we both know the limitations and the irony that comes with that, but we spend the next hour exchanging with curiosity and openness with the tools at our disposal.

Cheikha Rabia was born in Relizane, countryside of the port city of Oran, Algeria, also known as the capital of rai music. Her name means “Spring” in Arabic, the time of the year when everything gets renewed and revived. She is aptly named; her destiny was tied with the history of rai music itself, a music that continuously reinvents and expands itself.

"rai was about the adversity of urban life using the language of the street, using a very creative and rich blend of slang that appealed to the socially and economically disadvantaged. Much akin to Egyptian chaabi (a music historically and sonically intertwined with rai), rai is the sound of rebellion and change"

Rai is a popular music genre born in Algeria in the 20’s at the crossroads of nightlife and travelers passing through; some say rai emerged as a counterpoint to the refined, classical poetry of traditional Algerian music. Rai developed its own literary form that did not respect the structure of classical poetry. First sang by men, quickly followed by women, rai was about the adversity of urban life using the language of the street, using a very creative and rich blend of slang that appealed to the socially and economically disadvantaged. Much akin to Egyptian chaabi (a music historically and sonically intertwined with rai), rai is the sound of rebellion and change.

Cheikha Rabia started to sing as a child, coming back from school, gathering her girlfriends in her house, some playing guellal (drums), some playing gaspa (flutes), to cover existing rai songs she knew by heart. Mostly, these were sang by men such as Cheikh Hamada but also Cheikha Rimitti, the grande dame of rai who opened the way to many women after her. Traditional rai was where her heart was at, even though the genre was rapidly changing in the 50’s. She says it seems like everyone from her village became a singer. It was her fate. She doesn’t explain it.

"Her name means “Spring” in Arabic, the time of the year when everything gets renewed and revived. She is aptly named; her destiny was tied with the history of rai music itself, a music that continuously reinvents and expands itself"

Around age 15, she decides to make a living as a singer. She leaves her village to move to Alger, 300 km away from home. Her family doesn’t know. She tells them she is a cleaning lady in a music school. One day, a record company executive follows her from Algiers to Relizane and ask her family the authorization of making a record with her. The news is out, not the way she would have liked it, but she can’t hide her life from her family anymore. They react well, of course they are scared for her as she is just a young girl but they are also proud. This first record was a success and it launched her career.

I asked her what rai music was to her, how she would describe it. She answered that it had a lot to do with staying inside, amongst women. Back in her village, she was inspired by the meddehates, groups of women musicians and dancers performing at rural wedding celebrations. Their songs are filled with lust, longing and bawdiness. Her lyrical inspiration first came from her grand aunt. She says she was sharing truth about the everyday life, what she was going through but also the life of the village, what people around her were going through, her observations, as people were passing by. She was passing them on to Cheikha Rabia orally. Rabia says her lyrics were unbelievable but true.

"It was socially difficult for a man to be with a woman who sings, their family and society would judge that. Because of this, Cheikha Rabia told me she was always very clear at the beginning of her love stories. She would always sing, no one could tell her otherwise, it was her destiny"

We talk about being a musician and partnership in her time. It was socially difficult for a man to be with a woman who sings, their family and society would judge that. Because of this, Cheikha Rabia told me she was always very clear at the beginning of her love stories. She would always sing, no one could tell her otherwise, it was her destiny. So she found husbands who felt as strong as she did, husbands who told their families off and everyone around them too. Yes, she sings, whether you like it or you don’t.

I ask her about her title, cheikha, which means the mistress, the one who leads and knows. She says it was given to her early on in her career by elder musicians, as a sort of baptism. It’s an honorific title.

"We don’t know much about the landscape of nightlife of our elder’s generations. Not much has been archived. Bejaia was a hub, it was small and modest, but she describes it as the place where all the most famous rai singers and musicians would play, whether living in France or visiting"

In the 80’s, she moves to Paris. Her audience back home was mainly women who stayed at home and organized private parties. In France, it becomes mainly men. She says the beginnings were hard because there was less money but that eventually the word of mouth happened and she got more and more gigs, in what she calls galas. I tell her that what me and my friends find difficult in music today is that we don’t have our own space, which is also home to our own music. Our nightlife is mostly nomadic, we take the caravan wherever it accepts us. I ask her if she remembers particular places in Paris, that became home to Algerians, home to rai music. She recalls a legendary bar called Bejaia, a town in Algeria and the name of the owner. I had never heard of it. We don’t know much about the landscape of nightlife of our elder’s generations. Not much has been archived. Bejaia was a hub, it was small and modest, but she describes it as the place where all the most famous rai singers and musicians would play, whether living in France or visiting. She describes it as a place that would gather a very mixed group of people, the French and the Algerians, journalists, tv people, party people. From what she describes, the nightlife web was so much more rich then than what we know now.

Throughout our interview, I noticed that a lot of answers to my questions were: I just happened like that, it was easy, it just came out, it was what it was.

These answers caused me to reflect on how we intellectualize our practices, partly because we are compelled to do so in western cultures. In music, art, and cultural production in general– the creative in 2022 is expected to speak in the same language as curators and art critics about their practice, with a good story, angle or concept. The creative in 2022 must always know what they are doing and why; instead of intuitive, collaborative or spontaneous uprisings of expression, we are stuck with an avant-garde managerial class.

"Cheikha Rabia was among the first in many spaces and contexts. But she doesn’t necessarily talk about herself this way. Her career required so much resilience and strength, but again she doesn’t see it that way"

It was very refreshing, then, to meet such a legendary artist, with a career spanning over 70+ more years, who renewed and adapted their music to historical, political, socio economic contexts without this kind of mediation. Between rapidly changing mores in Algeria and her arrival in France, as well as the rise and fall of rai music as pop music in France, there’s been so many chapters and so much evolution in her music, all without justifying any of it.

Cheikha Rabia was among the first in many spaces and contexts. But she doesn’t necessarily talk about herself this way. Her career required so much resilience and strength, but again she doesn’t see it that way. What emerges instead, and what resonates with me so loud, is the place from which we do things. When that place is attached to us as a person, things can be difficult and also choices can be smaller because they are led by fear and ego. When there is a sense of having found our place in the world, first to be able to hear it and then follow it, it seems like there is an invisible thread to all that we do.

"On her records, she drops an octave down and becomes very androgynous and gritty. Rai music is unapologetic, it sounds like chaos. It’s not precious, this art of improvisation, of directness, there is an emergency to it, as if the singers are the emotional news anchors of their community"

Cheikha Rabia’s singing voice is strikingly different than her talking voice. On her records, she drops an octave down and becomes very androgynous and gritty. Rai music is unapologetic, it sounds like chaos. It’s not precious, this art of improvisation, of directness, there is an emergency to it, as if the singers are the emotional news anchors of their community. When I think of the music that was making me feel similar emotions growing up, most names would be western and men. Cheikha Rabia is before hip hop, before rock, before punk– yet her music hits at least as hard, and with ease. When I asked her what would be the one song she would like us to remember from her, she answered ana hak. She says it’s harder to write a song that pleases oneself than writing a song that pleases others. But that would be the one. She translates the meaning as: I am who I am. You like, you don’t like it, it’s the same to me. The song, from an eponymous album, came out in 1999. It sounds so relevant and electric and meaningful now. My kind of club music.