The qanun is a psaltery with a right-angled trapezoidal shape and twenty-six sets of triple strings. It has a range of three octaves and a fifth, from G, an octave and a fourth below middle C, to D, two octaves and a second above middle C. The bridge on the right-hand side sits on five rectangular pieces of fish skin. On the left-hand side, as was the case with the nineteenth-century qanun, there are no levers; in the modern qanun, there are six, nine, or eleven levers, depending on the country and the maker, and they give a variety of intervals (see pp. 3, 6–8 for details). The strings are plucked by water buffalo picks held onto the index fingers by metal rings. The instrument sits on the performer’s lap, or on a special table over the lap. The right hand plays an octave higher than the left, in parallel octaves, in tremolos, or in fast-repeated notes on the same string; the infinite number of ornaments are performed at the octave or in the same register.
In the nineteenth century and the early twentieth century, the qanun held a prominent place in the Arabic takht, a chamber ensemble which included the ʿūd (lute), nāy (reed flute), violin, and riqq (tambourine). The takht musicians performed classical instrumental pieces and dances; they also accompanied a singer and the chorus. The qanun often accompanied the vocal improvisations of the singers, its rich plucking sound, stable tuning, and wide range offering support and contrast to the vocal lines.1 The instrumentalists of the takht ensemble played the same melody, but each ornamented it differently according to each instrument’s idiosyncrasy, giving the takht a rich and aesthetic heterophonic sound. Alas, this heterophonic texture was regrettably lost in the twentieth century with the introduction of the firqa, a large orchestra imitating its western counterpart; the violins and cellos did away with the heterophony, but more importantly, they overwhelmed the delicate instruments of the takht which could be seen but not heard!
I was very lucky to have studied qanun at the Alexandria Conservatory of Arabic Music between 1967 and 1970, as I was taught there by the last generation of the old Egyptian masters.
My first teacher was Prof. Muḥammad al-Saʿdūnī, who was so encouraging and generous with his time. He was the student of Prof. Muṣṭafā Bey Riḍā (1882–1950). He told me a funny story: when he first saw Muṣṭafā Bey Riḍā’s qanun, it was in the old style, that is, without levers and with gut strings. Just by sliding his right index finger up and down the strings, he produced powerful ṭarab (an acute emotion of joy or grief that also produces extasy).2 He then proceeded to detune some strings, and when Muṣṭafā Bey Riḍā entered the room and saw the qanun out of tune he became very angry and kicked up a storm!
My second teacher was Prof. Mīlād Manṣūr, who had studied with three colossuses: ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd al-Qaḍḍābī (d. 1941), Ibrāhīm al-ʿIryān (1892–1953) and ʿAlī al-Rashīdī. I had an amusing encounter with him during my first qanun lesson. He was happy that I could read music, so he asked me to practice a short prelude and return for a lesson when I was good at it. Since I had studied piano before that, I played the prelude for him as it was written, mirroring Western music practice. He said to me: “What’s this? Did somebody die in your family?” I said: “No, God forbid!” He said: “You are playing it as if you were walking in a funeral. Where are the ornaments?” Needless to say, I was very embarrassed. He showed me how to play it, and every time he played it, he ornamented it differently, in line with the sophisticated and creative performance practice of the old Egyptian masters. I realized then that the notation gives only the skeleton of the melody, and it is up to the performer to ornament it, and hopefully do so in good taste.
Then I studied with Prof. Amīn Fahmī, the famed qanun player and theorist.
Finally, I studied with Prof. Muṣṭafā Kāmil, who was part of the ensemble of Muḥammad al-ʿAqqād (1849–1929) and who may have studied with him.
To undertake this treatise, I studied the performance styles of my above-mentioned teachers and the giants of the last two centuries by way of commercial and private recordings: Muḥammad al-ʿAqqād (Egypt); Muṣṭafā Bey Riḍā (Egypt); ʿAbd al-Ḥamīd al-Qaḍḍābī (Egypt); Ibrāhīm al-ʿIryān (Egypt); ʿAlī al-Rashīdī (Egypt); Kāmil ʿAbdallāh (Egypt); ʿAbd al-Fattāḥ Mansī (1924–1990, Egypt); Muḥammad ʿAbdu Ṣāliḥ (1916–1970, Egypt); Ḥasan ʿAshmāwī (Egypt); Ibrāhīm Dāwūd (Iraq); Ibrāhīm Salmān (1931–2014, Iraq); Ḥasan al-Gharbī (1925–1999, Tunisia); Selim Sarweh (1932–2011, Syria). The examples I use of their performances will be followed by their names, to give them due credit. There are also a multitude of examples which I use in my performances, but they are anonymous; for this reason, the examples will not be followed by a performer’s name.
A few words are needed here about Mr. Selim Sarweh. I obtained a number of his exquisite recordings and biographical information from his brother Remond, a friend and percussionist who lives here in Toronto. Selim studied with some of the most talented Egyptian qanun players: Muḥammad ʿAṭiyya, Ibrāhīm ʿAbd al-ʿĀl, ʿAbdu ʿAwaḍ, ʿAbd al-Fattāḥ Mansī, and Artin, the Armenian santur player. Selim was so famous that Muḥammad ʿAbdu Ṣāliḥ advised the great star Umm Kulthum (d. 1975) to invite him to her ensemble. He said to her: “O Lady [a title of respect], in Syria there is a fabulous player, Selim Sarweh, should I depart, please invite him to join your ensemble.” She complied and sent him a personal letter of invitation, a copy of which is on the next page. Unfortunately, for personal reasons, Selim could not leave Syria and settle in Egypt.
Translation of the Letter Sent by Umm Kulthum to Prof. Selim Sarweh
Dear Mr. Selim Tharwat [sic], Distinguished and Esteemed Musician,
Greetings.
I have entrusted a three-man commission made up of Profs. Ādam, Yaḥyā al-Naḥḥās and ʿAbd al-Ḥakīm to meet with you during their stay in Damascus to work on an agreement with you to join my musical ensemble, and to figure out the details of your coming and staying in Cairo.
Cairo, 13/3/1971
Umm Kulthum Ibrāhīm
This is followed by Selim’s notes:
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Prof. Muḥammad ʿAbdu Ṣāliḥ, the most distinguished qanun player in Egypt, and the leader of Umm Kulthum ensemble, died on June 30th, 1970.
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Lady Umm Kulthum, the star of the Middle East and the master of Arabic singing, died in Cairo on February 4th, 1975. May Allah Have Mercy Upon Her.
Figure 1
Letter sent by Umm Kulthum to Prof. Selim Sarweh
I have not concentrated much on the styles of Muḥammad al-ʿAqqād and Muḥammad ʿAbdu Ṣāliḥ because my colleague, the virtuoso qanun player Elie Achkar, is working on a book about their style that is based on his Ph.D.
For more information, please see the bibliography and these links:
The Advice and Sayings of My Teachers
Prof. Muṣṭafā Kāmil told me that the two picks attached to the index fingers should be made of water buffalo horns; they should be narrow, polished and thinned with sand paper, then soaked in oil overnight to give them more flexibility so that the plucking is delicate in the Egyptian style and allows for fast, gentle tremolos;3 the bottom of the pick should be set just above the second knuckle; its top should protrude 2 or 3 millimeters. He also told me that most ornaments should be done by the left hand.
Prof. Mīlād Manṣūr told me that the left hand should be as strong or even stronger than the right hand. In that respect, he told me an interesting story about his colleague ʿAbd al-Fattāḥ Mansī: the famous dancer Taheyya Carioca noticed the strength of his left hand and said to him, “O my dear ʿAbd al-Fattāḥ, your left hand is very strong!” Prof. Mīlād also told me not to look at the musical notation while playing the qanun because doing so robs the performance of half of its beauty. According to him, the qanun player must know the piece by heart so that he can look at the strings, the levers, the singer he is accompanying, the other members of the ensemble, and lastly, so that he can make eye contact with his audience. Doing so will allow him “to swim in the world of music” unencumbered by notation.
Prof. Muḥammad al-Saʿdūnī told me, as he was teaching me the Samāʿī Kürdeylī Ḥijāzkār of Ṭātyūs Efendi (1858–1913), that this music is sweet like fruit!
The Importance and Nature of Ornaments
As the popular saying goes in Egypt: “Every Sheikh has his own method.” The Syrian qanun virtuoso Prof. Selim Sarweh said that each player has his own style. Over a thousand years ago the eminent theorist al-Fārābī (d. 950) said in a similar fashion: “Ornaments are almost unlimited.”4 He also said: “Some ornaments are pleasant and thus bring brilliance, elegance, enrichment and beauty to the melody; some are unpleasant and thus ruin the melody.”5 This latter point is extremely important: the good qanun player is the one who performs beautiful ornaments with good taste, as opposed to the poor performer whose ornaments fall short of excellence. The importance of beautiful ornaments is the reason I undertook this treatise, hoping to guide young players to the beautiful and sophisticated ornaments of the bygone masters.
It will be evident to the reader that the ornaments used in the improvisations (taqsīms) are richer and more complex than those used in measured music. This is natural since the performer is freer to create his ornaments than when he performs and ornaments a pre-composed measured piece, which has a pre-set melody and pre-set durations. The reader will also notice that the most sophisticated and beautiful ornaments are those performed by the late master Muṣṭafā Bey Riḍā. In addition, the reader will also realize that ornaments vary according to – and are dependent on – the durations of the notes, the tempo, and the melodic movement (i.e., ascending or descending stepwise movements, skips or repeated notes; see, for instance, the difference between the ornaments used when descending stepwise and repeating each note [Ex. 177–181] as opposed to those descending stepwise and repeating the second note [Ex. 182–188]).
The reader may ask what is the aim of this treatise, since traditionally ornaments are learned by ear. The answer is that the aim is to expose students to artful ornaments that have regrettably been forgotten, in the same way that immense repertoires of musical compositions from the Umayyad, ʿAbbāsid, Fāṭimid and Andalusian era have been lost. In this respect it is important to note that without the notations of Prince Dimitri Cantemir (1673–1723), treasures of Ottoman instrumental music composed after 1600 would have been lost as well. Similarly, without the efforts of Ṣafar ʿAlī and ʿAbd al-Munʿim ʿArafa (in their lute book Dirāsat al-ʿŪd), gems of nineteenth- and twentieth-century dūlābs, samāʿīs and peshrevs would have been lost.
I have analyzed, transcribed and collected here 238 ornaments from the great masters of the past two centuries. I have added to them 85 transcriptions of beginnings of taqsīms, cadences of taqsīms, as well as measured taqsīms.
I am in no way pretending to have covered all possible ornaments, since their number is unlimited, as al-Fārābī had remarked. These are only a fraction of what is available; it is my hope that other qanun masters in the Arab world, like Dr. Ṣābir ʿAbd al-Sattār and Dr. Mājid Surūr and others, will add to my work in order to leave for future generations a body of ornaments to inspire their performances. It is also my hope that this book will inspire ʿūd (lute) and nāy (reed flute) players to research and write books on ornamentations for their instruments.
See Racy, Making Music 77, 111–112.
This was due to the fact that the qanun had gut strings, and the sound box was made according to older specifications, which give a powerful and warm sound. I was lucky to buy one of them on a trip to Cairo in 1974 from the late Maḥmūd Raʾfat (see photo on p. 5).
In contrast, the picks used in Turkish qanuns are made of tortoise shell; they are thick and stiff to allow for both plucking the strings up and down.
KMK 1022; MA II: 40; Sawa, Rhythmic theories 207.
KMK 111; MA I: 39–40; Sawa, Music performance 72.