Help! Hakim is killing me…

10501637_676386399096627_813967257675931370_nThe better the music, the better the dance has to be. If not, the void between the first and the second is way too violent, too big, too visible.

Here I am, sweating and crying and despairing and trying and trying and trying and stubbornly trying once more and believing I can break this tough cookie: a new shaabi choreography made with a song of Hakim. I´ve done it before – a choreography of this song – but I was never satisfied with it. Never. NOW it´s the time to make it right – I promised myself. And, when I make a promise (to myself or other person), I cannot fail my word. It´s a question of life and death for me. Honour. Character. Hysterical way of being.

Then comes knowledge and experience, to make things worse and so much more interesting. I can grab this song on a superficial level – this is how I´ve seen it performed/taught until now. But superficial is not my cup of tea. Nothing against it. I like to swimm on the surface, when I go to the beach; I like to superficially kiss a flower. There are many examples of my tolerance for superficiality but music, dance and art are not part of it.

The more I listen to this song, the more I discover: elements from Sufi, Mawaleed, Zaar, popular and classical music. Oh, boy. I´m screwed. 

Some songs play hard to get. They don´t let you in their world right away. It´s like they want to you to earn it and not in any way but the hard way. They make you work for it, beg, go crazy, die and be born again. And then, only then, they eventually open their door to you.

P.S: If, meanwhile, I really die, you know who´s fault is it. Thanks, Hakim!


Hakim, the King of Shaabi.

P.S2: I´ve only noticed it recently and it doesn´t affect my present turbulant time (I guess): Hakim looks exactly like my uncle, my father´s brother. Twins? My grandfather, from my father´s side, had always been a terrible womanizer. Who knows if he hanged around Alexandria?10155200_779761935477795_3595256372097659372_n

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