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Weh-weh, weh-weh, goes the azmari on his masenko.
The Amharic word azmari comes from the word azemere,
which means singing (for God). In fact the masenko
was used in the time of St. Yared, the famous
Ethiopian songwriter, for such purposes. But its
history undoubtedly goes back much further than St.
Yared of the Sixth Century.
Today the masenko is still used in public religious
celebrations in some parts of the country. But
azmaris may be encountered in a number of places
from outdoor parks, to weddings, to peoples’ homes,
to clubs, to concerts, to the traditional azmari bet
(azmari house). For an authentic experience, without
the distraction of other instruments, try the
latter.
One of the most famous azmari bets is Fendika in
Kazanchies, Addis Abeba, owned by famous dancer
Melaku Belay. Here, one can experience the azmari
and his merrymaking in the traditional style.
Traditional drinks such as tej (honey wine or mead)
will go around the room for those who enjoy such
things. Even if one does not consume any alcohol,
they may just find themselves loosened up enough by
the azmari’s relentless tune to get up and do a
little iskista, the traditional Ethiopian shoulder
shaking jig.
A big part of the azmari bet, iskista, according to
legend, is said to have originated when a girl
fetching water encountered a snake on the way back
home. She mimicked the rattlesnake’s shaking
movements and the snake, either charmed or
intimidated, left her. Even the name iskista sounds
like the tail of the rattlesnake when shaken.
Whoever does not dance (especially after being
summoned to) is sure to be teased about it by the
azmari, but teasing in general will happen no matter
what you do.
The lyrics of the azmari are those of blunt honesty,
and, like a freestyle rapper, are about the singer
themselves or about whomever they have positioned
themselves in front of. However, unlike freestyle
rappers, the azmari experience is never hostile, as
any teasing is all in good fun. In fact the
tradition is for every azmari to give thanks to God
for life, the opportunity, and the moment at the
start of his play.
The confrontation is always lighthearted, though
often very revealing. Things may be said about
people’s personal actions, feelings, and needs. The
time period of one’s life may be of note. Requests
may be made in tune, but they do not have to be
taken seriously. Either way, it is an unforgettable
and personal experience.
Fendika features some of the most talented azmaris,
whom the owner, Melaku, actually pays a modest
salary on top of the tips spectators stuff into
their clothes, in the traditional way, while they
play.
Knowing that they will at least get their salary,
Fendika’s azmaris do not merely try to flatter the
audience for tips, but sometimes sing about more
serious things, including news or politics, often
hidden using double meanings.
One may be surprised how much music can be milked
from a single stringed instrument. Yet one finds the
music to be anything but monotonous. More screechy
than a fiddle, it is just as lively as one.
Often, another man or woman will accompany the
musician with their voice, calling out the
aforementioned types of lyrics. They may pull the
listener to their feet, if they have not started
dancing already or if their friends and companions
have not beaten them to that bit of forceful
encouragement.
At Fendika, guests may be lucky enough to experience
the genius of Melaku’s dances. He worked his way up
from being a street kid who could dance, to dancing
for nine years at Fendika earning only tips, to
owning it as well as dancing and working with many
musicians from countries all around the world. Addis
Abeba University has filmed a documentary on him,
which it is currently editing for production, he
says.
If one is really rambunctious, they may try
freestyling a response to the verbal onslaught of
the azmari or the dancer. (But it might help to know
at least a little Amharic.) Any foreigners should be
aware that, as usual, being one attracts attention,
whether good or bad. But there is nothing to fear.
Melaku has researched the current trends of the
azmari in the countryside, and he is concerned.
Youngsters are not being encouraged by their older
family members to spend time practicing the masenko
because there is little income seen to be coming
from it anymore.
This is dangerous for what is a big and ancient part
of Ethiopian culture, because mastering the masenko
is traditionally a family affair, passed from one
generation to another.
Melaku plans to build a cultural centre and is
seeking support from organizations that support the
development of culture. He also created Ethiocolour
several months ago, a band that features masenkos
and other traditional Ethiopian instruments in a
fusion of Ethiopian and Western jazz. Their
performances can be enjoyed every other Friday
night, such as this Friday, at Fendika. But coming
much later than 9pm might mean sitting on the floor,
as this has already become one of Addis Abeba’s
favourite nights out.
Melaku notes that clubs playing only recorded music
often charge a 50 Br entrance fee, but Fendika
relies only on the tips and refreshments of its
satisfied customers. |
