Riff Cohen: ‘Many Israeli artists become reluctant ambassadors’

In mid-2011, YouTube exploded with the video of a petite, dark-haired girl dancing around the colourful streets and markets of Paris, along with a belly dancer and foreign looking youngsters, singing in French to an upbeat rhythm mixed with oriental tunes. It turned Riff Cohen into a sensation. Born in Tel Aviv to a French-Algerian mother and an Israeli father with a Tunisian background, the 27-year-old has been working towards her first official video since childhood.

The Cohen parental home is in Ramat Aviv Gimmel, a wealthy neighborhood in the north of Tel Aviv. The well-groomed tastefully furnished living room, opening into a back yard with an equally well-groomed cat strolling around, is a far cry from the rugged, alternative image of Riff Cohen herself, who answers the door in torn-up skinny jeans and an oversized sweater. ‘I really enjoy saying that I grew up here, because there’s such a specific stigma on this place, which I really don’t feel like I’m a product of,’ she relishes in breaking stereotypes. ‘It would have been proper for me to say that I’m from north Tel Aviv, but why should I? It’s good, it’s starting to change the stigma of things.’

I speak to Cohen a couple of days after she has signed an artist contact with AZ records, the French branch of universal records. Musically, she says she doesn’t approach French audiences differently from Israeli ones. ‘My approach was very universal from the start. But the understanding of certain concepts is totally different. If I say that I’m religious in Israel, they’ll think that I’m right-wing.’ One internet forum really did say that in those very words; ‘Really,’ she laughs. ‘That’s really funny. Just what I meant. On other hand, the fact that I didn’t serve in the army is considered to be very leftist or pacifist. It’s amazing how people look for something to hang onto, even the smallest thing, to jump to conclusions. Just let me be a musician, let go of the other concepts.’

Cohen is Riff’s mother’s maiden name, although the singer was married by the time the video for A-Paris was ready. ‘I sort of ‘got stuck’ with my name, because I started getting famous before I got married. I thought that changing my name would be weird,’ she says. ‘Perhaps I should have done it. Everybody is pissed at Israelis now. Politics seeps into every level, even down to boycotts at the bazar, which sadly is not just about politics. I regret the fact that a few years ago it would have not mattered that I’m Israeli and that my name is Cohen. I’m sure many Israeli artists become reluctant ambassadors. On the other hand, the fact that we’re Israeli creates a great deal of interest.’

Riff’s album deals extensively with questions of identity. It’s a theme which Cohen, who was born with two mother tongues and carries a soft French accent to her Hebrew from the very start, is preoccupied with. ‘If I have to introduce myself, I just say where my parents and grandparents are from, and that I’m just a first-generation in Israel,’ she says. ‘It’s hard for people to make this connection of an Israeli whose grandmother speaks Arabic and dresses in traditional Tunisian clothes; to them, you’re either an Israeli or an Arab.’

For many Israelis, it remains the most challenging concept of all. The melting pot policy, which was implemented on immigrants for decades, did its best to erase the attributes of their origin cultures right down to their names. Binary identity concepts left hardly any room for exploration. ‘Zionistic Israel erased all the roots and tried to create a new culture, but we’re still in a void of sorts, emulating western culture,’ says Cohen. ‘I also wear jeans and T-shirts; it annoys me, because they don’t necessarily reflect who I am. My grandmother wore cape-like dresses and heavy golden jewellery, as did her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. It’s only because I’m in Israel that I'm wearing jeans and T-shirts that I'm wondering whether I should go to the Mikveh or not.’

Cohen channels this introspective idea into her work. The photo on the cover of the album released in Israel, a black and white of a young girl with braids, is her paternal grandmother Fortuna, who came to Israel from the Tunisian island of Djerba. It was the first photo ever taken of her, for her passport. Cohen tells, with great pride, of a woman of extraordinary talents and character, capable of holding several conversations at the same time, who cannot read nor write. ‘When they lived in Jaffa they used to buy a sheep, raise it for a while and then take it to the butcher when Passover, or some other big event or holiday, came along. I remember seeing the sheepskins hanging out to dry. She used to cover me with a sheepskin blanket, and it had a very strong, unpleasant smell,’ she reminisces. ‘There’s something much more respectful about that, rather than some businessman who has schnitzel for lunch every day without giving it a moment’s thought. My father was ashamed of it all, because it’s something supposedly primitive. But here I am, third generation - and I think that it’s something to showcase and be proud of. We shouldn’t hide it. It’s part of Israel’s cultural landscape. Everyone has their own culture, and we should showcase it and connect to it - without denial, without drawing a blank eye, without erasing our roots and trying to just be western. Part of our job as artists living in Israel’s sixties, is to search for Israeli culture and to create it.’

Café Babel, 21.12.2012

What’s in an Israeli name?

If you have any Israeli friends on your facebook lists, there’s a good chance you’re slightly confused in recent months as to who exactly they are, as their last names have morphed into new, confusing, and sometimes rather long ones. The inspiration was a Hebrew-speaking ‘event’, initially planned for a week, which has since been extended until May 2013.

The organizers of the Facebook event ‘Melting down the melting pot: Recovering the lost names!’ has a pretty mission: ‘Change your redone Hebrew family name on Facebook to the previous last names of your father’s and mother’s family: whether it was a clerk at the jewish agency or a school teacher who changed your name; whether it was changed out of shame or fear of racism; whether it was due to a family feud, voluntarily, following kabbalah studies; whether it’s your pen name – for a week [now extended] we retrieve the lost name and tell its story.’

Over 1,000 people have joined the initiative, which resonates with descendants of holocaust survivors, Arabic jews and second-generation immigrants alike. The requirement for ‘Hebrew’ names, which many encountered upon arrival, is a subject especially painful for immigrants from Arabic and eastern European countries, whose name were - and, in the case of Russian-speakers, still are - often forcibly changed upon arrival. One fellow, Amos Bar, became ‘Amos Shlomo Bilibil-Stock’ on Facebook. ‘Bilbil is the Turkish name of the Bulbul bird, which is also why my grandfather didn’t hebraicize his name,’ he says; bulbul is Hebrew slang for male genitalia. ‘The second part of the invented surname, Stock, means stick. Grandpa actually hebraicized that, to Sharvit, and then everyone thought he was of oriental descent. Bar is a name my parents made up after my mother refused to be Mrs. Bilbil. I hereby use this stage to kick its behind. Shlomo is my second name, after my grandfather’s father, who died six months before I was born. And he was actually named Zeide.’

Café Babel, 14.11.2012

Concert review: Mashrou’ Leila rock stage in Amman with pro-gay songs

If you believe in reincarnations, you would swear that Freddie Mercury now resides in the body of Hamed Sinno, the charismatic and openly gay lead singer of the Lebanese indie band Mashrou' Leila. The name of the seven-piece from Beirut translates literally from the Arabic to ‘An Overnight Project’.

It is a chilly evening at the Roman Amphitheatre in Amman. Hamed Sinno reigns the stage, as if it was his very own private studio, fueled by passion. He creates an intimacy with every single person in the audience, with his magnificent voice rising up and beating down scales with effortless charm. Everything about him builds up the kind of showmanship that has almost passed from this world.

Sinno is an openly gay man, and Mashrou’ Leila’s lyrics cover just about every taboo imaginable: homosexual love, life in the closet, premarital sex, interfaith relationships and political and religious protest - and they don’t shy away from dirty language either. In a deeply religious, macho, homophobic society, where the very existence of gays is denied, the band gives Arab LGBT youth a much longed-for voice. No wonder that their short career, spanning only two albums so far, has already turned them into global stars, with concerts in Sinno is an openly gay man, and Mashrou’ Leila’s lyrics cover just about every taboo imaginable: homosexual love, life in the closet, premarital sex, interfaith relationships and political and religious protest - and they don’t shy away from dirty language either. In a deeply religious, macho, homophobic society, where the very existence of gays is denied, the band gives Arab LGBT youth a much longed-for voice. No wonder that their short career, spanning only two albums so far, has already turned them into global stars, with concerts in Arab and European countries alike.

However, Sinno’s stage presence is only a small part of what makes Mashrou’ Leila the phenomenon that it is. The band formed after meeting at the American university of Beirut in 2008. Combining electric guitars and keyboards with traditional violin sounds, their sound is neither distinctly oriental nor distinctly modern, and may call upon comparison to the Balkan rock, which took over Europe a few years ago. Nor are they a wedding band in stiff suits, or shallow pop icons – two of the images which are so prevalent in Arabic music nowadays.

The 3,000 people at the Roman amphitheater are a rare view to be seen in the Jordanian capital. The public sphere in Jordan is a male dominated one. Walking in Amman’s city center, you would be lucky to encounter a woman for every hundred men that cross your path. The women you do see are inevitably covered up from head to toe. Jordan’s modesty rules require that every woman going outside must be dressed accordingly: trousers and skirts must be long; tops must cover shoulders, chest and elbows; no item may be skintight. The female body is to be kept from sight – and this goes for female tourists as much as for residents.

Behind the theatre’s massive stone walls, however, it is another world altogether, and occasional hijabs mix in with the mass of revealing tops and tight jeans. Mashrou’ Leila’s crowd is as modern and rebellious as the band itself, singing the lyrics loudly when prompted. Shim el-Yasmin (‘Smell the jasmine’), a heartfelt ballad about the breakup of a gay couple as one of them chooses a closeted life with a wife and children, turns into a slow-dance for queer couples.

It is now the second year in a row that Chady Baddarni, a 23-year-old Palestinian from Tel Aviv, has orchestrated an organized trip to Amman to see his beloved band play live. What started out as just a desire to see Mashrou’ Leila perform live along with a couple of friends, turned into dozens of Palestinian and Israeli youth filling buses to spend a weekend in the Jordanian capital. This year an Israeli-Palestinian after-party was planned in one of Amman’s few nightclubs, Seventh Heaven. However, as is often the case with Middle Eastern politics, music is never just music.

 A week prior to the trip, the Jordanian popular boycott movement posted a letter on Facebook addressed to the event organizers of the after-party and to Baddarni personally, going from political opposition to racism and downright threats towards participants: ‘We cannot stress enough our firm opposition to any form of political or cultural normalisation activity with the so-called ‘State of Israel’ therefore facilitating the visit of any Zionist performer or attendee(s) to any cultural event hosted here in Jordan is entirely unacceptable,’ they wrote. ‘Despite your confirmation and that of your associate here in Amman, the event you’re organising will not host any Zionists (to be clear we take this stand against all Israeli nationality holders that are non-Arab). We are very vigilant to all cultural events in Amman, and will have our ears to the ground during Mashrou’ Leila, so we urge you to keep your word and promise to keep our event and country Zionist-free.’

‘In two words: racist thugs,’ responds Baddarni, a Palestinian activist himself. ‘This blatantly contradicts the guidelines by the BDS (Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions) movement and deals a near death-blow to the huge efforts they invested to distinguish between ‘institutional’ and ‘individual’ boycotts. Our goal isn’t only overcoming Zionism but also building a future after it.’ Thus, one week later, I am standing in the desert air of the Roman amphitheater, surrounded by the 111 other youths who came along with Baddarni, 29 of whom are Jewish like myself. It has been a long day walking around the city, and I have spent most of it fully wrapped up under the blazing desert sun. I roll up my short sleeves and surrender to Sinno’s magnificent voice.

  

Café Babel, 02.10.2012

Self-identification, multiculturalism and erasmus in the EU

My national identity has always been ‘the other one’. I moved to Israel aged six and my childhood was filled with perpetual torture inflicted on me by my peers, relentlessly pointing out the fact that I did not belong there: ‘Go back to Russia!’ ‘I’m Ukrainian!’ I would answer, knowing that it made no difference to people who couldn’t even find it on a map. Coming from a city in East Ukraine and speaking no Ukrainian, I embraced my ‘Russian’ identity, befriended young Russian-speaking people my age. It made no difference whether they had emigrated from Belarus, Moldova, Georgia, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan. The structure of the Soviet Union was the country of our parents. To those of us born before 1991, it was our homeland. The results of this method of self-identification hit me in the face when I encountered youths from current, post-Orange Revolution Ukraine on a scholarship to an international summer university in Germany. Not even speaking the language which has now become an inseparable part of Ukrainian independence, I no longer belonged in a country I named as my homeland for 25 years.

Migration is a norm of the 21st century. With the forced socialisation upon which Israel was built, annulling all characteristics of previous identity in favour of creating a new loyal citizen is experiencing a revival. It mostly affects immigrants from non-European, muslim countries. In 2005 writer Matti Bunzl claimed that Europe’s rising islamophobia was a ‘part of a wide-open debate on the future of the muslim presence in Europe’. Austria’s right-wing freedom party attacked Turkey’s accession to the EU as a threat to the fabric of Europe’s existence, claiming Turkey lacked the bases of European culture and values. ‘When the freedom party abandoned its traditional nationalism in the mid-nineties, it embraced a new exclusionary project. Instead of the ethnic community it cast itself as the protector of Europe,’ writes Bunzl.

In 2010 former German bank executive Thilo Sarrazin’s scandalous bestseller Germany does away with itself (Deutschland schafft sich ab) attacked Turkish immigration in Germany, although it has been followed up by a contra-book from writers of multicultural backgrounds, Manifesto of the Many. Germany and Britain’s leaders expressed their disbelief in multiculturalism. French president Nicolas Sarkozy was expelling Europeans in the form of Roma immigrants in a country where his arrival instilled the 2007 inauguration of the French ministry of immigration and national identity. Across the EU, Hungary’s elections culminated in a sweeping majority for the radical right wing. In an article published in the New York Review of Books Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk condemns these tendencies. He accredits them partially to Europe’s lack of experience in comparison to Americans, ‘when it comes to living with those whose religion, skin color or cultural identity are different from their own’. 

This gap is being filled in Europe though, with the international erasmus student network (ESN), which has turned student exchange into a widespread norm all over Europe. ESN currently tends to 150,000 students across 34 European countries. Since its second year of existence it has enjoyed an average annual growth rate of 12.3%. Founded four years after the Schengen agreement in 1985, ESN has become the easiest way for young Europeans to spend time abroad. German-Dutch history PhD student Tobias Temming studied in Amsterdam and Granada. ‘I could have chosen to finish my studies at 25 and then work,’ explains Tobias. ‘I don’t know what better investment you could do with your life than learning another language and living for a year in a foreign country.’ With nationalists turning to the ‘protection of Europe’ rather than the ‘protection of the homeland’, it is fair to say that the erasmus generation is the face of future Europe. ‘Precisely because the world is their oyster, they feel a stronger sense of attachment to Europe than they might have had had they not left Europe,’ explains Till van Rahden, Canada research chair in German and European studies at the university of Montreal. ‘Bracketing all the internal European differences, one doesn’t quite realise what’s specific and unique about Europe across national boundaries and as a political project, until one has lived outside of Europe.’ As for Tobias, the investment grew – the second erasmus turned into an internship at the German embassy in Lima, where he met his Peruvian wife. As he puts it, the mentality differences between them are not strictly ‘German’ and ‘Peruvian’ - rather ‘European’ and ‘Latin’.

Café Babel, 05.04.2011

Yuriy Gurzhy: ‘Achtung! The party is Russian-rock-free’

The stage is small at the Kaffee Burger club in the centre of Berlin. A band dressed in punky, predominantly red outfits, is playing a Balkan-sounding variation on the Jewish hora, a traditional circle dance. The crowded dancefloor is a formation of German, Russian, Jewish, Spanish concert-going circles. They embrace in exhilaration, dancing faster and faster, creating an ecstatic mixture of unadulterated joy.

Rotfront, the resident Berliner band who make Emir Kusturica’s No Smoking Orchestra look like a tired stereotype, was founded in 2003 by the Ukrainian-Jewish Yuriy Gurzhy and Hungarian Simon Wahorn. Describing the German-Russian-English-Hungarian mix of Kleyzmer, Balkan, punk, reggae, hip hop and electro they play is a challenging task indeed. No wonder they felt their sound required a whole new term, hence: Emigrantski Raggamuffin. ‘I hate the word ‘crossover’, it’s so overused,’ says Yuriy, whom I meet for dinner in Cologne a few hours before he is due to DJ for an international party. ‘We basically juggle with elements of musics of different nations, with different musical styles, with certain cultural layers. The most important thing is that it works. It’s like a cocktail: you can mix something no-one has ever mixed before, but if it doesn’t taste good no-one will drink it. Perhaps the initial reaction would be ‘Wow, that’s interesting’, but it won’t last. Really, it’s all just pop music.’

On top of playing guitar for Rotfront, Yuriy is the second half of the famous Russendisko events (which he co-created with Russian author Wladimir Kaminer), and a successful DJ in his own right. ‘Achtung! The party tonight is Russian-rock-free,’ he warns me jokingly, making it clear that the Russendisko (‘Russian disco’) line of Russian/Ukrainian-speaking underground/ criminal/pop folk remains the same even when it leaves its usual residence at Torstraße 60, Berlin.

Russendisko compilation UKRAINE do AMERIKA

The small traditional restaurant in the centre of Cologne is a little piece of German countryside across from a shopping mall, whose neon lights can be seen through the large glass windows. Wood panelling, large wooden tables and long benches are decorated with red and white chequered pillows and faded pictures in dark wooden frames. In the background Germany’s pride and joy, Lena, is singing the 2010 eurovision song contest-winning hit Satellite. Yuriy orders the meal of the day, pasta with mushrooms and cream sauce, and a cup of green tea. It’s not quite the vodka-garlic combination he celebrates in one of Rotfront’s biggest live hits. ‘Not drinking?’ I ask, ignoring my own choice of a coke light. Yuriy retorts with a popular Russian joke. ‘Little Vovochka comes to his parents and says ‘Mom, Dad, can you imagine? Lenochka doesn’t drink and doesn’t smoke!’ ‘Really, Lenochka?’, the parents ask the ten-year-old girl. ‘You don’t drink and don’t smoke? Why?’ ‘I GOT SICK OF IT!’’ he finishes off, imitating a deep hoarse voice and laughing.

Yuriy followed his parents from Kharkiv, Ukraine’s second largest city, to Berlin fifteen years ago. ‘They came up with the decision. I just came with them, like on a big adventure. Missing a chance to go to Germany would have been stupid. In my heart I decided that if I didn’t like it I’d come back – those were not after all, the sixties, when leaving meant burning all bridges.’ Evidently, he liked it enough to stay. Visiting Kharkiv on a regular basis, Yuriy has made Berlin his home, making an unexpected career in music. Aside from Rotfront, Russendisko and general DJ gigs, Yuriy is part of a long line of various musical projects. The most recent of those is Mama Diaspora, along with Serbian Igor Sakach (Ingvo), Ukrainian Ivan Moskalenko (DerBastler) and Moldavian Eugeniu Didic (former member of Zdob şi Zdub). The more electronically-inclined Mama Diaspora, established at a festival in Belarus in 2009, is just recent adding to a myriad of bands showcasing endless variations on the Balkan sound. It suffices to mention the New-York based Balkan Beat Box – born, of all places, in Israel - to give a shining example of the musical invasion of the new millennia – the Balkan invasion.

Nor is Berlin falling behind. The city which prides itself on being the world’s electro capital is now bringing a different style to the front. With the Balkantronika wandering party line, DJ Robert Soko’s regular BalkanBeats night at club Lido in Kreuzberg, and live concerts by various bands, it is safe to say that the genre is in Berlin to stay. During Music Week in September 2010, Berlin announced its goal is mixing different forms of music, so it is indeed a small wonder that for Rotfront playing at Kaffee Burger feel like home. By nine o’clock Yuriy and I are the only two customers left sitting in the tiny restaurant. On the way to the S-Bahn station he scouts the people around us. ‘You know Valenki are in style now?’ he says, referring to this winter’s popular trend of UGGs and their likes, which resemble the traditional Russian felt boots. ‘Hipsters in Valenki,’ he laughs.

Café Babel, 18.02.2011