http://www.jordantimes.com/wed/features/features1.htm
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Junoon, the Pakistanis and we
AMMAN — Driving to Jerash was beautiful, we drove along a thin shy street winding through fields of olive trees and dust, across terrains outstretching beyond our vision.
We arrived to Jerash as the mountains were set in front of a flaming sunset and the moon was rising — a pretty summer evening.
We were there to see Junoon; they were performing as part of the Jerash Festival. We went through the police check, and up the high steps and established ourselves on a stone row as central as possible on the amphitheatre facing the stage, anticipating the wild event.
I was the expert that evening, for although I lack the musical gift and ear altogether, I happened to buy a CD by Junoon a couple of years ago in Beirut.
I did not know anything about Junoon but the CD looked attractive and I did enjoy Nusrat Fatah Ali Khan (this is parallel to buying a CD by Nancy Ajram for enjoying Um Kalthoum).
Upon my advice, my friends and I concluded our poolside weekend with this event.
Nine nice women from Amman prepared for a night of Junoon. There were three men in the row in front of us who wore T-shirts with two letters each from the word PAKISTAN (PA-KI-ST) so they had the (AN) missing which Hanan (a member of our clan) volunteered to wear; accordingly amidst cheers we were initiated into the Pakistani crowd.
From my bird’s view the stage looked spacious (maybe the band planned to move a lot) and the theatre half full.
Looking closely, the audience was all Pakistanis, except for us.
Junoon were introduced, they came upon the stage, there was cheering and then they started to play rock. Initially, seated, we moved our heads and hands to the beat, very shortly after a couple of us got up to dance, then we were all jumping, swinging, clapping, cheering, whistling and the sort all that one is expected to do in a rock concert.
At some point I took a look around me to spookily find a still, stern and serious audience, these Pakistanis are like us Jordanians, rather reserved with their body movement, I thought to myself.
And then Alma, one of us, led a small revolution; she went down the stairs to the arena and started dancing, we followed and so did about 50 Pakistani men.
We were naturally met with some official opposition but they soon, realising we were undefeatable and harmless, let us enjoy the space.
That was quite exciting — being right at the feet of the world famous rock band. We were now happily sandwiched between the band and the silent audience; we were almost like a buffer zone, an intermediate transitional ground.
To the tunes of Junoon the men danced, we danced, and the audience kept its dignity and watched.
I sensed that the audience came to get a smell of Pakistan, for Junoon is a Pakistani band that is bound to bring a feel of their homeland to them in their estrangement but they possibly felt further estranged with these unfamiliar sounds.
This was a rock concert after all: One could see the gap between the band in their long hair, leather pants, electric guitars and eccentric vocalists, and the audience in their pink saris, golden bangles, children and beards.
Every now and then the gap was bridged by common tunes and traditional beats from the stage met by a yearning responsive audience.
More or less like ours, I conclude from the concert, Pakistan is a gender segregated society, the women watched as we were surrounded by their men and some of their kids dancing on the floor.
Like our men, these men compromise some of their acclaimed macho-ism to the music, which is always fascinating to watch.
A particular dancer attracted our attention and eventually inspired some of our moves. This young Pakistani man — a mix in style between an Indian actor (his Bollywood stare and oiled hair) and John Travolta in Grease (his tight pants and hops) — coiled to his individual appreciation of the music.
Junoon played on.
The vocalist, a hip bald figure behind dark sunglasses, entranced us with his powerful voice. The crowd listened when he whispered and roared when he called. The base, electric guitar and drums confirmed the rock character while the tabla provided the folkloric beats. The tabla was played by a musician most resembling the audience, his hands drummed the skin of the instrument as he swayed in his own trance.
Music is truly, as the clichب goes, an international language. It unfailingly creates bonds between people, the Jordanian and Pakistani flags were waving along the evening breeze, Hanan was wearing that T-shirt with an abstract bouncing AN at this point as she was separated from her team.
Our defenses were low; we felt pretty familiar with Urdu, as the language shares many words with Arabic like Junoon and Pakistan.
We were probably as familiarly estranged (or estranged familiarly) as the Pakistani crowd, they for not relating to rock and us for not understanding Urdu.
We cheered as the band bid us farewell, two Pakistani women in beautiful saris asked me where we were from, I suggested Jordan. I figure they were not sure; we may have passed for Pakistani after all. I woke up the next morning with my muscle aching from all the fun I had that night.
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