One
Mapping Ottoman Music-Making
Necdet YaĆar (b. 1930), Turkish classical musician and renowned master of the tanbur (long-necked lute), came to the United States from Istanbul in the early 1970s to teach in the ethnomusicology program at the University of Washington in Seattle. There he met the late Reverend Samuel Benaroya, who was born and raised in Ottoman Edirne in the early twentieth century, emigrated to Seattle through Switzerland in 1952, and was serving as hazan (prayer leader, or cantor) at one of the two Sephardic synagogues in the city. Thirty-four years after their first meeting in Seattle, Necdet YaĆar sits at his print shop in the central neighborhood of Unkapanı in Istanbul, and remembers first meeting Benaroya:
He came to the university and introduced himself. . . . Later I saw him beat a long usul [rhythm pattern]. He beat devir kebir. I was surprised. He beat long usuls on his knees, Ottoman-style, meĆk usuls,1 and he recited a piece for me. He really surprised me. He beat usuls incredibly well. . . .
He knew [the old makams, or musical modes]. For example, when I gave my class at the University of Washington, he came to watch. . . . I was teaching Rast makam to the students; rather, makams from that family. I was explaining makams that were like Rast. Iâd say this is Rehavi, the difference is so and so, this is Sazkar, this is Suzidil Ara. He knew the Rast family, that is, the whole family of makams. He was a good musician, an excellent musician. . . .
[He said] while in TekirdaÄ [sic] he learned classical Turkish musicâlong usuls, makamsâbut I have no idea whom he learned from. Maybe a teacher lived in Istanbul. Maybe he learned in Istanbul and went back to TekirdaÄ [sic] from there, I donât know.2
Necdet YaĆar goes on to describe how âOttoman culture has a language. It has a particular old languageâ that Benaroya also knew. âThere are a lot of fine musicians, a lot of talented instrumentalists. But they use only the new language, they use todayâs language.â Using the linguistic analogy of the Turkish word âto go,â he explains that in the past, speakers drew from a colorful palate of vocabulary with shades of meaning, such as to go hurriedly, to go and reach a destination, to go by car, train or ferry, to set off early:
To describe something there are five, six, seven, maybe eight different words, ten words. This is the richness of a language, but a person could describe their emotions with one word. They could describe them, but the richness would be lost. . . .
Music is the same. . . . In the musical and makam system, as well as in improvisation, there is such a thing. There is the same richness. . . .
[Benaroya and I] spoke the same language. He loved me and I also loved him. I respected him highly, and he also highly respected me.3
According to Necdet YaĆar, he and Benaroya shared an Ottoman musical language, even though Necdet was twenty-two years his junior, was separated for years by geographical distance, and had grown up musically among the Turkish Muslim majority of Istanbul rather than within a provincial minority. Strikingly, based on the memories of Benaroyaâs daughter, Benaroya recalled Necdet with high esteem throughout the years since their first meeting, conveying an intimacy unfamiliar to her in his other relationships.4 It may not be surprising that two musicians growing up in the same home country (Turkey) and meeting abroad (Seattle) would be drawn to each other. We can also effectively bridge their musical age gap by placing both musicians within the same late Ottoman musical aesthetics: a student of Mesâud Cemil in the 1950s, Necdet nonetheless considers the father, tanbur player and composer Tanburi Cemil Bey (1871â1916), his âspiritual teacher,â as he assiduously listened to, and strove to understand, his innovative style in his youth from recordings of the early twentieth century.5 Tanburi Cemil Bey was also among the most popular instrumentalists performing and recording at the time of Benaroyaâs youth in Edirne.
Even if trained, figuratively speaking, in the same musical period, Necdet YaĆar, Samuel Benaroya, and their relationship raise questions that bear closer examination: how did two musicians, separated by community, mother tongue, and city of origin, share the same musical language? Whereas Necdet gave public concerts of classical Turkish music, locally and internationally, on the tanbur, Benaroya sang only in Hebrew for Jewish religious services in synagogues in Edirne, Geneva, and Seattle. As Necdet YaĆar himself asks, how exactly did a young Jewish man like Benaroya, growing up in a provincial city at a distance from the imperial center of the arts and performing exclusively in the synagogue, learn a broader Ottoman musical theory, complete with specialized terminology, at the advanced and comprehensive level that Necdet observed? Indeed, Necdet YaĆar, recognized in Turkey today as a living master of historical Ottoman makams, musical aesthetics, and the tanbur, is unquestionably a highly credentialed judge of Benaroyaâs high-level musical skills.
Tanburi Cemil Bey on the cover of the musical score of his composition âĆedd-i Araban PeĆrevi.â According to the text, the composition was taken from and corrected by his son Mesâud Cemil and was published after his death by Chamlı Iskender (Tr, Ćamlı Ä°skender, a music publisher in Istanbul circa 1910â1950). Reproduced by permission from the collection of Mehmet GĂŒntekin.
It is common knowledge among ethnomusicologists today that, based on the musicological evidence, Ottoman court music forms interpenetrated the religious services of non-Muslim Ottoman houses of worshipâJewish synagogues, and Armenian and Greek Orthodox churches. Moreover, a measure of published archival evidence testifies to interreligious contact and palace employment, suggesting pathways of cross-cultural flows. A number of sources, centuries apart, related to Ottoman Hebrew religious singing, confirm reciprocal meetings between Jewish and Mevlevi (âwhirling dervishâ) musicians.6 Recordings and publications about Jewish, Greek, and Armenian musicians reveal musical lives lived as musicians and composers at the court as well as cantors and religious leaders in their own synagogues or churches.7 One term for such individuals is haham-bestekar (haham-composer), alluding to the Jewish and wider realms that such composers sometimes worked within.8
Drawing on the rich Ottoman-Jewish musical scholarship of the past, we can enrich our understanding of Necdet YaĆar and Samuel Benaroyaâs shared musicality by investigating Ottoman music-making through the prism of the historical urban landscape of the music and its practitioners. Among Istanbulâs streets and structures are the precise places, people, and activities involved in artistic cross-fertilization in the late Ottoman period. In the city, well-documented but isolated evidence of musical encounters enlarges into patterns of urban circulations, making visible and detailing our commonplace but under-articulated knowledge of multiethnicity in Ottoman music. Moreover, by tracing both structural and demographic changes in the urban landscape of Istanbul, we can track the migrations of music and its makers generally, and specifically among Ottoman and Turkish Jewry, to elucidate both the ruptures and continuities, however altered, in multiethnic music-making in a postimperial, nation-building era. Through bringing together discipline-specific source materialâthe ethnomusicological with urban and migration studiesâwe can âurbanizeâ the music-making under consideration and âmusicalizeâ the urban landscape across a period of intense social change.
Questions arising from the particular musical friendship of YaĆar and Benaroya in the late twentieth century motivate this investigation into the details of Ottoman musical history in order to conceptualize the social ethos, economy, and urban configurationâand reconfigurationâof their world. How were artistic and social relationships cultivated between local Jews and musicians of other ethno-linguistic communities in the late empire? By extension, how did the well-documented musicological linkages between the respective repertoires develop within these diverse communities? What stories does the changing urban landscape of Istanbul have to tell us about distinctive residential soundscapes, patterns of music-making, Jewish practitioners and their migrations within and out of the city across the twentieth and twenty-first centuries?
Focusing on music as a social, collective process, rather than a series of artistic products, we will follow a selection of understudied Jews working as composers, commercial performers, religious leaders, and hazanim as they circulated in a variety of inclusive urban spaces, some composing or performing exclusively for their own communities, others participating in both Ottoman synagogue and court music, including its popularized forms. The life stories of such late Ottoman Jewish musiciansâsome of whom were religious leadersâwho composed court music forms, be they instrumentals, or Hebrew and Ottoman-Turkish song, provide valuable evidence from daily life in Ottoman cities to delineate how court music circulated among Jews and their synagogues, and the ways in which Jews circulated among the music of the court. By analyzing Jewish biographical data in terms of how musicians moved within urban space, individual life details cohere into a fuller understanding of interactive urban music-making based in common patterns of musical activity, such as patronage, professional specialization, and apprenticeship. As we encounter distinctive examples of performing, composing, and teaching, we will contextualize particular activities in wider Ottoman music practices, to specify the contemporaneous nature of Jewish musical involvement. A focus on patterns of transmission will illuminate the pathways of the musical interactivity around such repertoires as the Maftirim. As a whole, the individuality of the biographies takes us beneath the surface of a seemingly amorphous imperial cosmopolitanism as the apparent source of cultural confluences, expanding on evidence from previous periods toward an understanding of the late Ottoman era. Our musiciansâ shifting patterns of residency, moreover, together with the changing musical cityscape of Istanbul will lay the foundation for investigating the upheavals and survivals in their musical culture across the Turkish Republic.
A vibrant Ottoman studies scholarship is enriching our understanding of the empireâs social complexities in different locales at different historical junctures. Several studies spanning the empire, from the eighteenth to the twentieth centuries, challenge past assumptions of ethnic divisions of labor and residence, suggesting groupings that include and cut across ethno-religious communities, such as networks of migrants, shopkeepers, workers, and cafĂ©-goers.9 From the outset the Ottoman court employed teachers, performers, composers, and theoreticians from a wide swath of the population, cultivating musical forms held in common and an Ottoman artistic identity at times separate from or opposing oneâs religious community.10 To the growing body of intercommunal research this chapter contributes a case study of late Ottoman musicians and their quotidian encounters, activities, and relationships within and beyond the palace.
This is not to say that the musical world or other social and economic relationships were without ethnic tension, conflict, or even violence in the course of the empireâs history. Those making music moved within multiple other worlds as well, and were thus affected by wider sociopolitical currents beyond their particular artistic milieu. As we shall see in Chapter Two, in times of social and political crisis, such as the violent shift from empire to nation, a musicianâs affiliation with the Jewish community became increasingly significant to his social experience and life choices. As we follow Jewish composers interacting in shared urban spaces among diverse personages, then, we will see that these same musicians lived amidst distinctively Jewish spaces as well, and their lives, in the end, were shaped by their status as Jews as much as by their multireligious artistic relationships. It required specific musical, personal, and political advantages, as the following pages will show, to succeed as a Jewish musician in the Turkish Republic.
Musicians Circulating in the City
The life stories of four late Ottoman Jewish musiciansâHayim MoĆe Becerano, Samuel Benaroya, Nesim Sevilya, and Mısırlı Ä°brahim Efendiâprovide clues about the musical activity and urban ambulations that constituted interreligious music-making in the late Ottoman period. Two of these musicians composed or performed solely for liturgical settings (Becerano and Benaroya), whereas the other two composed a largely nonreligious repertoire (Sevilya and Mısırlı Ä°brahim Efendi). Three of them were religious functionaries at various levels (Becerano, Benaroya, and Sevilya), and one (Mısırlı Ä°brahim Efendi) worked only in the âsecularâ music marketplace (piyasa) outside the synagogue.11 All four musicians, nonetheless, moved among urban spaces, both far-reaching and more closely communal, that facilitated musical flows between their religious communities and the Ottoman public sphere as a whole. On the one hand, individuals performing both musical and religious roles, such as Hah...