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| Zein on the cover of Arabesque Magazine, early 1990's |
In 1999, during the
days leading up to The New Millennium, like many people, I began reflecting on
life: historical events I had witnessed, personal goals that I had achieved,
the things I still wanted to accomplish and all the people in my life, living and
dead.
But what seemed to
really dominate my thoughts were the many significant relationships I had with
family and friends. I was blessed with so much love, nurture and support. I
thought of the many special people who were there for me not matter what…
friends and relatives who shared their lives with me, gave me affection,
support and influenced my creative and artistic endeavors.
One of these special
individuals was my friend and belly dance mentor, the late Zein Abdul Al Malik.
Zein was a dancer of
prodigious talent. Well over six feet tall and lanky, he had piercing green
eyes and performed draped in billowing genie pants and luxurious folkloric
garb, wrapped in antique Egyptian Assuit, a traditional mesh fabric that has
small strips of silver hammered into it to form designs. Zein looked imposing and exotic when he
danced balancing a huge brass tray with a full tea set and candles upon his
regal head.
Zein began his career
in the San Francisco Bay Area in the mid Seventies, dancing with one of the
mothers of contemporary belly dance, Jamilla Salimpour. He went on to live in
Morocco and Saudi Arabia, where he resided in one of the royal palaces, thanks
to his Saudi prince lover. Zein lived
and breathed Oriental Dance, performing, teaching and doing research.
After we met in 1990,
he took me under his wing- me, a
beginning baby belly dancer with barely any skills- but somehow he saw my
potential and nurtured me. Zein would have me over to his apartment- a
wonderful, mysterious enclave of inlaid North African furniture, luxurious
plants and relics from the Middle East.
He’d make me fresh
mint tea in a silver Moroccan teapot and we’d spend hours together while he
showed me steps and technique, discussed belly dance traditions, and watched
vintage clips that he’d taped from the television in Saudi Arabia, featuring
1940’s and ‘50’s “Golden Age” Egyptian movies which starred famous dancers like
Naima Akef, Samia Gamal, and Tahiya Carioca.
Zein also helped me select costumes, heartily
encouraged my dancing, and got me my very first dance job at Hollywood’s Moun
Of Tunis Restaurant, where he worked.
More than two decades later, whenever I am in Los Angeles, I still
perform there.
Appropriate music for
Middle Eastern dance was hard to find in America back in those days, and Zein
made me many Arabic mix tapes- remember, there were no CD’s back then- with the
cassettes featuring everything from classic live Om Kalthoum performances to
the latest in Egyptian pop and Algerian Rai
music.
Every cassette Zein made me also had a special
cover that he thoughtfully put together by hand. Some featured Middle Eastern
clip art others photocopy of vintage Turkish cigarette boxes and pictures of
famous belly dancers like Nagwa Fouad and Soheir Zaki.
Tragically, Zein died
about five years after I met him. By that time, we were close friends and
because of his encouragement, we were also gigging together regularly. I was
absolutely devastated. I remember
speaking-or rather blubbering through a speech- at his memorial, my face wet
with flowing tears, but I don’t remember a thing I said.
I thought of him
often, so many things reminded me of him. At gigs when I felt pre-show jitters,
I would think of the way he used to calm my nerves through his twisted humor
right before we both went on. Wrapped in a turban and wearing a brocade galibiya, shimmying to warm up, with an
ever-present Marlboro in his mouth, Zein would sense my anxiety, catch my eye,
make an exaggerated coquettish gesture then and whisper in a feminine falsetto,
“How’s my hair?”
Somehow, our private
joke never got old, and always made me laugh. Whenever he did that, I had a
great show, entering the stage with a huge grin on my face. Even though Zein
has been departed for years, I always
think of him just before I go on.
So…fast forward to
New Year’s Eve 1999, at five minutes of midnight. Of course I was at a
belly dance gig, in a dressing room, wearing a brand new costume- my first costume for the New Millennium.
The dancer I was
working with that evening asked what music I was planning to perform to for my
first dance set of the century.
“I don’t know, “ I
said, pawing through my CD binder, “I’m so sick
of all my music!”
My gig bag was full
of the usual belly dance accouterments: stray finger cymbals, perfume, hair
accessories, mis-matched sequin armbands, loose aspirin tablets, safety pins.
Suddenly, something
fell into my hands, a small plastic case. Though my suitcase was always
chaotic, there was a method to my madness, and it was always re-packed before
every show. The little plastic box was decidedly an unfamiliar object that I
didn’t remember packing. Recognizing what it was in the dim dressing room
lighting by the feel of it alone, I wondered how it got there.
“Hey, no way, there’s
a cassette in my dance bag!” I cried,
kind of amazed.
“You still use
cassettes?” the other dancer asked incredulously.
“Well, no, not for
years”, I answered, dumbfounded, “I have no idea what it’s doing in here!”
“Well, maybe we can
dance to it,” she said, “What is it?”
I glanced at the
clock- it was now one minute before midnight.
Thinking we’d better
figure our music out, I turned the mystery cassette case over in my hands. The
cover featured a black and white drawing of a 1920’s flapper lounging in a
champagne glass.
In hand-lettered Art
Deco font, it read:
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!
LOVE, ZEIN”
As the clock struck
midnight and the new century began, I got chills.
#
The story you’ve just read
is from my memoir Showgirl Confidential; My Life Onstage, Backstage And On The Road published by Punk Hostage Press.
My forthcoming memoir,
Good Girls Go To Heaven, Bad Girls
Go Everywhere will be published by Punk Hostage in 2015
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| Photos by Dusti Cunningham & Maharet Hughes
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<3..... what a beautiful man.
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