In his black jeans and striped shirt, the singer known simply as Khaled resembles the stocky boss of some Algerian trucking company. You’d never guess that he is ”the king of rai” and one of the greatest celebrities of the Arab world. Khaled is the man who brought North African music to a new audience in Europe, shaking up the pop scene in France and becoming as influential as Bob Marley in the process. No wonder he says: ”I think that God loves me a lot.”
Khaled’s global breakthrough came in 1992 when his song Didi sold more than one million copies across Europe, North Africa, the Middle East and Asia. Produced by Don Was (of Was Not Was and Rolling Stones fame), it was a rousing blend of Western R&B and rai — Algerian dance music. ”Rai is like the blues,” says Khaled, ”that was sung by the slaves. But in Algeria it was sung by the shepherds in the days when we were colonised by the French. It used to be hidden and forbidden. And, like the blues, it sticks to anything — jazz, rock, reggae or flamenco.”
Khaled’s stirring, sensual vocals on Didi proved that a song in Arabic could be a French bestseller. He followed it up with the French-language pop ballad Aicha, another massive hit. Since then his albums have mixed rai with anything from hip-hop to funk and reggae, although his new album — again produced by Was — sees Khaled going back to his roots, with a fresh, more acoustic set. It includes an Egyptian string section and two of his childhood heroes, the pianist Maurice El Medioni and guitarist and singer Blaoui Houari, who ”hadn’t met up for 40 years until I got them together”, says Khaled. ”This is the first time I’ve really got into an album,” he says. ”I’ve been to every minute of every session and I’ve played on it more than before. I play percussion, mandolin and accordion. That was always my lucky instrument — I grew up with the accordion back in Oran.”
Oran is the Algerian seaport, close to the Moroccan frontier, where Khaled Hadj Brahim was born in 1960. The son of a policeman, he started singing at weddings while still a schoolboy, with his band Cinq Etoiles.
”We were five stars — like the Jackson Five —and we were influenced by Moroccan styles. I’d start off on banjo playing rock or whatever was popular at the time, and then switch to accordion and play rai.” Rai means ”opinion” and young Khaled was opinionated from the start. He recorded his first cassette at 14, without even telling his father. It was a song about disliking school — ”Though what I actually said was that I got tired walking down the road to school. You had to play with words like that.” The song was a hit. ”When my father found out he said: ‘Where’s the money?’ He’d sold the family jewellery to bring up his children, but when we went to the music shop that made the cassettes we were told: ‘There’s no payment for a first record.”’
Khaled sang about sex and alcohol and the authorities loathed him. ”It was like rock’n’roll in America — my songs weren’t allowed on TV. But one day they showed a James Brown concert on TV and everyone started singing Sex Machine, without knowing what it meant, and journalists started a campaign to let my songs be played. The station had a room full of letters but they never played my songs until 1985, when I organised a rai festival in Oran.” He attracted more notoriety when he moved to the capital, Algiers: ”When I sang Chebba back in Oran it meant ‘girl’, but in the city it meant ‘marijuana’. I was surprised when people told me how brave I was.”
With his rasping, soulful vocals and bold lyrics, Khaled soon established a reputation across the Algerian diaspora. He wanted to visit France, ”but the government was frightened I’d talk about power and politics — though that’s not my subject matter — and I needed a military pass, showing I’d done my national service, if I wanted to leave”. For a while he was able to come and go as he pleased, ”thanks to some colonels and big shots who liked my music”, but then he was warned he’d be stopped at the airport.
Accompanied by a French diplomat ”who had done favours for some of the people there”, he did manage to get out, but now decided it was impossible to go home without being called up.
His aim in France was to ”work in the French clubs and be famous back home — nothing more than that. And I wanted a car — I recorded one cassette in return for a car.” But in France he became a major star — after a difficult start. One project in particular ended in chaos. Khaled was approached by ”a big shot back in the Algerian army”, who had the idea of ”making a record to promote Algeria, using the best voice in Algeria”.
The result was the much-praised 1989 album Kutche. Unfortunately, the funding for the album ”came from Kuwait — but the Kuwaitis didn’t like it”. On top of that, Khaled’s passport disappeared, so there could be no promotion. ”I think it was stolen by a rival producer in Marseilles who wanted to stop the project,” says Khaled. ”Everyone says it’s my best album, but I never got paid for it.”
After that, Khaled signed with the French Barclay label, which teamed him with producers Michael Brook and Don Was for that 1992 album Khaled. Now a celebrity, he wanted to return to Algeria once again, but found that the country had been transformed in his absence.
Fundamentalist rebels of the Islamic Salvation Front had declared war on the government after the cancellation of the 1992 elections, which it seemed they would win. A singer like Khaled was no longer safe. Even so, he did go back. ”I remember I was dressed in black, in the uniform of the United States Raiders football team that I got working with Don Was. I was spat at, threatened and accused of being French and a traitor.”
Khaled was unable to return to Algeria for eight years because Islamic militants targeted those musicians who had remained. In 1994 the singer Cheb Hasni was shot and killed, as was record producer Rashid Ahmed the following year. ”Oran was always such a safe, neutral town that it was called ‘the Geneva of Algeria’,” says Khaled. ”But I had many letters telling me to stay where I was for my own good.” He continued his international career in France, finally visiting Oran again four years ago, when crowds lined the streets to welcome him back.
Khaled’s experiences in exile have resulted in some hard-line political views. He argues, predictably enough, that ”rai achieves only positive things, putting people together”. But he also argues about the dangers of introducing democracy to those who aren’t used to it and ”can’t change overnight”. Of Iraq, he says: ”I’m not promoting Saddam Hussein, but it’s only someone like Saddam who can sort it out.” He yells with excitement as he warms to his theme.
Once notorious for his drinking bouts and unreliability, especially when it came to interviews, Khaled seems a man transformed. He asks for orange juice and coffee and talks non-stop for two hours — for so long, in fact, that he is late for his concert. Khaled is the kind of performer who inspires screams worthy of Beatlemania, even from audiences at London’s Royal Festival Hall.
At an outdoor show at Venice Casino after our interview finishes, he tries out the new songs and gives the old-style songs a slick, contemporary finish. He doesn’t play accordion, but his singing is as sensual as ever. He finishes, of course, with the hits, Aicha and Didi. Watching him, it’s clear: the king of rai still has no competition. — Â