“Mr. Tangier,” The Rolling Stones And A Doorway Into Morocco's Gnauouia Trance Music

Although the first time I went to Morocco I was hanging out with Jimi Hendrix, down south in Essaouira, the Rolling Stones— and especially Brian Jones— had been there earlier and most other hippies had and gotten me interested in the place. A couple of decades later it was at my friend Abdeslam Akaaboune’s house in Tangier that the Stones recorded part of Steel Wheels in 1989. He was an international man of mystery— “Mr. Tangier”— with a life tied up with the music business, the Morocccan royal family and international espionage. Good documentary from a Stones' trips to Morocco:

My connection was through a German “world beat” band, Dissidenten who had used Abdeslam’s palace as a recording studio nd invited me down. “Fata Morgana” was popular song from the album. His wife had just taught me the family harirra recipe and I went downstairs the courtyard and noticed a lot of Rolling Stones pictures on the wall— pictures taken in that courtyard. Over the years, I made it a habit of visiting Abdeslam and his family. 

The most musically important memory for me in Tangier, though, had nothing to do with the Stones of Dissidenten or even any native Tangier sounds. One evening, Abdeslam invited me to make a choice— we would either go visit Paul Bowles’ house— something I was egret to do— or go to a gnauouia healing session which, in those days was the only way to hear gnauouia music. Gnauouia music, with its deep, pulsing rhythms and trance-inducing cadences, was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Rooted in the spiritual practices of descendants of enslaved West Africans brought to Morocco centuries ago, it fused Islamic mysticism with sub-Saharan traditions, creating a sound both hypnotic and ecstatic. The guembri— a three-stringed bass lute— set a low, earthy groove, while the iron castanets (krakebs) clattered in intricate, interlocking patterns that seemed to call up something ancient and unseen. Unlike the polished concerts that would later appear at festivals, these sessions were intimate, raw, and profoundly communal.

At that time, gnauouia wasn’t yet a tourist draw but a living ritual: a music of healing and possession, meant to drive out illness or bad spirits. Sitting cross-legged among people swaying in a dimly lit courtyard, incense curling into the air, I felt the border between performance and ceremony vanish. It was music as a force— physical, spiritual, and historical all at once— and it left a deeper impression on me than any international celebrity’s villa ever could. I remember staggering back to Abdeslam as the sun was rising.

It’s a popular musical form now— no longer “outlaw”— and you can buy recordings and go to gnauouia festivals in the Sahara. The music— deep, pulsing rhythms and trance-inducing cadences, was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Rooted in the spiritual practices of descendants of enslaved West Africans brought to Morocco centuries ago, it fused Islamic mysticism with sub-Saharan traditions, creating a sound both hypnotic and ecstatic. The guembri— a three-stringed bass lute— set a low, earthy groove, while the iron castanets (krakebs) clattered in intricate, interlocking patterns that seemed to call up something ancient and unseen. Unlike the polished concerts that would later appear at festivals, these sessions were, like i said above, intimate, raw, and profoundly communal.

Today, the music is celebrated worldwide. Bigger audiences, better instruments, and professional recording have lifted it out of obscurity and turned it into a global genre, complete with festivals and high-profile collaborations. Yet many who first heard it in courtyards and small zawiyas feel that something essential is missing. In a ritual context the music wasn’t a performance but a force— meant to heal, summon spirits, and blur the line between sound and trance. Modern concerts may sound cleaner and tighter, but they can’t quite reproduce that otherworldly intensity. For me, that night in Tangier remains unmatched— less a show than a doorway into a living tradition. Sure, the popularity hs increased and has brought real benefits. Younger musicians now have access to better instruments, proper recording studios, and a global audience. Collaborations with jazz, rock, and electronic artists (Robert Plant, Randy Weston, Bill Laswell) have expanded the sound and elevated the musicians’ status from anonymous ritual players to recognized cultural ambassadors. Technically, the playing is often tighter, the recordings clearer, and the reach far greater than anything available back when the music was confined to healing ceremonies.

But many long-time listeners and gnauouia masters feel that something essential gets lost when the music moves out of its ritual context. In the old days, the music wasn’t a show; it was a tool— spiritual, medicinal, communal. The trance and the healing were as important as the notes themselves, and the sound unfolded over hours rather than in 45-minute festival sets. In a modern concert hall or on a slick studio album, the rhythms can feel like they’re mimicking a trance state instead of creating one. You get more precision, but maybe less mystery.

It’s a bit like gospel or blues: technology and popularity can make the music more accessible, but they can also sand down the rough edges that gave it its power. For a listener, that means today’s gnauouia can be dazzling, but if you were lucky enough to hear it in a courtyard in Tangier in the 1970s, that intimacy and intensity would probably still feel unmatched.