I came back around 8:30 that night. Knocking, I heard the reply of "ashkout!" and I climbed the stairs. Inside the workshop, there were two or three men of the ma'alem's age, saying little and passing the kif pipe, one dressed in rough clothes and the other in a long blue workman's coat . The ma'alem greeted me with a "wa-salaam-u-alekkum" and introduced me as "le jeun Americain". In the other room, reclining on the cushions and rolling hashish joints, were four young men, all about my age . One was strumming the guembri and singing - beautifully.

I paid my respects to the the elders for a few minutes. But soon the music drew me to the next room and I threw myself down on one of the cushions and joined the young people. With my dark complexion and newly adopted jeans-and-sweater look, they greeted me as if I was one of them.

The ma'alem didn't play that night. But I was thrilled to sit and listen as the young men played with such passion and sincerity. There was a friendly, cooperative spirit in the room - a "good vibe". They passed the guembri from one to another, exhaling clouds of acrid smoke, closing their eyes as the music gently ushered us into trance, or exchanging the occasional warm-spirited remark. They treated the ma'alem with sincere respect.

The guembri isn't the only instrument in Gnawa music. Traditionally, the guembri is accompanied by metal castanets called krakebs. (During the lila ceremony, there are also some large drums as well. And acrobatic dancing, although I never got to see either). But at the jam session, probably because the loud, clanging krakebs would have woken the neighbors, we substituted small homemade shakers - rectangular cardboard boxes filled with rice. The rhythmic pattern, though composed of only simple eighth-notes, contains subtle accents which are almost maddening in their ability to obscure the "one", or downbeat, which would otherwise give the music definite shape and regularity. I don't quite understand the rhythm yet - I still need to study it. But the effect is hypnotic.

Further contributing the rhythmic complexity is the guembri itself, which is simultaneously a chordophone and a membranophone. Covered in animal hide and played with a percussive "slapping" or "popping" technique, the fingers also strike the surface of the animal hide, thereby supplying endless counter-rhythms to inspire the accompanists and mislead the listener. Just when you think you've found the rhythm, you lose it. You have to give up and surrender to the moment - and thus enter a trance state.

They were performing songs from the gnawa repertoire, which includes the forty-nine songs of the lila ceremony. When the guembri player/lead vocalist sang, the others would sing a response in unison - that is, singing all the words and melody together. After the call-and-response, the guembri player would take a solo on the instrument, building in intensity and rhythmic complexity before reaching a climax, at which point we would share a moment of silence to appreciate the music that was just made. Then the guembri would be passed to the next person who wanted it. The energy was somehow casual and spiritual at the same time - just like a jazz jam session. The elders in the next room kept up a low, hang-out conversation, but would occasionally notice when a young person played a particularly fine phrase or rhythmn, showing their approval by tapping their feet and responding with their bodies.

After twenty minutes or so, the ma'alem beckoned me to come back into the the other room. He invited me upstairs and I followed. There he introduced me to his wife and daughter, who had prepared a sumptuous squid tajine for us. We had a subdued conversation as we ate - I was a little shy accepting his very generous hospitality. The ma'alem had traveled to Europe and Russia, but never to the states. His wife and daughter were both friendly but they did not say much. They both called him "ma'alem".

The guys were all still there when we came down after dinner. I stayed till two or three in the morning, listening and occasionally playing - I could more or less hold my own with the shaker, and they even insisted I try the guembri a little. We did the same thing the next night, and the next.

On my last night, the ma'alem played. He was absolutely incredible. Afterwards, he told me the name of the song he just played - the introduction to the lila ceremony. In the lila ceremony there are seven colors, the first of which is the color black - to indicate that the music comes from Afrique Noir - "black Africa". Hence, the song is also called "The "Gate of Sudan". Also known as Memona - "from the soul". Just like the first ma'alem in Marrakech explained.

Listening now, I am struck yet again by how African the music sounded.. The polyrhythms, the gritty vocal texture, and call-and-response format are all typical of many sub-Saharan music styles. Yet the faces of the men playing were not black, but Berber and Arab. How to explain this?

Bilal was often referred to as "Bilal the Ethiopian" - and according to my internet search, he is believed to have been born in Mecca, which is across the Red Sea from Ethiopia . So where is Bilal really from? Was "Ethiopian" a general term for black-skinned people? Can the confusion be explained by the reach of Axumite kingdom, whose reign lasted almost until Muhammed's lifetime, which included both present-day Ethiopia and Sudan?

And yet, how can I ask that question? As a jazz and r&b musician, am I not in the same position? The music I play also comes primarily from people of African descent. The similarity begs the question: is there something about African-derived music which lends itself to survival? Something which allows African-derived music styles to diffuse across cultures and persist for hundreds of years? What about the moral dimension of this phenomenon? , because it perpetuates art forms which might otherwise be lost? Is it permissible to use material from other cultures as long as you truly feel it, as American composer Charles Ives believed? Or is it a form of stealing, of cultural borrowing without asking permission?

On the other hand, the people of Morocco are more ethnically related to the Sudanese than, say, Eric Clapton is to B.B. King. But at what degree of affiliation can one give the "right" to play a given style of music - and who, if anyone, can "give" that right? Very often, particularly in African culture, music styles evolve rapidly, over the course of a generation, so that many of those who would have a custodial role over the musical tradition are more interested in creating new ones.

And certainly one cannot ignore questions of economic benefit - it is a sad feature of American history that whites playing in an African style, such as Elvis Presley, achieve fame and fortune while their African counterparts, who can perhaps perform the style much more "authentically", receive little or no recognition. I don't yet know enough about the status of black-skinned Africans in Morocco to make a comparison, but I do know that Essouaira is known in a large part for its Gnawa music, and that the International Gnawa Festival every year draws visitors from around the world, such as myself.

I don't know the answers to these questions. I don't know that they even have answers. But my brief experience with the Gnawa has raised a lot of questions for me, about the nature of music, culture, and identity. I hope one day to pursue these questions with the support of a research institution behind me.