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Al-Ahram Weekly, Egypt
July 7- 13, 2005
A silence vocalised
Recently in Beirut, Youssef Rakha witnesses two sides of post-war
night life
In the nightclub scene of post-war Beirut, BO18 and Michel
Elefteriades' Music Hall are among the most vibrant venues. Lying,
respectively, in the East Beirut massacre site of Karantina and the
Starco Complex (in the city's traditional commercial centre), they
arguably represent Beirut's age-old dual aspect -- the one Christian
and Francophone, the other (though one of the war's so-called green
lines, lying as it does in the twilight zone separating Beirut's
hypothetical two halves) a melting pot of remarkable religious,
ethnic and cultural diversity. (It is worth noting that Karantina,
having turned from the Beirut sea port quarantine at the turn of the
century to an Armenian refugee camp in the 1920s, and eventually a
Palestinian one through the 1970s, when the famous massacre occurred
in 1976, has only recently been incorporated into East Beirut's more
prosperous stretches. Likewise the commercial centre -- the site of
much destruction and bloodshed during the war -- has taken on the
general characteristics of present-day West Beirut.) Yet both venues
demonstrate that, in the wake of the Lebanese Civil War (1975-1990),
the musical heritage of the city became all the richer. With Marcel
Khalifa setting the work of Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish to
music, Ziad Rahbani offering a running commentary on events (in the
form of comedy as well as music), and Ahmed Qa'bour giving the
conventional patriotic song a humorous or emotional edge by turns,
the war in itself may be said to have made a direct contribution to
such plenitude and variety. In the last 15 years, much like other
aspects of post-war Lebanese life, live music has been situated in
the neoliberal framework of a business- oriented, West-inspired
society.
Designed by Bernard Khoury, whose principal gripe with much
reconstruction work was the way in which it ignored the immediate
history of the locations in question, B018 evokes the notion of a
tomb -- at several different levels. Far more than a Disney-like
memorial to the 1976 massacre, it incorporates the experience of
burial into its very construction. One enters and exists through a
narrow passageway giving onto a circular courtyard with a retractable
steel ceiling that opens and closes periodically through the night.
The space is constructed almost entirely underground, with only the
steel semisphere of the roof showing. Much seating folds up, like a
coffin; and on every table there is a small coffin model that opens
to reveal the picture of a dead music star. Khoury did not intend the
building as a direct reference to war or any of its trappings,
however; and judging by the attitude of the prosperous, Westernised
crowd that patronises B018, no such dynamic operates at any obvious
level.
Rather, the sense of claustrophobia one feels on traversing the
passageway (in the course of which one pays the hefty entrance fee)
combines with the mirror-lined steel of the ceiling, occasional
exposure to the sky and the typically stuffy atmosphere of an
overcrowded nightclub, to give a uniquely eerie impression -- one
that proves life-affirming by virtue of acting as an incentive to
participation rather than having a dampening effect. Here as
elsewhere many of the bouncers are ex-militiamen; and it is almost as
if the compulsion to dance and otherwise respond to the stage
performances is by way of fleeing the sense of danger or impending
death the atmosphere of the place subliminally summons up. (Many have
testified to the danger of war having a life-affirming effect on
their personal, intimate and private responses to life.)
Of the many young bands who use B018 as an exposure forum, 'Aks
Esseir (Wrong lane) -- the band of the by now well-known rapper Rayes
Beik -- is among the most stimulating. Politically outspoken, Rayes
Beik delivers his carefully constructed messages in his own
distinctive rhythms which, though recognisable as rap, benefit from
the local musical heritage and respond to lines from Arabic rather
than international pop. The voice of an angst- ridden generation who
suffered the consequences of war without instigating or taking part
in it, he broaches subjects like cultural identity and political
standpoint in a vernacular at once deeply engaged with street life
and one step removed from it. This is no doubt partly the result of
his own relatively privileged background -- something that often
generates irony. (The tone in which he insists on "enough playing
with the American", for example, is in itself remarkably American; so
too when he claims that "they're living it up", he sounds remarkably
like one of "them".) Yet there the words, poetically strung together
and often pronounced at remarkable speed, acquire a force that lends
them credibility. And there is remarkable courage in the way Rayes
Beik takes issue with Beirut's new capitalists -- themselves, in many
people's views, the war criminals who messed up the life of his
generation of educated Lebanese. It goes well with the atmosphere of
B018 even as it outshines much less politically vociferous fare.
Perhaps Rayes Beik's most powerful image is that of "speaking in
silence" -- a silence, he says, that makes his voice "loud in Beirut"
-- so loud some call for his death.
That said, the experience of B018 remains distinctly exclusive; one
has the feeling that the venue is only fully accessible to a rich and
powerful clique -- white-skinned and seemingly sectarian -- a sense
almost wholly dispelled at the Music Hall, located in a far less
politically charged part of town, and built like a 1940s Egyptian
cabaret (or at least so one imagines). Full of deep red velvet, with
frilly curtains and large, restaurant- style tables arranged in a
gradation that helps improve the stage view, the Music Hall boasts a
far more representative range of clientele -- perhaps the full range
of Beirut's constituency -- and provides a rigidly constructed
programme so seamlessly coordinated it allows for little fluctuation
in audience response. The brainchild of the Greek- Lebanese
entrepreneur and music enthusiast Michel Elefteriades (the Arab
world's answer to the miraculous impresario), the Music Hall thrives
on the Oriental Roots Orchestra, which he founded -- a rich amalgam
of musicians from all over the world who, individual virtuosity and
expertise within a specific tradition notwithstanding, achieve a
remarkable degree of integration. Harmony may not be technically the
right word to describe the result of their jamming, but even though
they include traditional Arab, Balkan brass and Caribbean elements
working together and very often simultaneously, nothing jars.
Everyone more or less contributes to everything but, depending on the
performance being presented, one or more elements of the orchestra
will be given the greater space to stand out -- with the adding notes
and rhythms rather by way of embellishment. Many performances -- the
male belly-dancer who, dressed in T-shirt and jeans, brought the
evening to a remarkably debauched close, for example -- were dance
rather than singing centred, something that allowed for even more
variety in the way of mixing and matching instruments, musicians and
music styles.
Among the more outstanding participants are the veteran Mount Lebanon
voice Tony Hanna and East Jerusalem Chehade brothers, Rami ( oud and
vocals) and Farid ( buzuk ). Though sadly without the accompanying
Yugoslavian Gypsy Brass Band on this particular occasion, Hanna
appeared in the waistcoat and top hat he had taken to wearing to
adapt to his new-found soulmates. (CDs testify to an incredibly
refreshing mix of Lebanese melancholy and Yugoslav cheer, although
the upbeat dabka rhythms, perhaps to a greater extent than to the
plaintive droning of ataba, prove readily adaptable to the sound of
Balkan brass.) For their part the Chehade brothers made their
greatest contribution in the context of other people's numbers --
Rami's quiet, flowing approach perfectly matching his brother's fiery
energy. Adopting a distinctly Oriental image, the Chehade brothers,
though Christian, are sometimes jokingly mistaken for members of the
Taliban. Their own, Grammy-winning CD testifies to profound mastery
of the widest range of traditional Arab sounds. But it was their
individual skill and capacity for connecting with the audience that
made them stand out that night. Their presence testified to the open,
inclusive atmosphere of the Music Hall, which made for a truly
rewarding evening. Palestinians singing alongside Maronites and all
manner of foreigners demonstrated the virtues of pre-war (West)
Beirut even despite their situation within the aforementioned
neoliberal framework, which evidently allows for them still,
notwithstanding its consequences for the worse off and in defiance of
increasingly perilous political conditions. Such, indeed, is how one
imagines the Paris of the East at its best.
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress
July 7- 13, 2005
A silence vocalised
Recently in Beirut, Youssef Rakha witnesses two sides of post-war
night life
In the nightclub scene of post-war Beirut, BO18 and Michel
Elefteriades' Music Hall are among the most vibrant venues. Lying,
respectively, in the East Beirut massacre site of Karantina and the
Starco Complex (in the city's traditional commercial centre), they
arguably represent Beirut's age-old dual aspect -- the one Christian
and Francophone, the other (though one of the war's so-called green
lines, lying as it does in the twilight zone separating Beirut's
hypothetical two halves) a melting pot of remarkable religious,
ethnic and cultural diversity. (It is worth noting that Karantina,
having turned from the Beirut sea port quarantine at the turn of the
century to an Armenian refugee camp in the 1920s, and eventually a
Palestinian one through the 1970s, when the famous massacre occurred
in 1976, has only recently been incorporated into East Beirut's more
prosperous stretches. Likewise the commercial centre -- the site of
much destruction and bloodshed during the war -- has taken on the
general characteristics of present-day West Beirut.) Yet both venues
demonstrate that, in the wake of the Lebanese Civil War (1975-1990),
the musical heritage of the city became all the richer. With Marcel
Khalifa setting the work of Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish to
music, Ziad Rahbani offering a running commentary on events (in the
form of comedy as well as music), and Ahmed Qa'bour giving the
conventional patriotic song a humorous or emotional edge by turns,
the war in itself may be said to have made a direct contribution to
such plenitude and variety. In the last 15 years, much like other
aspects of post-war Lebanese life, live music has been situated in
the neoliberal framework of a business- oriented, West-inspired
society.
Designed by Bernard Khoury, whose principal gripe with much
reconstruction work was the way in which it ignored the immediate
history of the locations in question, B018 evokes the notion of a
tomb -- at several different levels. Far more than a Disney-like
memorial to the 1976 massacre, it incorporates the experience of
burial into its very construction. One enters and exists through a
narrow passageway giving onto a circular courtyard with a retractable
steel ceiling that opens and closes periodically through the night.
The space is constructed almost entirely underground, with only the
steel semisphere of the roof showing. Much seating folds up, like a
coffin; and on every table there is a small coffin model that opens
to reveal the picture of a dead music star. Khoury did not intend the
building as a direct reference to war or any of its trappings,
however; and judging by the attitude of the prosperous, Westernised
crowd that patronises B018, no such dynamic operates at any obvious
level.
Rather, the sense of claustrophobia one feels on traversing the
passageway (in the course of which one pays the hefty entrance fee)
combines with the mirror-lined steel of the ceiling, occasional
exposure to the sky and the typically stuffy atmosphere of an
overcrowded nightclub, to give a uniquely eerie impression -- one
that proves life-affirming by virtue of acting as an incentive to
participation rather than having a dampening effect. Here as
elsewhere many of the bouncers are ex-militiamen; and it is almost as
if the compulsion to dance and otherwise respond to the stage
performances is by way of fleeing the sense of danger or impending
death the atmosphere of the place subliminally summons up. (Many have
testified to the danger of war having a life-affirming effect on
their personal, intimate and private responses to life.)
Of the many young bands who use B018 as an exposure forum, 'Aks
Esseir (Wrong lane) -- the band of the by now well-known rapper Rayes
Beik -- is among the most stimulating. Politically outspoken, Rayes
Beik delivers his carefully constructed messages in his own
distinctive rhythms which, though recognisable as rap, benefit from
the local musical heritage and respond to lines from Arabic rather
than international pop. The voice of an angst- ridden generation who
suffered the consequences of war without instigating or taking part
in it, he broaches subjects like cultural identity and political
standpoint in a vernacular at once deeply engaged with street life
and one step removed from it. This is no doubt partly the result of
his own relatively privileged background -- something that often
generates irony. (The tone in which he insists on "enough playing
with the American", for example, is in itself remarkably American; so
too when he claims that "they're living it up", he sounds remarkably
like one of "them".) Yet there the words, poetically strung together
and often pronounced at remarkable speed, acquire a force that lends
them credibility. And there is remarkable courage in the way Rayes
Beik takes issue with Beirut's new capitalists -- themselves, in many
people's views, the war criminals who messed up the life of his
generation of educated Lebanese. It goes well with the atmosphere of
B018 even as it outshines much less politically vociferous fare.
Perhaps Rayes Beik's most powerful image is that of "speaking in
silence" -- a silence, he says, that makes his voice "loud in Beirut"
-- so loud some call for his death.
That said, the experience of B018 remains distinctly exclusive; one
has the feeling that the venue is only fully accessible to a rich and
powerful clique -- white-skinned and seemingly sectarian -- a sense
almost wholly dispelled at the Music Hall, located in a far less
politically charged part of town, and built like a 1940s Egyptian
cabaret (or at least so one imagines). Full of deep red velvet, with
frilly curtains and large, restaurant- style tables arranged in a
gradation that helps improve the stage view, the Music Hall boasts a
far more representative range of clientele -- perhaps the full range
of Beirut's constituency -- and provides a rigidly constructed
programme so seamlessly coordinated it allows for little fluctuation
in audience response. The brainchild of the Greek- Lebanese
entrepreneur and music enthusiast Michel Elefteriades (the Arab
world's answer to the miraculous impresario), the Music Hall thrives
on the Oriental Roots Orchestra, which he founded -- a rich amalgam
of musicians from all over the world who, individual virtuosity and
expertise within a specific tradition notwithstanding, achieve a
remarkable degree of integration. Harmony may not be technically the
right word to describe the result of their jamming, but even though
they include traditional Arab, Balkan brass and Caribbean elements
working together and very often simultaneously, nothing jars.
Everyone more or less contributes to everything but, depending on the
performance being presented, one or more elements of the orchestra
will be given the greater space to stand out -- with the adding notes
and rhythms rather by way of embellishment. Many performances -- the
male belly-dancer who, dressed in T-shirt and jeans, brought the
evening to a remarkably debauched close, for example -- were dance
rather than singing centred, something that allowed for even more
variety in the way of mixing and matching instruments, musicians and
music styles.
Among the more outstanding participants are the veteran Mount Lebanon
voice Tony Hanna and East Jerusalem Chehade brothers, Rami ( oud and
vocals) and Farid ( buzuk ). Though sadly without the accompanying
Yugoslavian Gypsy Brass Band on this particular occasion, Hanna
appeared in the waistcoat and top hat he had taken to wearing to
adapt to his new-found soulmates. (CDs testify to an incredibly
refreshing mix of Lebanese melancholy and Yugoslav cheer, although
the upbeat dabka rhythms, perhaps to a greater extent than to the
plaintive droning of ataba, prove readily adaptable to the sound of
Balkan brass.) For their part the Chehade brothers made their
greatest contribution in the context of other people's numbers --
Rami's quiet, flowing approach perfectly matching his brother's fiery
energy. Adopting a distinctly Oriental image, the Chehade brothers,
though Christian, are sometimes jokingly mistaken for members of the
Taliban. Their own, Grammy-winning CD testifies to profound mastery
of the widest range of traditional Arab sounds. But it was their
individual skill and capacity for connecting with the audience that
made them stand out that night. Their presence testified to the open,
inclusive atmosphere of the Music Hall, which made for a truly
rewarding evening. Palestinians singing alongside Maronites and all
manner of foreigners demonstrated the virtues of pre-war (West)
Beirut even despite their situation within the aforementioned
neoliberal framework, which evidently allows for them still,
notwithstanding its consequences for the worse off and in defiance of
increasingly perilous political conditions. Such, indeed, is how one
imagines the Paris of the East at its best.
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress