Distance, Perception, and the Beginning of a Sound

“How are you doing, man?” Mark Speer asks me.

A simple, genuine question — the kind that people ask when they already expect a complicated answer.

“My heart goes out to the people I know who live out there,” he says, speaking about Lebanon and its current situation. I ask about them.

“I have had Lebanese friends since I was very, very young.”

The conversation moves between concern and curiosity, between the immediacy of the present and the slower work of memory.

“Dance of Maria” is the starting point of the discussion. It’s a piece that Elias Rahbani — the Lebanese composer and arranger known for his richly orchestrated instrumental work and part of the broader Rahbani musical legacy — composed in the early 1970s and features on his album, Mosaic of the Orient. Khruangbin later covered it in the 2010s as part of their repertoire. But before they became a band that built a global audience over the past decade, their music was already being formed in fragments, long before it had a name.

Before “Dance of Maria,” before the touring cycles and the records, Speer’s relationship to music was already taking shape in bits — unlabeled tracks, half-remembered melodies, and sounds that would only return with meaning much later.

So, does he remember how he first came across the track?

“That’s actually a longer question. I had to go, like, remind myself actually when we did this because, you know... in my career, things just start to get kinda blurry as far as timelines… So I looked, and I was like, ‘Oh my gosh, we did this like ten years ago. But I kinda have to flash back about twenty-plus years.’”

The Warehouse and Shifts in Listening

In the early 2000s, somewhere between 2000 and 2001, Speer was living in a warehouse with friends — a space that doubled as rehearsal room, performance area, and something like a cultural crossroads. Among the people moving through it was Tamara, a Lebanese dancer who taught belly dancing classes there, and her future husband Charlie Perez, a close collaborator who would later contribute percussion to Khruangbin recordings.

“I kind of helped her set up this class area,” he recalls. “There was always music happening.”

On some days, the space would shift entirely — band rehearsals overlapping with dance sessions, the room constantly in motion.

At first, it registered as background.

“You know… ‘belly dance music.’ Sometimes it felt like wallpaper.”

But not always.

“Sometimes she’d play something — like Omar Khorshid — and I’d be like, ‘Oh man, what is this?’ It made me snap out of that idea that it’s just background… and actually dig a little deeper.”

But digging at the time was not always easy.

“Because, you know, maybe you like a CD that your friend’s dad has that he plays every time you go to their house and your friend, who’s like your age, is like, ‘Geez, Dad, this is, this music’s so corny. Why do you always play it?’ And you’re like, ‘What is this?’ The response would be, ‘this is corny,’ and I’m also like, ‘Man, this is actually really amazing.’ So you ask him what it is, and it’s this CD that you definitely cannot find anywhere. And you don’t have a CD burner ‘cause those aren’t really accessible yet.”

Also, tracks were mislabeled, downloaded from early file-sharing platforms, or burned onto CDs without context — if you had access to a burner at all.

“You’d download something and it’d just be called something like ‘Belly Dance Music #1,’” he says. “You ask what it is, and it’s just… ‘it’s from this CD I found.’”

Even access itself was limited. Recording it meant negotiating access to a home stereo, or settling for a cassette dub, if that was even possible.

For the dance classes, that was enough — the music served the movement. For Speer, the sound lingered without explanation. It was probably also here that he first heard Fairuz —the definitive Lebanese voice whose collaborations with the Rahbani Brothers blended regional folk traditions with Western classical and jazz arrangements to shape the sound of modern Arabic music.

“You know, she’s got some gorgeous songs.”

Though he would only put a name to the voice later.

Finding Music Before the Internet Found It For You

If today’s listening culture is defined by immediacy, Speer’s was sometimes defined by delay.

He recalls hearing a particular track during a cab chase scene in The Fifth Element as a teenager — something that stayed with him long after the film ended.

“I was like, ‘This is amazing. I need to get this soundtrack.’”

He bought it, but the track wasn’t there.

It was just the score by Éric Serra, “which is incredible… But I was like, “What the heck? My favorite song isn’t on here.”

What followed was a kind of analog detective work: rewinding VHS tapes, scanning credits on a tiny television, trying to decipher names that remained just out of reach.

“It took a couple decades,” he says, laughing, “to actually find that song.”

When he finally did, it led him to Alech Taadi by Cheb Khaled — and into a broader world of sound shaped by fusion, diaspora, and production styles that blurred geographic boundaries. Along the way, he began to notice the producers behind the sound as much as the performers themselves — figures like Don Was, whose work bridged post-disco, dub, and global pop.

Sound, Feeling, and the Era of Fusion

When I ask about what draws him to music from outside his own cultural background, Speer answers simply:

“It’s generally the sound… which, to me, is tied in with the feeling.”

He returns often to a specific era — roughly 1977 to the late 1980s.

“Things were cleaned up, but not overly digital yet. There’s this analog-digital crossover… everything’s tight, but it still feels human.”

What’s interesting is how that sound traveled.

“You hear producers from other countries using Western techniques… but with music that is not Western at all.”

He points to artists like Cheb Khaled, where drum machines, sequencers, and regional instrumentation coexist — not as a contradiction, but as synthesis.

“I know people don’t like the term ‘world beat,’” he adds, laughing, “but I kinda love that to describe exactly what was happening at that time, because it wasn’t purely one thing. It was literally a fusion of all these different things together.”

Houston, Laura Lee, and Shared Discoveries

If those sounds were encountered in fragments, Houston is where they cohered.

Houston, Texas?

“Oh, yeah. Houston, Texas, for sure. It’s a major oil hub… Oil and energy is all based there, and medicine. And so many people come to study medicine. There’s an Indian district, a West African district, a massive Vietnamese population… Brazilian bars… and you can’t discount the fact that it’s essentially Northern Mexico.”

It is this environment that made Khruangbin possible.

“We wouldn’t have formed if it wasn’t for the influence of growing up in that metropolitan area, for sure,” he says. “I’m essentially trying to like, pay homage and tip my hat to the people that I grew up with and around in the city that I’m from, you know?”

Within the band, that instinct quickly found common ground.

“Me and LL connected on music from Afghanistan,” he says, referring to bassist Laura Lee Ochoa. He pauses, briefly trying to recall the name of a singer often referred to as the “Afghan Elvis” — Ahmad Zahir, an influential figure whose music became part of their shared listening, even if the name momentarily escapes him.

“I’m definitely more of a nerd about it,” he adds, laughing, “but we all dig for things that we like in our own ways.”

Speer tends to disappear into “rabbit holes” — tracing sounds across regions and histories before bringing them back into the band’s language.

“I’ll get really into something kind of esoteric… so that I can bring it back and then put it into what we do, and then morph it, and then shift it and then move it into something else. You know?”

Years before Khruangbin, that instinct had already taken him abroad.

“I had been to Afghanistan… we did Kyrgyzstan, Kabul, Qatar, Bahrain…”

The experience was not touristic but functional — performing on military bases as part of an entertainment program. It added another layer to the musical journey: music not just heard, but lived.

Rabbit Holes That Lead Back to Lebanon

Years later, while touring and searching for material to expand their live set, Speer began tracing those earlier impressions more deliberately.

“I had just started using Spotify… and I was like — this is crazy. There’s so much here I could never find in a record shop.”

Record digging had its limits — rare records were either unavailable or opportunistically expensive.

“I’m just trying to listen to music,” he says, laughing, “not win the lottery.”

At that point, he decided to try and find some of these older songs that he had heard earlier in his life.

“I found a song by Madonna,” he says. “Not the Western Madonna — the one Elias Rahbani produced — called “Behlam Behlam” which I was like, “Oh, this is beautiful.”

From there, the connections unfolded: Elias Rahbani, his sister-in-law Fairuz, and others — names aligning with sounds he had heard years earlier.

“I was like, ‘Oh yeah — I remember this.’”

Building a Set, Finding “Dance of Maria”

At the time, Khruangbin had only one album under their belt, The Universe Smiles Upon You, but touring demanded more.

“We couldn’t just play for 40 minutes,” he says.

Covers became both necessity and strategy — a way of sustaining a full set, but also of keeping audiences engaged. At the time, the band was often perceived as a “chill-out” act, and maintaining energy required careful shifts in tempo and familiarity.

“If we’re in Baltimore, we play something from there. In France, we play Serge [Gainsbourg]. In Thailand, we play Thai cuts.”

Earlier sets included a wide range: “Firecracker” by Yellow Magic Orchestra, Thai funk tracks, selections inspired by James Brown, and even extended hip-hop medleys built from regionally specific references — songs chosen based on the city they were playing in, a subtle way of connecting with local audiences.

Within that process, “Dance of Maria” emerged.

“I came across it on Mosaic of the Orient… and I thought, melodically, this is incredible. I thought, how if we just treated it like a breakdance type cover, right? Like combine “Dance of Maria” with “Apache.” So that was kind of our approach. Like, we want that sort of energy, but with this melodic style.”

And then, the magic bullet:

“A lot of times, our blueprint is tough drums and bass, you know? And then just heartbreakingly beautiful melody guitar on top. That’s where it’s at, this combination of those two things.”

Interpretation as Practice

For Khruangbin, covering a song is not reproduction. So how exactly do they approach a cover like “Dance of Maria,” as opposed to an original composition like “White Gloves”?

“If we just do it exactly like the original, there’s no conversation there.”

Instead, it is interpretation.

“I look at it like this. Like, think about Frank Sinatra, or Elvis Presley. Like, those guys didn’t write music. But they’re famous, so they’re like, ‘Oh, that’s a Frank Sinatra song. That’s an Elvis song.’ You know? But what they are, are incredible interpreters of material.”

This idea extends outward into a broader lineage. He describes how a composition can move across cultures and decades — from mid-century American exotica composers like Martin Denny, to Japanese reinterpretations by Yellow Magic Orchestra, and onward into Khruangbin’s own adaptations.

With “Dance of Maria,” the challenge was translating a layered arrangement into a three-piece format.

The original recording included multiple elements — organ, woodwinds, rhythmic guitar, and additional textures — all of which had to be condensed without loss.

“I had to take all those parts… and make it into an arrangement that I can pull off and play live — and not lose anything, right?”

By the fall of 2016, it was fully part of their set.

The Guitar as a Voice Between Worlds

“I’m really trying to emulate singers,” Speer says, referring to his guitar playing.

At one point, that meant studying the phrasing of Googoosh in detail — not just her melodies, but the way she moves around them, stretching and bending notes with precision. And then, another memory:

“I saw her back in… maybe 2019, 2018, something like that. She played at the Hollywood Bowl. And it was like all of Los Tehrangeles had come out, you know? The Hollywood Bowl never smelled so good! They had us dressed to the nines. She just crushed.”

Rather than modifying the guitar itself, he works against its limitations.

Some players refret their instruments entirely — adding microtonal divisions that resemble instruments like the saz, where frets can be adjusted. Speer prefers another approach.

“If you get good at bending, you’re not bound by the fret.”

That approach is rooted not only in global listening, but in blues — a constant presence in his upbringing.

I mention that I can hear some of Dick Dale’s influence in his playing.

“We love Dick Dale. You know, who doesn’t love Dick Dale? I mean, just like, what a legend… Growing up, you hear blues all the time,” he says. “And you don’t realize that that third — that’s not quite major and not quite minor — is very specific.”

In Western music, those tonal deviations are familiar, but limited.

“We’re used to hearing the blue third… maybe a blue seven,” he explains. “But aside from that, things start to get a little funny.”

What is often presented today as something new — microtonality — is anything but.

“You see people now talking about ‘microtonal music,’” he says, laughing. “And I’m like — folks in the East have been doing this forever. Thousands of years… When you toss in something like a blue second… it’s not on equal temperament. It’s that slightly flat note that really skilled singers can just hit.”

And not just singers.

“Really skilled oud players just knock it out — no problem.”

Covers, Lineage, and the Ongoing Conversation

“The covers we pick, we try to kind of pick slightly obscure, you know? But not necessarily weird for the sake of weird. It’s more like, hey, this is an undiscovered gem that I think that you guys would really enjoy, you know?”

Covers as invitations.

“We’re not trying to fool people into thinking it’s our song,” Speer says. “The point is that they hear it and go, ‘What is this?’”

In that sense, the cover becomes less an endpoint than a prompt — redirecting attention back toward its source.

From there, the listener moves outward — toward Elias Rahbani, toward Fairuz, toward entire other musical traditions.

“It’s a conversation. Someone takes something, reinterprets it… and we keep it going… That’s how cultures change and evolve,” he says. “Through exchange.”

Returning to Distance

“My goal is to take everything that I’ve heard and put it into what we do. And at this point, because of the way the world has gotten so interconnected, that getting material to be inspired by, is not hard.”

By the time Khruangbin gained wider recognition, Speer was already considered a late bloomer.

“I had thirty years of input before this band happened.”

That accumulation, he suggests, is essential.

“I couldn’t have done this at twenty.”

Now, after years of constant touring and recording, he finds himself returning to something familiar: the need for distance again.

“I’m taking some time away from that project only so that I can be inspired and come back with some new stuff. Now I wanna learn more stuff and reinterpret it, and I just need time to do that.”

After years of releasing music at a steady pace — often every couple of years — he describes a growing need to step back.

“That doesn’t give you a whole lot of time to absorb and reinterpret,” he says. “At a certain point, you feel like you’re repeating yourself.”

The future remains open. So what’s next for Khruangbin?

“Only time will tell. As far as like what’s coming next, I really don’t know. I’m interested to see what happens when I get back in the room with my bandmates and start messing around and see what we come up with. But I’m hoping that it’s something familiar but fresh.”

Coda: The Everyday

At the end of the conversation, things drift back toward the everyday.

Family. Comfort. Cedars. Hummus comes up. Mutual wishes for health and safety. I invite him to visit Lebanon.

“Oh, I would love to.”

Maybe when things quiet down.

But music never really quiets down. “Dance of Maria” begins in the 1970s, with Elias Rahbani — arranged, recorded, released into a world where it had a name, a place, a context. Years later, it surfaces again in a warehouse in Houston, half-heard, misfiled, folded into tapes and burned CDs, passed around without attribution. Then it moves through Mark Speer, into Khruangbin, onto stages across continents, and picked up by audiences who hear it as something new. And now, back again — named, traced, and written into this conversation.

Each time music travels, it carries something different with it — a new context, a new listener, a new understanding, a new meaning. What begins as a composition becomes a fragment, then a reference, then a reinterpretation — briefly recognized before it moves on again.

By the time it reaches you, it’s already gone.

In the golden age of Beirut — when the city pulsed with music, glamour, and an effortless cosmopolitan charm — artists from across the world found a stage and a home. Among them was Italian musician Angelo Galvani, a performer whose journey through the great hotels and piano bars of Europe and the West Asia mirrors the story of the era.

Born in Italy in 1943, Galvani trained seriously in music and voice at the conservatories of Bologna and Ferrara. A multi-instrumentalist, he mastered both the piano and the contrabass, but it was the piano that would carry him across continents. By the 1960s, he was already on the move, performing with his band “Angelo e i Loris” before evolving into a solo entertainer with a large, multilingual repertoire.

Beirut, 1965: A City Alive with Music

Galvani arrived in Beirut in 1965, drawn by a contract at the famed Coral Beach Hotel. What was meant to be a professional stop quickly became something more permanent. “At the end I stayed in Beirut because I got married to a Lebanese woman,” he recalls. “My son was born in Beirut.”

At the time, Beirut stood as one of the Mediterranean’s most vibrant cultural capitals. “It was a fantastic place to stay and live,” Galvani says. “Full of restaurants, bars with live music, many tourists — very cosmopolitan and lots of fun.”

His days were simple yet idyllic: swimming in the hotel pool, enjoying long meals, and preparing for his nightly performances. “My show was nightly at 9 o’clock,” he says — a rhythm that defined his life in a city that came alive after dark.

Music, Memory, and the Beachcomber Sessions

One of the more intriguing moments of his Beirut years was the recording of an album at the Beachcomber venue — an artifact of the city’s thriving live music scene. The project came together spontaneously. “The company who produced the album got in touch with me and asked to do this album live one night,” he explains. Some of the tracks on the album include songs popular at the time such as “And I Love You So,” “For The Good Times,” “Tie A Yellow Ribbon,” and “Karoun Karoune.”

Influenced by artists like Frank Sinatra, Galvani’s style blended international pop standards with the intimate, conversational tone of piano bar performance. It was music designed not just to be heard, but to accompany life — conversations, romance, celebration.

Departure and Displacement

That life came to an abrupt end in 1976, when the outbreak of the Lebanese Civil War forced Galvani to leave. Like many who had built lives in Beirut, his departure was less of a choice than a necessity.

From Lebanon, his journey continued to Istanbul, then to Berlin in 1978 — a city that would become his second home. There, in the early 1980s, he opened his own piano bar, “Pianoforte,” near Wittenbergplatz. For years, it attracted an international clientele, echoing, in some ways, the cosmopolitan spirit he had known in Beirut.

A Life in Music

Today, he no longer performs publicly. “I am not playing anymore,” he says, “just at home for myself.” Yet his story remains intertwined with a particular moment in Beirut’s cultural history — one where a pianist could build a life, a family, and a nightly ritual of music by the sea there.

What do the Oud, surfboards, and Stratocasters have in common? The answer: Dick Dale — whose fusion of Arab melody, American rhythm, and electric experimentation continues to reverberate across music and cinema today. With the intention of honoring her husband’s Lebanese heritage, Lana Dale gives a rare, personal look into Dick’s life.

“My music comes from the rhythm of Arab songs. The darbukkah, along with the wailing style of Arab singing, especially the way they use the throat, creates a very powerful force.”

— Dick Dale, 1998 (George Baramki Azar interview)

A Lebanese-Polish Son of Massachusetts

Dick Dale, born Richard Anthony Monsour on May 4, 1937, in Boston, Massachusetts, earned the title of ‘The King of the Surf Guitar’ for his pioneering work in creating the sound that would define surf rock and influence generations of musicians. His early life in Quincy, Massachusetts, was shaped by a deep connection to both his Lebanese and Polish roots. His father, James Monsour, was born in Lebanon, and his mother, Sophia “Fern” Monsour, was of Polish descent. While Dale would later become globally known for his surf guitar mastery, his upbringing was steeped in both Eastern and Western traditions. His uncle, a skilled oud player, introduced him to Middle Eastern music, which would later influence the distinctive scales and melodies in his own compositions.

In addition to his life in Quincy, Dick spent his summers in Whitman, Massachusetts, staying with his grandparents, Tony and Sophia Dansewickz. Despite his heritage often being overlooked in the history of rock music, Dale was proud of his Lebanese background. In interviews, he spoke often about the influence of its culture on his music. According to his wife, Lana Dale, he was connected to his father’s Lebanese roots, which he felt shaped his identity and his approach to music. This connection is especially evident in songs like “Misirlou,” where the use of Eastern Arab scales and rhythms sets the tone for much of his early work.

“Dick created his own sound and began his career in 1954 — not in the late 1950s or early 1960s, as many write.”

— Lana Dale, December 2025

A Career That Began Earlier Than Anyone Realizes

Dick Dale’s musical career began much earlier than most people realize. While surf rock is often associated with the early 1960s, Dale was creating the genre in the mid-1950s. At that time, he began playing at the Rendezvous Ballroom in Balboa, California, where his band, The Del-Tones, performed for an audience of surfers. His style, marked by fast picking and early experimentation with reverb, contributed to what would later be recognized as the surf-rock sound. Their 1961 track, “Let’s Go Trippin’,” a single frequently cited as the first surf rock song, was later covered by the Beach Boys.

Dale’s early musical influences ranged from jazz to rockabilly, but he became increasingly fascinated with surf culture and the energy of the waves. His desire to capture the power of surfing on the guitar led him to experiment with sound techniques that would later define surf rock. This synthesis reached a peak with one song in particular.

Misirlou, Miserlou

While Dick Dale’s pioneering use of reverb is often praised, it was his ability to blend Western effects with non-Western scales that transformed guitar playing and reshaped rock music. Some later genres, including psychedelic rock and early metal, drew on techniques similar to those Dale helped popularize.

A widely recognized example of this fusion is Dale’s rendition of “Misirlou,” a track that would go on to epitomize the energetic spirit of 1960s rock ‘n’ roll.

“The song ‘Misirlou’ is an Arabic love song… Its title, ‘Misirlou,’ means, ‘The Egyptian.’”

“Yes, on my uncles’ albums, I saw Miserlou spelled as Misirlou… I was learning some songs, applying Gene Krupa’s drumming speed to them and calling it rockabilly. Then this kid… came up to me and said… “Could you play something on your guitar on just one string?’ I thought oh, geez...

“In order to buy myself some time, I told the boy, ‘Come back tomorrow!”

“I realized I could possibly play Misirlou on one string. After plucking out the melody, it sounded a bit boring. I thought, wait a minute, I’ve got to play it with a Gene Krupa-style rhythm. The people who wrote the song are probably rolling over in their grave at my version of it. I played it onstage the next night and the rest is history.

— Interview with Dick Dale for The Guitar

It became synonymous with the era of drive-in theaters, diners, and the surf culture that dominated the American West Coast, often evoked in the works of filmmakers like Quentin Tarantino to evoke a sense of nostalgia for that period.

Although Dale made the song famous in America, the exact author remains unknown, as is the case with many traditional folk songs, but by the 1920s, musicians from many Eastern Mediterranean cultures had adopted and reinterpreted it. The earliest known recording is from 1927, performed in the rebetiko style, a unique blend of traditional Greek music, Orthodox chanting, and the Ottoman songs that had been popularized during Greece’s occupation under the Ottoman Empire.

Dale often explained that his version of “Misirlou” was inspired by an Arabic rendition he had heard on the oud, a traditional Arab stringed instrument, and this influence was evident in the song’s fast-paced, dynamic rhythm and Eastern scale.

Arabic Maqams: The Roots Beneath the Sound

Dick Dale’s interpretation of “Misirlou” didn’t just rely on speed or electrification — it drew heavily from the Arabic maqams he grew up hearing within his Lebanese household. Maqams, the modal systems of Arab music, use microtones, ornamental phrasing, and emotional pathways that differ from Western major and minor scales.

The melody of ‘Misirlou’ aligns most closely with the Arabic maqam Hijaz, known for its distinctive augmented second interval. Dale absorbed these structures instinctively through his uncle’s oud playing. When he transferred those modal patterns onto the electric guitar — and pushed them to blistering speeds — he created a sound that felt both ancient and shockingly new. His success with this synthesis was also a key factor in shaping his collaborations with the Fender company.

“Dick was like a son to Leo Fender, and the two of them collaborated and pioneered the sound of Fender amplifiers, transformers, Stratocaster guitars, and more.”

— Lana Dale, December 2025

Leo Fender and Dick Dale: The Birth of Loud

Dick’s involvement with Leo Fender was fruitful. Together, they pushed the boundaries of sound, with Dick being central to the creation of the ‘loud’ sound. His collaboration with Fender engineers led to the creation of amplifiers that could deliver the powerful, distorted sound that would define the genre.

Eight Decades

Dale’s impact on music spanned nearly eight decades. His influence is seen in the careers of various musicians across genres. The Beach Boys, Jimi Hendrix, Eddie Van Halen, and even more contemporary guitarists like Jack White and Khruangbin have cited Dale as an influence. His use of fast picking and heavy reverb, became a cornerstone not only of surf music but also of the punk and metal scenes. He also made appearances on the silver screen:

“[I]n quite a few films…including Let’s Make Love with Marilyn Monroe, Yves Montand, and Tony Randall. He appeared in several more films including Beach Party, A Swingin’ Affair, Muscle Beach Party, Back to the Beach, and Local Boys.”

— Lana Dale, December 2025

Hollywood, Television, and Commercial Fame

His music became synonymous with the beach party and surf culture of the 1960s. He was a regular of TV and radio notables like Ed Sullivan and Casey Kasem, the Lebanese-American DJ who made Dick a fixture on his shows. His music also appeared in several commercials, and his high-energy performances were featured in early MTV videos, such as “Nitro” in the early 1990s. In 1994, the inclusion of “Misirlou” in Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction brought renewed visibility for Dale following a period of being overshadowed by the rise of new genres in the 1970s and 80s. By the 2010s, he was still performing live at festivals.

A Legacy that Lives On

“Unfortunately, my husband’s precise musical history has not been written accurately over the past seven decades. The web, books, and magazines rarely get it right — there is simply so much to know, and only bits and pieces have managed to make it out there.”

— Lana Dale, December 2025

His musical life is only one part of his story. “At some point, I will be writing a book about Dick Dale’s career” Lana continued. “Dick always said he had ‘100 Windows of Life’ — and this was just one of them.”

An acoustic version of Misirlou appears on Dale’s 1993 album Tribal Thunder. In an interview with The Guitar, he said that“this [version] is the way Misirlou was originally played.” During that studio session, his bandmates were on break, and he didn’t know he was being recorded. In that unguarded moment, Dale wasn’t the King of Surf Guitar — he was Richard Monsour, the Lebanese-American kid from Boston hearing his uncle’s oud echo through the house. Long before surfboards, Stratocasters, and California stages, there was that sound — one that planted a seed and would go on to help reshape American music forever.

صباح ومسا

شي ما بْيِنْتَسَى

‎ترَكْت الحبّ

وأخدْتْ الأسى

‎شو بَدّي دُور؟

لَشو عم دُور؟

‎على غيرو

‎في ناس كتيرْ

لكن بيصيرْ

‎ما في غيرو

‎حبيبي كان

هَنِي وسِهْيانْ

‎ما في غيرو

‎حِمِلني سنين

مانُن هَيْنِين

‎كًتِّر خَيْرو

‎حبيبي منيحْ

لَشو التجريحْ؟

‎تِعِب منّي

‎أنا اللي كِنتْ

ما بفهم بنتْ

‎حِمِل عنّي

‎صباح ومسا

شي ما بْيِنْتَسَى

‎ترَكْت الحبّ

وأخَدْت الأسى

‎لعلّ وعَسَى

إترُك هالأسى

‎ويرجعلي حُبّي

صباح ومسا

‎بس إنتَ

إنتَ وبسّ

‎بس إنتَ

إنتَ وبسّ

:كلمات وألحان

زياد الرحباني

The song begins. The guitar strings are gently plucked. In its rhythm, an unexpected voice starts to sing a familiar Lebanese melody — Sabah Wu Massa, the beloved classic by Fairuz. But this time, it’s in the voice of Lisa Ono, a Japanese-Brazilian artist who has spent her life blending cultures through music. With soft guitar strums and a delicate rhythm, her rendition, sung entirely in Arabic, offers a fresh and respectful take on a timeless song, paying tribute to one of the Arab world’s most beloved singers.

Ono is no stranger to cultural synthesis. Born in São Paulo, Brazil, to Japanese parents, she moved to Tokyo at the age of ten. Surrounded by Brazil’s rich musical traditions, especially bossa nova, she would go on to make this genre the hallmark of her career. Over the years, Ono has performed with many renowned musicians such as Antônio Carlos Jobim and João Donato, further solidifying her place in the global music scene. She now has over one and a half million monthly listeners on Spotify, and is known for her international discography where she has reimagined classics from France, Italy, the U.S., and the Arab world.

Fairuz’s Resonance in Japan

In recent decades, Japan has developed a growing appreciation for Fairuz. As early as the 1960s, several of her singles were released there periodically. But in the 1980s, Maarifti Feek became the first of her albums to be sold in Japanese music stores. The label then included Shat Iskandaria as a bonus track, releasing it under the combined title Maarifti Feek / Shat Iskandaria. The album attracted quiet attention, drawn not only by Fairuz’s ethereal voice but also by the experimental jazzy sounds of Ziad Rahbani’s compositions, which stood apart from the mainstream Arabic music of the time. Today, many jazz bars in Japan feature local singers specializing in covering Fairuz’s songs.

A Personal Connection to Fairuz

Sabah Wu Massa was originally released as the first track on Fairuz’s 2002 album, …Wala Kif. In Ono’s 2004 interpretation, she does not attempt to replicate Fairuz’s inimitable voice; instead, she brings her own interpretation, shaped by restraint and serenity. After reaching out to her via email, she kindly shared her personal reflections on the song and her approach to it:

“In my interpretation, the song becomes a dialogue between vulnerability and strength — my feminine voice that smiles through her tears, revealing the charming side of love’s pain.

It speaks to everyone who has ever loved deeply, lost, and still believed in beauty.

When I began working on my Arabian-inspired album, I received valuable advice from someone deeply knowledgeable about Arabic music.

He recommended that I listen to Fairuz — and once I did, I was deeply moved by the beauty and sensitivity of her interpretations.

Her voice carries both the soul and poetry of the Arab world. From that moment, I decided to focus on her music as the heart of my project.

I also had a language teacher who taught me how to pronounce Arabic words correctly, and through those lessons, I learned how to shape the sounds and express their true feeling.

I have a deep respect for the songs of every culture. My intention is to express the true emotions that live within each significant song from around the world. Each melody carries the feelings and stories of the people who created it, and as a foreign singer, I have tried to honor and preserve those emotions — giving them new life while keeping their original spirit alive.”

A Global Tribute

What makes this moment unique is not just the musical fusion, but the cultural respect embedded within it. Ono does not exoticize or reinterpret the song for novelty’s sake. Instead, she treats it with the same tenderness and reverence she brings to Brazilian and international standards. In doing so, she opens a door — not only for Japanese and Brazilian audiences to discover Arab music, but for Lebanese and Arab listeners to see their cultural treasures honored on a global stage.

A Lebanese song, sung in Arabic, by a Japanese-Brazilian artist in Tokyo. Lisa Ono’s decision to interpret Sabah Wu Massa is a testament to Fairuz’s enduring global resonance, and shows how music can transcend boundaries and create connections across different cultures.

Lebanon is a country situated at the intersection of Asia, Europe, and Africa — a geography that has long shaped its role as a conduit for cultural exchange. Across centuries, this terrain has fostered movement, encounter, and synthesis, welcoming traders, minorities, artists, and travelers into a social fabric marked by plurality. The result is a nation whose cultural history far exceeds its physical scale.

Despite the political and economic turbulence that has defined much of its recent history, Lebanon’s cultural memory remains remarkably intact. In contemporary discourse, particular reverence is reserved for the period between independence in 1948 and the outbreak of the Civil War in 1975 — often referred to as the country’s “Golden Age.” These decades were characterized by economic confidence, a flourishing tourism sector, and an openness to global artistic currents. Beirut, in particular, emerged as a cosmopolitan capital where leisure, experimentation, and artistic ambition were materially possible.

International musicians were frequent visitors during this period. Jazz figures such as Ella Fitzgerald, Oscar Peterson, and Duke Ellington performed in Lebanon, the latter composing “Mount Harissa” in homage to the coastal shrine overlooking Jounieh Bay. Beirut functioned not merely as a destination, but as a cultural hinge—mediating between European, American, and Middle Eastern traditions and producing hybrid forms that resisted easy categorization.

Within this broader national narrative lies a constellation of individual trajectories. One such story is that of Italian pianist, composer, arranger, and conductor Reddy Bobbio. This account draws directly from conversations and materials shared by Bobbio himself, offering a rare first-person perspective on Lebanon’s cultural life during its mid-century renaissance.

Arrival and Integration

By the early 1960s, Bobbio had already established an international presence, performing with his band across France, Switzerland, Luxembourg, Beirut, and Tehran. His arrival in Lebanon coincided with a moment of heightened cultural productivity, particularly among Beirut’s Armenian-Lebanese community, which had developed a formidable ecosystem of musicians, composers, record labels, and performance venues.

Bobbio became actively involved in this milieu. He arranged and orchestrated music for Adiss Harmandyan, including Live at the Recital Phoenicia Theatre, and released an album with his orchestra titled Holiday in Yerevan, which reinterpreted Armenian folk repertoire through contemporary orchestration. These collaborations positioned Bobbio within a diasporic network that viewed Beirut not as a periphery, but as a central node of Armenian cultural production.

During this period, Bobbio also released recordings under his own name, including Reddy Bobbio and His Multi-Sound Organ, reflecting both the technological experimentation and stylistic openness characteristic of Beirut’s recording scene at the time.

Return to Italy and Circulation Back to Lebanon

After several years in Lebanon, Bobbio returned to Italy, where he began a long and prolific collaboration with saxophonist Fausto Papetti. From the 1970s through the 1990s, Bobbio arranged numerous Papetti albums and co-composed works such as “Montenapo”, featured on 32ª Raccolta(1981).

This later phase of Bobbio’s career holds particular resonance in Lebanon. Prior to the Civil War, Papetti’s easy-listening records circulated widely across the country and were a staple of domestic record collections. Through these recordings, Bobbio’s arrangements — often anonymously — entered Lebanese everyday life, becoming part of a shared auditory landscape that survived long after the era itself had ended.

Alongside Papetti, Bobbio worked with leading figures of Italian popular music, including Gigi Proietti, Claudio Villa, and Fred Bongusto, further cementing his role as a behind-the-scenes architect of postwar European sound.

Later Work and Continuing Presence

Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, Bobbio released numerous solo and orchestral albums, including Only You, Rarefaction, To Remember, as well as a series of instrumental piano recordings that reflected a more introspective musical direction.

Today, in his eighth decade of music, Bobbio remains actively engaged. He serves as Vice-President of the Festival di Sanremo Symphony Orchestra and leads the Reddy Bobbio Swing Trio, alongside Mauro Parrinello on double bass and Fausto Biamonti on drums. The trio revisits the repertoire of George Gershwin, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, and Duke Ellington, emphasizing what Bobbio describes as “the smiling side of jazz.”

This article was originally published on October 24, 2023, on Association Avec Expat and Lebanon News Online.

Actress Natasha Choufani, who performed the leading female role alongside George Khabbaz in his play “Ma’Al Wa’t Yimkin,” shared her thoughts on the stress upcoming actors and actresses experience, the pressure of needing to look good, her work, and women’s role in the art scene.

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How Did You Know That You Wanted To Be An Actress?
When I was young, I used to watch TCM. I was in love with old movies. They seemed so dreamlike. I grew up in Abu Dhabi in the 90s. It wasn’t like today. Other than school or seeing friends once a week, we didn’t do much. The only things we could do for fun were movies and books. It didn’t help me in my studies but it fueled my imagination.

You Knew When You Graduated From School That You Wanted To Act?
Yes. I was in a school focused on science and math that didn’t care much for the arts. They were focused on their students becoming doctors and engineers or businesspeople. I would personally try to stay connected to the arts in my own time. It was a relief for me to find myself in Gulbenkian Theater in LAU on my first day of university.

Did You Feel Pressure From Society To Not Be An Actress?
Of course, people are usually against it because the art scene in Lebanon is very disorganized, stressful and unsure, and lacks the financial and moral support for artists. The syndicates are split and politicized. There is no proper health insurance, protection or basic needs provided for registered artists and there are no strong requirements for someone to enter the syndicates. We have to find individual means of support. This affects our performances and work and in turn affects the industry. If artists can’t have the support they need, then how can they work properly? That was one issue among the usual stereotypes of the industry.

Did You Enjoy Playing The Lead Alongside George Khabbaz In His Play ‘Ma’ Al Wa’et Yimkin’?
I did. It was my first leading role and an overwhelming experience. Every day was about whether the audience will laugh or clap or cry when I expected them to; if it didn’t go the way I wanted, I had a tough time sleeping that night. But, it was overall a big learning experience, especially since I working with respected and experienced actors. The amount of responsibility I had – looking back at it now- seems much scarier than when I was actually doing it. It is quite surreal to think that 100,000 people came to watch.

Can You Tell Us About The Challenges You Feel Regarding Physical Looks For Celebrities?
We don’t see people in their natural form on Lebanese TV. I don’t mean that it’s wrong for a woman to fix herself. Every woman has the right to feel beautiful. She should do it for the right reasons and to protect her identity, and not in order to conform to what is expected of her. This pressure also affects our acting. We feel like we should always look wonderful even when we are crying or screaming or depressed. I once played the role of a drug addict and my scene was cut because my hair needed some spray. You can imagine how I felt! Instead, I messed my hair up even more, and pointed out that my character was thinking about getting her hands on drugs, and not about flattening the baby hairs on her head.

Is There Anything You Would Like To Ask Of The Students Reading This?
I would just encourage people to support independent and underground projects by attending them and sharing them on social media. Watch plays that are done by students, watch plays and short film screenings that are posted around on the streets and cafes in Beirut – that’s how you can support this part of the industry.

What Do You Think Of Women’s Portrayal In Series And Films?
We live in a country that does not protect us. Our survival, dignity and quality of life is defined by how good or bad to us our fathers, brothers, husbands, sons are. And it depends on how much money we have in the bank. It’s a very difficult life. Sometimes they try to portray that, but it’s not raw enough. It’s not painful enough. It’s not strong enough to give an impact, because everyone is so concerned with not upsetting political parties or religious clerics or these people or those people and this affects the script. There are some writers like Tarek Soueid who write beautiful scripts. He understands the injustice done to women far more than most female writers. But there should be a collective effort. We need to see more stories that reflect the injustice of our laws and our society to women. I was in a series where there was a plot regarding a girl who has sex before marriage and regrets it. The man is forced to marry her and we realize that he was never serious about her. For some reason, the director assumed it was a rape scene. When I saw it, I spoke to the writer and she immediately changed the ending of that storyline, so that we don’t allow a rape to end up in marriage to “protect” the girl from society’s talk. There isn’t enough awareness on what kind of subliminal and not so subliminal messages are being sent to the audience. This was during the campaign to abolish Article 522. Luckily the writer was a feminist.

What Are Your Favorite Movies?
The film that made me want to be an actress was “The Glass Slipper” (1955), starring Leslie Caron. It was Cinderella, but I fell in love with the music, the cinematography, the dances etc. It was the interpretation that I connected with. It gave me beautiful dreams. I think I was 7-8 years old, and since then, the film and music have been engraved in my mind.

You Act On TV, Theater And Films?
I do. Each one has its challenges and benefits. In cinema, I love to observe the passion of the crew and director in indie projects or even student films. Every shot, frame, movement, thought, and detail has to be very well studied. Theater is the most challenging and most rewarding. When you do theater, your whole life becomes revolved around that. You can’t risk going somewhere too far and get stuck in traffic, you can’t have a car accident, or take up some risky hobby, or run down the stairs. You try not to get sick, but if you do; if your fever is 40 degrees and your bones are shivering, you’ll forget it the moment you go on stage. Because, whatever happens you have to get on stage. You have a message to give, and it really is a noble art, because a play mirrors society the way actors mirror people.

What Do You Think Is The Difference Between TV Actors And Theater/Film Actors In Lebanon?
Well, there are some respected actors in theater and film who now refuse to work on TV because of the lack of good scripts. Also, they don’t wish to conform to the TV formula that is followed. But most of them started on TV and once they solidified their names, they could afford not to continue on TV.

I think the younger generation of actors want to make a change. They don’t want to turn their back on it because they see how important it is. Not everyone goes to the cinema or theater, but most people do watch TV series, whatever the quality may be, so it’s important that it improves. I’m happy to see that this idea is very much present with my friends in the business. Whenever we meet up, we talk about these issues; how to improve the industry? How to push for projects that carry a message? There are some people who are doing it their way. It’s a small wave but it’s there. It makes me feel happy when I see people who haven’t lost hope on that.

These People Work A Second Job To Sustain Their Artistic Life?
Most of them, yes. There’s no way you can do this sort of thing independently. Unless you already are financially secure – which is not the case for most of them. A struggling artist is a romantic idea in our late teens or early twenties. But then it becomes a serious issue, so we all have to have another source of income to support our passion. We don’t have that luxury to just focus on our careers. This does have a negative impact, because we become more stressed about making money than about doing proper roles and projects. If there was an organized and respected system in Lebanon for actors, we wouldn’t be in such a position.

Do You Think Lebanese Cinema Has Potential?
Lebanese cinema is among the strongest cinemas in the Middle East and it is strong because of the independent artists who are working on projects and manage to make it to festivals abroad. We have Metropolis Cinema and several notable film festivals in Lebanon that show wonderful works every year. I can see the progress because I work with students a lot and I try to attend as many screenings as I can.

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This interview was originally published in AUB Outlook on April 19, 2017.

While going through my father’s vinyl collection, the care and intention behind the visual art and design of certain album covers become immediately apparent. Among them are local releases whose aesthetics feel strikingly modern and ahead of their time. Though they depart from traditional Lebanese visual language, they remain unmistakably Lebanese in spirit.

Sleek and restrained, Fairuz’s Maarifti Feek reflects a dialogue between East and West, with Latin and Arabic scripts placed in quiet harmony. In contrast, Khaled El Habre’s Madih Al Zol Al Ali offers a more unconventional approach: a three-dimensional rendering of Beirut layered with yellow and red shadows over a two-dimensional city map. Both covers were designed by Leila Musfy, Chairperson and Professor in the Architecture & Design Department.

Musfy sat with me to reflect on her years designing for singers such as Fairuz, musicians including Ziad Rahbani and Khaled El Habre, and actors such as Antoine Kerbaj.

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Where Did You Study?

I did one year at AUB – Fine Arts, and then it closed in 1975. When they closed the program, I went to the States, to the Kansas City Art Institute in Missouri – this is where I got my Undergraduate Degree (BFA), and then I did my graduate work at Cranbrook Academy of Art where I got my MFA in Design in ‘81. I then moved to Washington D.C. and worked there for two years.

Do You Come From An Artistic Family?

Yes and no, but I started taking art lessons since I was eight or nine. Like all little girls, I was put in ballet school where I used to learn ballet. There, they used to give painting lessons and there were the greatest people teaching like Omar Onsi, one of the masters of painting. He used to give lessons there so I used to run away from ballet class and watch the painting class. Eventually my parents finally got convinced, moved me to painting, and stopped ballet. I started very early and then I took lessons with Helen Khal, then by Aref Rayess, and many other people. And once I finished high school that was it; it was art and that’s it. As for family, my father studied business, but he wrote wonderful poetry and played a little bit of music. On my mom’s side, my cousin is a well-known artist in the states, he is a book-maker, artist, writer, and designer. So it does exist in the family. Afterwards, I went to the States, learned what design was, made a choice that art was for me, and that design was to be my profession – that it would be my bread and butter.

When You Came Back To Lebanon From The USA, You Ended Up Working With Many Notable Artists. How Did You Enter That Scene?

By accident, probably! I had worked in the States with a woman called Violet Yaacoub and she planned Fairouz’s big USA tour in 1981 – at that time I worked with her on the album cover for Fairouz’s “Hawa Beirut” USA Tour among other things, but Violet eventually had financial issues with the record so it never got distributed – there were only 500 copies printed of it.

And then when I came back to Beirut, Violet came and stayed at my house. At that point, Ziad was in the middle of his “Shi Fashel” play, and I was going with my father, but he gave his ticket to Violet, and she wanted to talk to Ziad to create a project together. After the play, we went backstage and met him, and Violet was a very funny person, a very wonderful person with a heavy English accent being somewhere between Iraqi-American English, and Ziad just couldn’t understand a word. When she said something he’d look at me and ask, “Shou 3am bit ‘oul? Shou 3am bit ‘oul?” and I would translate for him. So that was my first encounter with him. And then I became friends with Emile Boustany and Abboud El Saadi, who used to play with Ziad, so I went to the studio and started working with him. I started doing album covers and all that was needed design-wise, at the time I even did the mixer chart [or legend] manually. And through him, I started meeting all the other musicians, like Toufic Farroukh, Sami Hawat, Joseph Sakr, Ibrahim Jaber, and everybody that was hanging out during those days in the studio over there. Except Fairouz – you never meet her.

Did Politics Ever Play A Role In Your Design?

To me, it was never about politics. At that time, in that period in particular, there was nothing in design. There were no designers – I was a lone hand clapping. And then you had this very high end form of art which was music, and Ziad Rahbani was at the forefront, and everything that he represented was rebellion and trying new things.

When I think back, what really made me click with him was not him appreciating my design or vice versa. It was him and I, doing the same things, in our own fields, in our own way – the amalgam of East-West. Him doing the Oriental-Jazz and trying to mix the language of music of East and West, and that’s what I was doing in design. My whole quest was always this parallel between Arabic and Latin in typography and experimenting and I tried as early as the early ‘80s to do this. It wasn’t really about design either, it was about the whole environment. Being with people that were so highly talented, so focused on music, experimenting, and working hard. So there was this euphoria that was great to be part of. This is all that mattered to me at that time. It was a great adventure and experience. Perhaps the project I enjoyed working on most was the Jazz Oriental poster which was Ziad’s concert in Paris in 1986.

Do You Have Any Specific Designers Or Schools Of Design That Have Influenced Your Design?

Everything influences me. My work is described as eclectic sometimes and I always have all sorts of things surrounding me which I appreciate. Things I love: like pictures, posters, books – my work, my house, and my design are all the same. I mix things, I mix a lot of things that don’t necessarily make sense theoretically but they sit side by side and they start to have a dialogue. Influence? Yes, I’m influenced by many – Weingart, Russian Constructivists, the Bauhaus, Calligraphy, Reza Abedini, Kathy McCoy my teacher, Victor Papanek my mentor, you name it. Carpets, craft, food, dance, music, everything.

Is There Something You Enjoy Designing The Most?

Books.

Do You Still Design?

Nope! I stopped about four-five years ago. The last project I did was a book and that was it. It was a 640-page book and I said khalas!

Do You Think You’d Ever Come Back To The World Of Design To Design Something?

No, I think I’ve done enough as real projects. I’ve been doing it since 1977 till, I would say, up to four years ago. Enough, I’ve done it all. Posters, books, corporate identities, packages, stage design, costume design – it’s enough really! Now I’m more into going back to painting. However, to me, everything is about design: teaching, cooking, painting, even having a great conversation.

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This interview was originally published in AUB Outlook on April 4, 2017.

“Oooo-waaaaa” are the first sounds to emerge from the speakers when Joe Diverio’s Lebanon 80 begins to play. The album unfolds smoothly, offering a refined and melodic listening experience.

Diverio is an internationally recognized Italian musician whose repertoire spans five languages. He spent a significant portion of his career performing in Beirut, most notably at the Les Caves du Roy nightclub during the 1970s, and later at Summerland following the outbreak of the Civil War. Joe and I spoke over lunch, where he shared some insights with me.

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When Did You First Come To Beirut?

It’s a love story between Lebanon and I; between Beirut and I. The first time I came here was about fifty years ago, in 1965 with my band – it was by coincidence, as my manager used to move us […] all over Europe as well. And one day he asked, “Joe, do you want to go to Beirut?” I said, “why not?” and we made a contract for four months. So I came in February and left at the end of May. I came back to Lebanon in ’67. But at that time, I was in a band, and slowly, many people liked the way we were playing. We used to play in English, French, and Italian – I sing in five languages. From end of ’70 to ’74, I was in Lebanon – I passed through Lebanon before, during, and after the war.

Can You Tell Me A Little Bit About Your Artistic Life?

It started when I was very young. I started with the accordion, and then I learned the chromonica, not the blues harmonica – they’re different. So with this, I could do any melody in any key. I started with the accordion, which at the time wasn’t taught at the conservatoire, although now it is. So I went to a school that gave diplomas for learning instruments [like the conservatoire] and received it – and when I was 16 years old, I represented Italy at the Harmonica World Championship in 1955 and in 1956 as well. During the championships, we were obliged to learn one piece while for the second, we would choose. I chose Concerto Di Vivaldi in A Minor, in partition for the violins because the harmonica is like the violin. It creates a melody and needs somebody to accompany it – so somebody played piano and I played along. I didn’t win, but I represented Italy – I was young! The first time, I was 15, while the second time, I was 16. After that, I liked the idea of gaining experience with the band. So in 1961, I started with a band and began to tour. I find a lot of satisfaction in what I do.

What About Your Band In Beirut?

I used to sing at the Caves Du Roy. When my original Italian band was in total disagreement, I created a new one with four Armenians and one Lebanese person and we started to rehearse. They were very young and inexperienced, but had a lot of potential – I saw it straight away. But you know, the way of singing at the Caves was all about work, so it was a matter of teaching the band how to be presentable on stage, with things like clean shoes, fingernails, how to dress, stand on stage, and all these small things. I mean, some of them were eighteen at the time. Eventually at some point during the war, they all went to Los Angeles, California. Vahe, one of the band members, visited me in Paris one time, and it is always good to see old friends. He told me, “Joe, I used to hate you, because all you used to tell us was to be on time, to do this and that! Now I’m leading a band in California, and what you told me… You were so right!”

How Would You Describe Your Caves Du Roy Days? You Used To Play Often In The Cave?

Caves du Roy was a fantastic place with fantastic people. Many people ask, “Why don’t you open the Caves again?” Many called me “Le Roi De Cave.” But it would never be the same. It’s still closed, and the Hotel Excelsior is a disaster. Imagine that at that time in Lebanon in the early 70s, the people were coming to Caves Du Roy from Iran, Egypt, Europe, the crowd at St George, and so on. It was opened again in ‘82 for one night – you should have seen it. They contacted me, I rehearsed quickly, and played. It was a great evening. Again, you should have seen the number of people. If someone was to come in and just take the women’s jewelry, they would have made a fortune!

You Made A Record With Georgina Rizk?

Yes, I did. We did Parole, Parole which was originally sung by Mina and Alberto Lupo. This was a song that was very up to date at that time. I knew Georgina very well, we were very good friends. We decided to do it in the opposite way, where the man would sing and the woman would talk. She is half-Italian, so she spoke the language. It was nice because I didn’t just need someone who spoke Italian, I wanted somebody well-known as well. At the time the song was released, she was freshly-crowned Miss Universe – the song was a big success.

Can You Tell Me About Your Musical Influences?

I’m quite conservative with this issue. I never followed up with groups, bands, heavy metal, and so on. I’m more Beatles than Rolling Stones. I’ll never criticize the Rolling Stones, but I mean for me, the Beatles, they changed the world, they changed the music in the world. At that time, us Italians suffered more than anybody, because we were selling Italian music all over the world. The problem was that when somebody became a-la-mode, they were followed, and the problem of Italy, and France especially, was that they would take western music, and add Italian and French lyrics over it. So, people with potential lost some of their creativity. For example, Fabrizio De André, one of Italy’s greatest poets, was a musician who could not travel, because his songs were written with the text being the main focus. The melody became poorer as a result. Music is a melody. For example when Toto Cutugno released the song L’italiano, it was a worldwide hit, while in Italy it wasn’t popular.

Waiter: “Are You Interested In The Dish Of The Day, Spaghetti And Meatballs?”

When one says “spaghetti and meatballs” to an Italian, they get a red card right away! I opened my restaurant, here in Hotel Cavalier, when I didn’t feel like singing anymore. It felt like selling ice cream in Alaska. So one time, this man came to my restaurant and asked: “Why is there no spaghetti and meatballs here?” I said, “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t exist in Italy!” He answered, “No, no, you cannot be Italian.” I told him, “In Italy, if you ask for spaghetti and meatballs, they’ll look at you as though you’ve come from Mars!”

How Is It To Play Live?

Well, for example, sometimes artists get upset if they are playing in a piano bar; they want to be heard. I remember there was one concert I did in Washington D.C. in 1997 – it’s a funny story. The embassy of Saudi Arabia in Washington contacted me to play for a party they were holding – so I went. The prince was in London with his plane, and he wanted me to go to London and Washington with him, but there was really no way to find a plane to reach London at the time. So they arranged it for me, I arrived in Washington, they toured me around in a limousine – I didn’t object, why not, it didn’t bother me! Afterwards, we saw the residence of Prince Bandar. The idea of the party that evening was that there were two rooms to entertain the guests. The guests were composed of seventy people, thirty five ambassadors and their spouses, and I remember Colin Powell was also there. They would have dinner in one room, then move to the next room where there was a piano. This wasn’t the kind of thing one did every day – so when the time came, I was sitting at the piano with seventy people distributed very quietly and attentively around me. Up until then I was having a good time – tourism, pictures, and fun! I looked around the room and noticed some people who were familiar with me and my music. Knowing this, I started with a good first song. By the way, never mess up the first song, it is the “Hi, nice to meet you,” and so I did an Italian, Spanish, and French song. I started with Que Sera, Sera, and then said a few words to welcome them. Afterwards, I went with the most popular songs in the world. Volare, Al Italiano, La Vie En Rose, My Way, New York New York, and so on. I was trying to collect all the keys to open all the doors! The funny thing was that at one point, Colin Powell stood up, I thought that he was gonna put me in jail at that momernt. Instead, he said, “Sorry I don’t want to disturb you, but can I sing a small piece with you?” So I said, “please go ahead,” and he sang the chorus of “Volare Oh Oh, Cantare Oh Oh Oh Oh” and got a big applause – this is just to tell you how to smell out what to play for who!

Where Do You Live Currently?

In Italy. I returned because we are discussing making an album – well these days it’s called a CD, even though the album was much more authentic really, it’s like reading the news online versus reading the newspaper. It’s a very different experience really, but maybe I’m just used to this. It might be a double-album. I will pour my life into it and leave a nice souvenir. I have a contact, and if it works out that will be wonderful. Anyway, a few friends and I were talking, and we said, “Why don’t we go to Lebanon, contact a few people and try to get this album going?” If not, then we’ll see friends and rest anyway!

What Are You Doing These Days? Are You Still Singing?

Yes, yes of course. This is important to me. I’m working on – and this is more heavy because it needs more planning – a comedia musicale. I would like to return to instances from my childhood. The place I spent my childhood in famous granite quarry, which was also used in constructing the Milan Duomo, so there were some people working on it. My father was a chef-de-cuisine and he had opened a kind of Tratorria, and I met the kind of people who would come and drink and sing. So, I will go back to this story, which is part of where I am from – Lago di Maggiore. At that time there was a kind of contraband, you know the kind that passes the border which would go to Switzerland at night, get cigarettes, and bring them back to Italy to sell them in the morning. Things like this are also nice things to remember.

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This interview was originally published in AUB Outlook on March 28, 2017.

Sami Hawat is a renowned Lebanese singer, songwriter, and actor with a career that spans several decades. His work includes several personal albums such as Shreet Ghayr Houdoudi, Enno Ya’ni, Fi Shi Ma Shi, and Al Ra’I Al ‘am, in addition to notable collaborations with other artists. He has also acted in several stage plays, including Sahriye, Nazl Al Sourour, and the famous role of Reda in Benesbe La Bokra Shou? He shared some of his insights with me over coffee by the Corniche.

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Where Were You Born?

They say I was born in Beit Chabeb although my family is originally from Jbeil, and way back before them, we were from Thessaloniki in Greece. I grew up in many places – Jbeil, where I grew up with my grandfather that I loved very much – where I always used to run away to. My dad was an Arabic teacher and that’s where he met my mother Therese. She was his student. I was always between Jbeil and Metn, when eventually at 16-17 years old, I came down to Ras Beirut and continued my life here.

Did You Choose To Move To Beirut?

Well, it was due to the political situation at the time. I didn’t choose really. It was 1975 and the war was starting. That was about the time when I was introduced to leftism. One should not choose a political idea simply because it sounds alluring – it’s a life choice and a complete package. So I am of the kind of people who do and then say, not say and then do. I live the lifestyle I chose. I would go back and forth between my village Zebdine and Beirut – and it was in that time when we were working on Benesbe La Bokra Shou and so on.

How do you know the Rahbanis?

Well, we lived close by to one another, they were living in Rabieh. So there was a familiarity before we really met again in Beirut. In Beirut, I was exposed to many different people. Thus began the cultural, literary, artistic, and musical period in Hamra. Many of causes were pushed forward by the leftist community at the time. But I would like to point that I don’t appreciate when communists also act superior to others and try to force their beliefs upon them. I mean I’m leftist, I chose this life, and should I make you feel bad that you’re not? Of course not! I chose this path, so like me and respect me as I am, or not at all. I respect all people, no matter where they’re from and whoever they are. The problem is that people these days have many negative preconceived notions with regard to one another. All of these things are present, and despite this, we must always look for the good in people – that’s the real issue.

Did You As A Group - You, Marcel Khalife, Ziad Rahbani And So On - Affect One Another?

We did affect one another because we were convinced of what we believed in – which was that we didn’t discriminate against others.

When Did Your Stage Life Begin?

We were in the Antelias Church choir and sang church songs. And then when we moved to Hamra, where I worked on Sahriye, Nazl Al Sourour, and Benesbe La Bokra Shou? We were then introduced to many different people. One was a playwright, another a musician, another a filmmaker, and so on… the artistic environment was absolutely brilliant. This period produced many notable artists.

You Were Young!

Yes, very young! We started off at 16-17 years old. For example, in Benesbe La Bokra Shou? we were really just kids! At least though, we were content. We had real causes, and the main cause was that of humanity. Now the main cause is that of money. I am proud of what I have done and of my achievements in the past and this helps me keep planting. We must always speak of planting… planting wheat… and the dream and hope are you, you young people – that’s the truth. And to know you guys, having a give and take, is what gives me hope.

When Did You Start With Music?

Well, music is related to my family. My mother, Therese’s family, were a musical family. I remember listening to music since I was young. My mother pushed me towards the arts. So, of course it was my mom and her family who pushed me the most. And though I have two brothers, Ghassan and Ghazi, I was the only one who delved into the arts.

Who Were Your Musical Influences?

There was nothing in specific really. I was always interested in comparing different kinds of music. So I used to mix between Egyptian and Syrian, Kurdish, Greek, and all other types of music. In short, you can say I like music between the Buzok and the Oud. The Oud is Egypt, and the Buzok is the whole other area of Greece, Russia, Armenia, and so on. They are all very close with different subtleties. In those areas, music is like a river that’s always flowing, it doesn’t stop. These things make me happy. It’s like an everlasting spring, in nature, in people, and in the future generations.

Do You See This Spring In Lebanon?

I do for sure, despite the political situation. I blame the older generation, not the youth, for selling themselves to corruption. For example, see what’s happening in Yerevan, and see how the Lebanese Armenians are in solidarity, it’s great.

Do You Think the Situation In Lebanon was Better Before the Civil War?

It was much better. There was more humanity and people’s main concern was not just money. And even the politicians had a higher level of humanity. Even if they were from different backgrounds, they used to converse. In contemporary times, this divide is much sharper. Despite all of this, I am always hopeful. I am hopeful because I am here. And as long as I am here I will plant. I will keep planting. And even if not all seeds grow, some will surely sprout.

And Your Beret? Are the Rumors True?

Yes. Fidel Castro gave me one in Cuba. We went on a trip to Cuba and Santa Clara. I met Fidel Castro and saw where Che Guevara used to live.

Are You Working On Anything Now?

Now? Yes. In the present moment I am working on a project concerning children and children’s songs. The songs deal with issues for children, as well as for their parents. I mean, I am addressing children and their parents in order to remind them that they were once children. Let me tell you something. If something does not have the honesty and simplicity of children, it will not last.

When Does It Come Out?

Soon. Between now and a month. And I am finishing up my theatre in Zebdine. I built it myself over two and a half years with help from a few guys. We finished it in 2011, and since then have held many festivals. Many artists have played there; such as Abu Saleem, Amir Keserwani, Marcel Khalife, and many more. It has the capacity to fit a thousand people.

Is Anything Happening In The Summer?

Yes definitely!

After the interview, we finished our Nescafé by the seaside and walked back to Upper Campus. Sami mentioned that he’s expecting big things for the theatre this summer, so make sure to check out its Facebook page for updates and news on upcoming events. Also, keep an eye out for Sami’s new album, coming soon!

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This interview was originally published in AUB Outlook on April 19, 2016.

Khaled El Haber is a popular Lebanese musician with a musical career spanning many decades starting in the 1970s. He sings and composes in a variety of styles, most notably in folk and jazz. I recently met Khaled at his Beirut home where her shared some of his insights and experiences with me.

How Did You Get Into the World Of Music?

My dad bought me my first guitar at eight or nine years old. I asked my neighbor to tune it for me. My brother first started playing it. The same night, I stayed up all night and created my first song and played it to my parents. My brother later stopped but I continued and eventually had many teachers.

I was born in Msaytbe, next to Sakintel Helou. I was in the Frere School, in front of the abandoned Holiday Inn Hotel. I had a great Russian music teacher, we would discuss music a lot. Eventually when he travelled, I continued on my own. Then at 11-12 years old, I started composing and writing my own music. In Frere there were lots of guitarists. Then when I went to school in Sin el Fil, there were also people who played guitar and we made a band. This was in the early 1970s. At that point, I and Issam Hajali made a band called Rainbow Bridge – named after a Jimi Hendrix album. We used to practice like crazy. We were four band members. Me, Issam, Raymond Sabbah, and Ali Nehmeh. It was really the golden age for guitar and the Lebanese song. Music that was going around was things like the Rahbaniyet, Zaki Nassif, Sheikh Imam, you know, lots of open mindedness. On the other end of the spectrum there were The Beatles, Elton John, Led Zeppelin, The Moody Blues, Om Kalthoum, Sheikh Sayyed Darwiche, and then Bossa Nova. When the war had started. Chico was the only person who used to get Brazilian music and sell it. We used to listen to the likes of Gilberto, Astrud, Jobim – we didn’t have a problem with any kind of music really. This is what made this amalgam with us. For example, Issam was heavily influenced by Bossa Nova – as well as Ziad [Rahbani]. In 1975, I went into the army, and I asked if I could bring my guitar. There was another guy who also played – we teamed up as a duo and used to play in the barracks. That was where I first sang Kafarkela and Aytaroun. Eventually, people enjoyed it, and started asking me to teach their kids guitar and all kinds of things.

Oh yeah, before I went to the army, I got a scholarship to study music in Russia, but I didn’t end up going. So I continued music on my own – I started getting very involved in it. I started finding my fan base growing. That’s when I knew this was my path. There was a lot of criticism. People were telling me all kinds of things like to go sing in San Francisco. At the same time I was surrounded by people who loved this kind of music. Once I was asked to play a concert in Sour. They said it was a venue that fit a 100 or 200 people maximum. When I arrived, there were about 1500 or 2000 people. I arrived with eight songs and just my guitar, and no band. I asked myself, “What am I gonna play for all those people?” So I sang my eight songs twice, and the people were happy! Afterwards, I had worked with a few musicians and created a band. Then we started playing concerts. We used to play 2-3 times a week.

What Were Some of Your Musical Influences?

All kinds. Folk had a really big influence on me. Georges Moustaki, Léo Ferré. Gilbert Bécaud, Jacques Brelle. These guys really influenced me. They sang poems. There were also the Beatles and Pink Floyd – who were really something amazing. But my main influences were Lebanese – Fairuz, the Rahbani brothers, Zaki Nassif, Toufic el Bacha.

How Did You Enter the World Of Politics?

I am from a leftist family. My parents met in the Lebanese Communist Party. They were not even from the same sect. It’s not that my father actively tried to make me a leftist. I was inspired from the books at home, my parents, friends, their kindness, and their humanity. The first time I applied to the party I was fifteen years old. They didn’t accept me at the time. So I joined the Democratic Youth League and stayed for a few years. And that’s where I met my eventual wife. It was the kind of environment which pushed me to fight for humanity, dignity, and against unfairness, pain, and poverty. Then I joined the Communist Party and lasted a year or two, because I couldn’t stay in the meetings which lasted for six or seven hours! I’d rather focus on my work. I’m still a Communist myself now – perhaps more so than many who claim to be. But in my current position, I am more effective.

What About the Palestinian Cause?

We were raised with the Palestinian cause. In 1967, I was ten years old. In that event, I felt like I lost something dear to me. I’d always heard about what the Israelis did. There was no resistance at the time and I opposed the Israeli oppression to Lebanon and towards the whole region. The first song I ever wrote in English, and nobody knows this, when I was twelve, was called, “A Girl from Palestine” – I don’t remember anything from it.

I Noticed You Admired Mahmoud Darwiche, Tawfic Ziad, and Samih Qasim. Why Was That Exactly?

I used to read Mahmoud Darwiche since I was about fifteen years old. These three were our main inspirations. We related to Mahmoud the most because he was the most musical and rhythmic. I have worked with all of them, but not as much as others have. Even the way we wrote at that time was close to how they wrote. Oghniya Ela Sa’eh Mutajawel, Ela Habibati 3ala Sabeel lt Tatmeen. They also influenced us technically. I used to write in formal Arabic, and then eventually I changed to colloquial – it was closer to people.

You Also Wrote Your Own Music?

We were one of the very few who wrote our own music. For example, Ziad rarely ever used work from anybody else, he always wrote his own music. I wrote about 90% of my own work as well.

Have You Ever Thought About Leaving Lebanon?

In 1976 I went to Paris. They told us to take part in a festival that happens every year. So we went. Me, Marcel Khalife, and Elia Saba (of Ferkat al Ard) and they asked us to make a band, do a few shows in Paris, and come back. It was then where we created Ferkat Al Mayadeen, which now play with Marcel Khalife. But I couldn’t stay there. I stayed for three months. I had to come back and did so by ship. And funny enough, the day after I got back, they opened the airport! Later, we went to Paris and lived there for about five years.

Eventually, our work is for this country. Our target is these people here in Lebanon. I‘ve toured Europe and half the world, and have come across the Arab diaspora, and if you really believe in your cause, you must stay here no matter what the cost. People still criticize me, but am I going to sing to French people about Lebanon? Plus, I don’t sing “oriental” music for them to consider me exotic, my work is made for these people that I live with. I like to deal with Lebanese people as people.

What About Your Children?

I have two sons. Ramzi is doing his Master’s degree in Political Science in Spain. Rayane is working in music. He writes, composes, and is really helping me out in the music world. He does his own original compositions, his arrangements, my arrangements, management, and works with the instruments.

How did you meet Ziad Rahbani?

In 1976, The National Democratic movement took over the Official Lebanese Broadcasting station and they asked me to come and record a few songs. I recorded four or five songs there. One day I was there, they told me that Ziad crossed over from East Beirut. At that point, Ziad had surprised everybody. It was an achievement for somebody to be able to cross – they could’ve easily killed him. So, a common friend introduced us. I asked if he was interested in hearing what I had recorded and so he did, and he really liked it and thought it was great. But I was going to Paris the next day. He said it’s okay, we’ll collaborate soon, and that night we stayed over at a friend’s house and have remained close friends since then. When I got back, we lived together and even worked at a resto-pub called Pizza e Vino. We worked there for seven months every night. Him on the piano and me on the guitar. After seven months we asked ourselves, “what are we doing?” We weren’t making any money, and the money we did make was spent on our friends!

What About Your Collaboration, Ahmad Zaatar?

At that point, Tal el Zaatar had taken place and Mahmoud Darwiche had released Ahmad Zaatar. I composed it and I asked if he would arrange it. He said of course, and eventually locked himself in his house for a month and came up with what you know as the arrangements to the track. But we were living together at the time, and we’re still great friends today. We don’t just relate in terms of music, but also in terms of politics. All the political choices we took, we took together, and they ended up in the same direction.

Was The Album Where You Collaborated Famous?

Yes, that one was pretty famous. The least popular one was Ahmad Zaatar. People didn’t feel like waiting twenty minutes to listen to it.

Is The Story of the Famous Lebanese song, Sobhi El Jeez, Based on a Real Event?

No, no it isn’t. This was a song Ziad created for a play that never saw the light of day. It was meant to be the finale. He asked me if I would sing it, I said sure. There were no musicians in the country so I played drums and he played double bass on the track. He started marking the bass neck with pencil so he could know the notes. And eventually I played guitar and he played piano.

Yes I Always Noticed That The Bass Fumbles Halfway Through!

Yeah, he didn’t know how to play bass! There weren’t any musicians around and even if there were, we didn’t have any money to pay them!

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This interview was originally published in AUB Outlook on April 11, 2016.

Lebanese music is often framed through familiar binaries: traditional and modern, Eastern and Western, popular and experimental. While useful, these categories tend to flatten a more complex artistic reality, obscuring a lineage of musicians whose work resists such distinctions altogether.

Ferkat Al Ard is one such example — a Lebanese ensemble that occupies a rare cultural space, neither conciliatory nor oppositional. Their music does not seek to reconcile East and West, but allows them to coexist, unforced, within the same sonic landscape.

مطر الصباح، أخرجني

من جديد

لأسلم على، شوارع المدينة

و حفنة من الرمال

في قلبي

لم أكن أكيداً من دربي

عندما كان المطر المبكر

يوقظ في الشوارع النائمة

سجناء المدينة

و لكن مطر الفجر المقبل

سيكون غزيراً

وسيجرف الرمال عن قلبي

وكل الطوابق العليا

وكل آثام المدينة

وكل آثام المدينة

وكل آثام المدينة

كلمات و الحان: عصام الحاج علي

The music unfolds with layered restraint: choral backing voices that lift rather than embellish, a measured saxophone solo by Toufic Farroukh, and, finally, a piano passage by Ziad Rahbani that brings the piece into sharp focus. What emerges is something moving — recognizably Lebanese, yet unlike anything typically associated with Lebanese music.

The impression lingers. What initially feels unfamiliar gradually reveals itself as quietly assured, even complete. This was not an imitation of Western forms, nor a hybrid designed for easy classification. Rather, it was an autonomous musical statement — drawing from both Eastern and Western traditions without subordinating itself to either, and in doing so, articulating a form all its own.

Ferkat Al Ard was formed in the late 1970s around three core members: Issam Hajali, Toufic Farroukh, and Elia Saba. The group released their album Oghneya on cassette in 1978, and later, a vinyl re-issue in 1979. Owing to the financial and material constraints of the civil war, only a small number of copies were pressed. The album has since become a rare and highly sought-after recording.

Years later, I had the opportunity to meet Issam Hajali, who reflected on the formation of the band and the circumstances that shaped it.

How did you know you wanted to be a musician?

You know, I can’t tell you. I really don’t know how I ended up being a musician. I remember when I was eighteen, my father had a hard time accepting it; so he asked me to choose between staying at home or being a musician – I chose to be a musician. It was a big choice – but we later became great friends again when he saw that my musical career had taken off.

In the beginning it was hard. I had pressed my own cassettes for a Ferkat Al Ard early release called Muwasalat Ila Jisr Al Ard and used to try selling one or two a day just to get by. Now a record or cassette for Ferkat Al Ard sells for thousands! Other than those cassettes, I really never made any money from music.

Can you tell me about your beginnings of Ferkat Al Ard?

Well, it was hard to make music at that time. We had to compromise a lot. If a song didn’t include sounds of shooting and bombs, people weren’t interested in buying or relating to it.

I’ve listened to Oghneya and found that it really is hard to categorize. It contains some really avant-garde moments.

Yes, well, again, we really had to make lots of compromises for it to go through with the producers. It is very hard to categorize it – it touches upon many genres and influences. I remember listening to Year of the Cat by Al Stewart, a beautiful song with so many different instrumental solos and every single one was significant – I appreciated that. For example in Matar Al Sabah, people were telling us that when we stopped singing there was no need for music anymore – it was then that I always tried to prove them wrong. So we kept the background singers, saxophone, and piano solo. Entazerni, for example, is a disco track with a heavy-political theme. I don’t know how that one turned out disco – maybe it was the popular sound at the time – but it turned out nice. There’s one track called, Lahnon Lamra’ati Wa Biladi which contains a four minute jam session followed by a brief piano and vocal piece. I was sure the producers wouldn’t understand it, so when we were showing them the final cuts for the album, I fast forwarded through that part! They asked, “What’s that?” I told them, “nothing to worry about!”

The album contains some of the most famous Arab poetry of the 1970s. On which basis did you choose them?

Yes, well, that’s as much as we knew at the time. People like Mahmoud Darwiche and Samih Qasimwere celebrities in the art world and we admired their poetry, and being in the midst of a highly politicized war, we felt we had to address these political issues.

What about Ziad Rahbani?

Ziad… I met Ziad in a small pub – which doesn’t exist anymore – at the end of Hamra next to the current Commodore Hotel called Pizza e Vino. I used to frequent the pub with friends, it was a nice place with an acoustic piano and a bustling music scene. There, I met a Brazilian guy who opened up my musical horizons, he really taught me a few things that stayed with me – I was introduced to Bossa Nova and new guitar techniques in depth – and Ziad and I connected on that level. Plus we were mixing Western and Eastern types of music – which was a completely fresh and special approach at the time – but people weren’t ready to accept it yet. So the band and I showed our music to Ziad and he liked the idea. So we went straight to the studio. He was really great to work with, always trying out new possibilities, and wrote the string arrangements. It was a great experience – he always does things his way, in a great way.

The album has a well-known cover amongst record collectors – what’s the story behind that?

The cover was taken on the street where the band and I were living at the time – in an area next to Wetwat. Actually, you know, the house is still there. In fact, Ziad was also living there at the time and his house shows on the left – where the elevated balcony is. Joseph Sakr lived on the floor above him so we were all neighbors for about a year! Yeah, the cover is about how Ziad saw me – so he asked me to wear a hat and long coat and walk down the street alone.

Did Ferkat Al Ard tour?

Well, we toured and did a few great concerts. We toured a lot in Lebanon – we believed in our musical cause. We did a great concert in West Hall [at AUB]. In fact – we were doing a version of Matar Al Sabah and thought the recording device was on, it turned out it wasn’t and it cut mid-way! Shame, I think it was an even better version than the studio version. We also went to Cuba, Algeria – lots of places. We were very idealistic and believed in our musical and cultural cause – looking back, I think it was a little overkill. In 1980, we took a drastic turn musically. We told our producers that we could not continue to make music the same way – we wanted to move forward. I had to make a choice: or I had to starve and die off as a believer of politics – but realizing how corrupt it all is – I thought that we, as a band, still had a lot to experience, especially in terms of music.

What about after 1980?

In 1980, we dove straight into making music, we didn’t want to waste any more time. We were eager to learn and produce. Before we could record, we made our own studio in the house – which took about three years because we didn’t have any money! In this time we released Ta’amulet Al Kouz. Then Toufic left for France in the mid-eighties so it was just me and Elia – we worked as real close friends – all day and all night – except when we fought (but even then it turned out just fine!) Later, we came out with Ta’amoulet el Kouz Bi Tamuz in 1983-4. Eventually, in 1985, we released the cassette version of Hija’a– which was a self-produced work which, looking back, I cherish the most out of all my work I’ve created until now.

You also played guitar on Abu Ali.

Yes! In fact that’s a very funny story. We had flown into Greece to record it and Abu Ali - being a complex and long piece of music - took about a week for everybody to record. I just walked into the studio and recorded my bit in ten minutes! We all had a laugh at that.

What about the nineties?

In 1992 I went to Canada – and had the chance to stay there and really pursue a musical career. I showed my music to many people there and it was really well-received. I had to make a choice: I either had to go back to Lebanon or to stay in Canada. I came back to Lebanon for my kids. But looking back, it was, and still is, hard working in Lebanon – I also taught high school philosophy for twenty-five years and retired from that recently. Eventually in 2000, I decided to take a trip to Nepal and found it to be one of the most beautiful countries I had ever visited. I began buying merchandise from there – all kinds of curiosities – and opened up the current store I am running in Mar Elias street.

As the conversation drew to a close, Issam played a final track. What emerged from the speakers was quietly arresting: a new composition anchored by the kanun, woven together with oud, guitar, understated female backing vocals, and a dense, confident bass line. When asked about future releases, he paused before answering, “Yes, we all have different goals and feelings now. We see things differently”.

Readers are encouraged to explore the legacy of Ferkat Al Ard and Issam Hajali’s broader body of work. Ferkat Al Ard’s music is available on SoundCloud and YouTube; searching for “فرقة الأرض” leads to their full album Oghneya. Hajali’s contributions can also be heard on Rima Khcheich’s albums Yalalalli and Falak, as well as on Tania Saleh’s recent release, A Few Images. A new album by Hajali is currently in progress, promising a thoughtful addition to an already influential catalog. Beyond music, he also runs a delightful store in Mar Elias.

It is also worth noting the trajectory of Toufic Farroukh, an original member of Ferkat Al Ard who went on to establish himself as a respected musician in his own right. Based in France since the mid-1980s, Farroukh continues to release albums and returns regularly to Lebanon. The band remain close friends.

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This interview was originally published in AUB Outlook on March 8, 2016.