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Metamorphosis is an on-going project exploring the idea of how certain sounds transform a human being physically, emotionally and mentally. The project is made up of a theory that explores how the origins of certain sounds play a part in human transformation. The main idea of the theory addresses how one is taken back into a past time when hearing certain sounds, and even at times, is taken into the future.

Stemming from memories, dreams and images from our imagination, a short story follows the theory in order to put it into perspective and document its fundamental ideas. The story is based on a myriad of real experiences, but modified to relay a fantasy; it entails the transformations of a certain human being that is shaped by his surrounding sounds which shake him between his past, present and future.

The term metamorphosis refers to the biological transformation of an organism from one state to another. FIBRE’s project however, aims to relay the physical, emotional mental transformations experienced by humans from one state to another through sounds.

Theory

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Our relentless search for exciting, novel, and rewarding nourishment of the body, soul and mind is integral to our state of being. Our energy in making peace with the past takes precedence over forgetting it or even forgiving it. It should be acknowledged, embraced and should even evoke our sense of curiosity at times. Sounds are an essential element in our development as human beings and can relay a thousand messages that words cannot. Our appetite can be fed with the sounds of music that can both elevate and demote us physically, emotionally and mentally. How is our taste in sounds and music defined? When our subconscious rises to the surface, there dwell fragments of our written and unwritten history. Our conscious state is embellished with countless layers - awareness that our subconscious is lurking in a deep dark void shedding light on the conscious state, awareness of being aware, awareness of ‘self’ and awareness of ourselves progressing through multiple experiences. All these layers shape what sounds we embrace and what sounds we reject.

I was waiting for you somewhere

Then I came home, to my not-home

To a book marked with post-it notes

Instructing me

‘Meet me here’

‘Close the door’

‘Depart’

I came to meet you in the rain

You took me by the hand up some stairs

We sat down on seats neatly arranged in rows

We were told that through certain techniques and by making certain sounds we can sky rocket into space.

Unknowingly, with the constant flux of our minds, we rarely recognise that our taste for music is predetermined by sounds we’ve formerly known, loved or despised. We forever perceive and embody sounds delivering a whirlwind of questions. Why does this sound remind me of my mother? Why do I hate the sound of dripping water? Why do the sounds of sirens comfort me? At times the answer is obvious and often lies in a memory of the past – ‘the sounds of sirens remind me of crisp blue evenings in London.’ At other times, the answer needs a deeper understanding. Our metamorphosis through sound can be seen as both a connection and disconnection from our senses. The result is holistic; it is seen in how the mental and emotional affects us physically, the movement of our hands, our legs, our feet, our necks and the likes.

What we take from these physical, emotional and mental reactions is a profound understanding of our present state and of ourselves. These moments are able to fill the gap between our past and present putting together the fragments that were lost along the way. These experiences are tangible manifestations of the subconscious and the fleeting moments within our own history. At times it is difficult to decipher if what we think we remember is an honest account of actual events, or a memory of someone sharing the story with us, or if the missing pieces were left out purposefully. But what is certain is that there lies a true trace of these events, ideas or experiences. Similarly, with our taste in sounds, we are able to define and refine them based on what we want to keep and what we want to leave from our past. Our reactions to sounds help us define a new state of being – be it for a moment or be it a gradual step in the long-term project of self-discovery and understanding.

That late night jazz

Did I least expect,

To drop the chords and hear your voice

Consecutive verses and bridges in

These recordings now over-written by blank tracks

Now consumed by the black holes you left me with

What is it about you that leaves me confused?

White noise versus the mute

A street stump versus long steps

Your razzle versus my dazzle

We’ll see where our ruptured avenues will lead us,

But in the mean time, just let the photographs fall, Honey.

There is close to no definite answer or concrete explanation of this sensation so we envision our own through reinterpreting the old and branding it anew. At times our experiences are simply the fruitful means to an answer and an honest truth. Sounds are catalysts in elevating ideas through a very human, evolution like process. Sometimes it is our lonesome cowboy spirit that takes us to higher places, at other times it is when we travel around like a pack of wolves that we feel connected, integrated within a family. There are instances when we are taken into another realm, lasting a few moments only, and at other times these moments grow irrecoverable, forever leaving a stance on our being.

Changing colours on breaking news

Adrenaline on fire

The world is on fire

Hugging circles

Straight lines are a myth

Inhibitions left in the mews.

She’ll hold your hand,

In the blue and the white

But will not let go

When the clouds say goodnight

When they say speed carelessly, recklessly, messily.

On the stage, you will each take your stand

Knowing is fluctuating.

Hiding is dreaming.

Fighting is leaving.

Believing is lying.

Flying is dying.

Dying is living.

When the little hand and the big hand have reached their second round,

You’ll forget where you’re going.

The haunting revels in the emancipation,

Safety, as he shuts the door, shut the door.

Shut it quick before she hears that sound.

Short Story

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Whilst stirring the sugar into his morning coffee, in his aching sigh he would hear the sound of stainless steel knocking inside of a porcelain mug. The same sound he would hear under dark umbrellas sheltering strobe lights. It was happening again, he was getting sucked back into a black hole of memory through no fault of his own. The hairs on his arms were standing, like a plant growing towards the sunlight. His skin began to itch as his veins protruded nearer to the surface. He began to recall the tone of his mother’s voice. He remembered it as desperately sad in her banal day-to-day activities, and aggressively frustrated in the peaks of her day. The acridness in his mother’s voice and the acidic words that she would scream from rooftops was enough to send his skin crawling. Yet with this memory comes the image of boiling pots with the steam sizzling between the lid and the edge of the pan, as if lips, whispering stories of exhaustion and defeat. It was more like a shriek, the sound unforgettable and irreplaceable amidst the milky sunshine of hazy afternoons seeping into the white kitchen. A white kitchen wall blotched with irrecoverable yellow stains from her boundless cooking.

He would tie his shoelace and the feel of the cotton mixed with synthetic fibres was both unnerving and sensational. Perhaps it was symbolic of the beginning of his escape from home. This escape he would make daily right before his mother would remove the lid of the pan and the screeching would turn into a hefty exhale as the steam rose towards the ceiling. Dragging his feet out onto old white and red marble tiles decorated with cracks, it is the moment right after the gate screeches open then shuts, that he is ensued by the blissful silence of the street. A reflex, his eyes would squint fighting the airless light that dryly radiated from the sun.

In this daily ritual, he would see his father sitting on a white plastic chair holding a cigarette with a brown tip, accumulating ash on the end that would helplessly fall whilst in conversation with the neighbours. But for him, it was still silent, and the conversation was a mere murmur coming in from a distance in slow waves. He would stand on the chipping steps in front of the gate to his home for a minute absorbing the silence before moving further. As if in slow motion, the mumbling of soft banter would be crudely interrupted by the screech of the leg of the chair scratching against the uneven concrete. His father gets up, and time has come back to its normal pace, the haze of the sunlight has cleared out and the air is bland. Tasteless. His father’s hazel eyes would inform, instruct and pester him to go back inside, telling him to come up and sit with them at the table. All he could hear is the sound of his father’s lips parting, the dry swallow in his throat as a result of his endless smoking and the sound of his slippers roughly embracing the ground. Behind him, the slam of the metal gate would leave an after taste of blood in his mouth with the vibration and echo of each bar on the edge of falling out of its socket.

He was coming back but still felt tethered to the ground of his kitchen floor as he was slowly disconnecting from the sound of steel and porcelain harmonising in brown liquid. He was back. He felt lethargic and drained of energy. Yet he pushed himself to get on with his day. Dragging himself to stand under his showerhead, he turned the handle and the instant sound of water crashing into the tub jolted him back into a vague place of memory. His muscles started to spasm and his whole body tensed up. They were trying to tell him something, to fill in the gaps between a former time he knew and the time he was in now. A gap that was decorated by various hues of grey suits that defined him from 9am to 5pm, and that was abruptly stripped apart by no light and black ceilings in the late night hours that freed him. He was going back, it was happening again.

It was many years ago when he was on the commute from his home in the country to the city, that he now remembered being on a rickety bus that was the only means to his freedom - he had remembered falling asleep on the journey.  It was a sunny morning but it was raining, the Gods were crying for him. He remembered his dream when he momentarily fell asleep – he was falling face up into a pit of fire. It was all black and there were only the orange and yellow flames of the blaze beneath him. It seemed never-ending until he woke up to find his head resting on the window of the bus and the sun glaring into his eyes. He could only hear the sound of the rain knocking on the top of the bus and spitting at his window. Why were they crying for him? They understood his desire to be free from the constraints of the country and also how little he could do to grab that freedom he longed for.

There he was, awake again and back under his showerhead being beaten by the scorching hot water. He was back and felt both revived and wearied. Revived, as he understood something he had let go amiss before, and wearied as to why it took so long to understand what was happening to him. It was in this instant that he understood better the man he had become today, at times devoid of sentiment and empathy and at other times, enriched with love and joy when he remembered how free he was. How he was so in control of his life now and relied on no one. He felt weary about the fact that the gap in time between his youth and adulthood was so unclear, shrouded by a mist of unfathomable events and reactions to those events. How he would desperately seek the adoration of others who gave him no face and how he would reject the ones who showered him with love.

He was out of his door with this thought still marinating in his mind and his red tie limiting the fresh air he should have been breathing in. The racket of cars and sirens swirling in and out of roads between gigantic metallic structures holding the homes of people he found liberating and saddening. Was it possible that behind these high towering windows rest people stomaching their past and present striving to make comprehensible their future? Or was it just him? It was when he was crossing the road and a car slammed the breaks, burned the ground with its tyres and its bonnet glided across a signpost that he was instantly immobilised. The sound of colliding metal shook him and made him shudder from his spine up to his temples. Everything around him got lost in a grey fog as the sound resonated through his nerves, seeping in and out of his bloodstream. He was going back.

It was during his daily escape that he spent one of the evenings sitting with his thoughts and leaning on the front of his car in the fresh and crisp air of the country. The sound of silence was partially penetrated by the singsong dance of crickets hiding yet calling to be recognised. His thoughts would merge with theirs and the line of difference between him and the crickets was thin. Two beams of light in the mars black night intrude on his vision from a distance. He clarifies that the light is coming from a car as the sound of its roaring engine makes itself known. The lights are getting closer and are glaring at him from a shorter distance now, the beams more circular and large as if two moons haunting him. With no more than several seconds to absorb what is happening, before he knows it, in an instant his legs are crushed between the oncoming car and his own. The heavy thud of the car overtakes the slight sound of his knees crackling after they collaborated in synchronisation. In his head, the sound had submerged into a thick liquid running through his body with the heat rising to his ears. No longer translucent but rather the sound had become opaque and ubiquitous.

The sheer force of gravity is what kept him pinned to the concrete floor of the street. He was back and was awakened by the racketing horns of cars demanding him to move, to get out of the way.  800 909 727 were the numbers flickering across his eyes and he could not fathom why or where they came from. He walked on leaving the mess behind him, as if a trace of evidence with 800 909 727 lingering in the background. He was being ensued by a dark void as he walked on through the city, crossing streets, passing strangers on benches accompanied by their ham sandwiches, filtering the sounds of chewing mouths. He could feel his tie being dragged behind him as he struggled through the wind as if in a grey sandstorm with black and white lines emanating from zebra crossings into mid-air. The numbers were spitting themselves at him, 800 909 727 – and he landed.

At the edge of the shore, not too long ago he was spread out across the white sand of his countryside’s near-by beach. Only his feet were immersed into the water that would hug his toes and spread itself between them. The sputtering sound of the waves breaking and forming took precedence over the distant sound of parents yelling at their laughing children. With every break of the water, a silence arose lasting a mere instant before the waves would roar and reform themselves. Almost in a trance, he would look down past his chest, stomach and thighs and see the number 8 and 0 forming as the water washed away around a tribe of seashells as if in ceremony. It was the 9th of September and it was 7:27 in the morning that he now remembered he had washed himself out across the shore. The pink and white seashells that encircled him were hissing at him, telling him he will be okay, that they understood his empty spirit - his empty spirit that would one day be enriched by perhaps trivial passions and the faint touch of others. A spirit that will one day be fully engrossed with and by another who would archive her trivial passions alongside his.

He was back to his metallic reality when he found himself sitting at his desk in a cubicle disturbed by the sounds of paper being picked up by printers and drooling them out from another end. A phone was ringing and its sound was piercing to his eardrum tightening his bones and cutting off his supply of air. His lungs suddenly grew minuscule as he was gasping for breath. The melody of a voice answering the phone quickly revived him and filled his chest with oxygen. He was quickly lapsing, going and coming back in a labyrinth of time with his feelings spiralling out of control. It was unfathomable until he realised that the voice that saved him was so sweet when it ushered pleasurable greetings and compliments into the phone. It reminded him of her and he understood how it was her who was now filling his heart with sweet somethings.

Battling his way back home after the day dibbed and dabbed frolicking with time, he shortly found himself at his front doorsteps. He treaded on a leaf stuck to the wet concrete ground and the crackle took him back aggressively - back to the street he grew up in in the country. That night was blue and his eyes were entwined with the light shining onto the dark wet street coming from underneath the umbrella of his daily corner shop. It was the only sign of life that night. All he could hear was the buzzing, frying and knocking of moths against the bright white tube. He looked up and saw his balcony, the balcony that his mum would sit at drinking her coffee every morning watching over her husband down in the street trying to make up for his lost time with her.  That balcony and its never-ending stories always subdued him as he sat staring into blank poor lives hustling beneath him along his small road. When he looked up he felt an emptiness and a blank understanding of his mother’s love for him. He heard the flick of a switch and his balcony turned into a warm shade of orange decorated with black shadows of hanging clothes along the drying line. The silhouette of his mother swayed past and approached the front of the balcony. High above him, she was now much closer but moving slowly. Yet again, time caught up with him as the sound of her ring colliding with the metallic bar of the balcony sent an echo down the street and jolted him back to his now reality.

You are enraptured in the motion that your body gives birth to, in response to mechanical and butter like beats. You are climbing and flying, ascending to the raptures of your mind. You are with Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, with each and every sound a reverie, taking you into the untouched depths of your soul, as if you cannot get any higher. You are ecstatic for the moment, crumbling into a million little weaknesses, until you have reached your maximum height. There is no more going up, the only way out is downwards.

Downwards and backwards, with the deepest craving for comfort. That comfort you seek in the locked up drawers of your mind, that carry your past and memories of already lived moments that you wrote off as joyous before signing them away as no longer necessary. It is the contents of these drawers that hold your wildest escapades that were fleeting moments, the sources of your ecstasy. For the future and looking forward is too mystified and carries no enigma, nowhere near as much as fear and mystery.

When the end of the year comes about and dawns on us, we are now so naturally inclined and programmed in a certain way to immediately start thinking about something new. For those of us who sway away from creating new year’s resolutions that we know will fail as soon as we voice the words, we still can’t help but feel the need to do something or change something. Perhaps it is the sense of validation that we are constantly consciously and unconsciously seeking. A validation that tells us we exist, that we are here, we are feeling, we are leaving a mark on someone somewhere somehow. Some of us set new aspirations, or aspirations that have always been on our bucket list but always failed to reach the surface. It got me thinking about the danger that can come with this feeling. We risk not living in the moment and absorbing what is truly around us in our present state, with our minds wandering off into the abyss that is the future, or by dwelling on the archives of our past, leaving the present even if momentarily.

I started thinking deeply about the notion of forgiveness. The feeling of being let down and disappointed by someone you thought you knew, or by something that didn’t take you where you hoped, is an excruciating feeling. In turn at times, we think that being resentful and enraged helps us shut down this disappointment, but that is hardly ever the case. What I have come to realise is that in fact, feelings of bitterness and rage prolong the process of a genuine and clean healing. Someone dear to me told me that forgiving is a selfish act, it releases you from a burden, and allows for a healthy and much-needed detachment from something or someone that may in fact, not belong to us, at least not anymore. I suppose a question we ought to ask ourselves, is why we find it difficult to forgive from the onset? To an extent, feelings of anger and resentment are indeed a validation that we are living. Our highs and lows are designed in our minds to feed this void that is unknown and unclear, which is the question of our existence.

One day, under the sun, beneath the towering buildings, there was what seemed to two people a revelation. The idea of joining the passion of two people and to share it with others was born, then and there, one sunny Saturday afternoon. An individual’s passion for writing and the written word, and another’s passion for photography and telling a story, merge and mesh and kiss each other over the common and mutual love for music. It was the passion of two people, and their passion to exist, which gave birth to a simple and pure project, named FIBRE. Just as anything, just as the love affair itself, it thrived, it boomed, it declined, it died and at times it is revived. When taking apart the concept of this project itself, one can see it is made up of layers of passions that are chosen to make us feel alive. Anyone in love with music can tell you, the sensation of certain sounds that stir us are close enough to some of the sensations of love. Comfort and freedom, joy and fulfilment, serenity and excitement to name a few. FIBRE’s connecting thread was the music. There was and still is an intense admiration for sounds and their abundances of glory and mystery, the only layer in this project that remained constant and did not die.

It is funny because the writer fell in love with photography, and the photographer fell in love with writing, and the lovers fell in love with themselves. Music was the saving grace when we were sent to purgatory ready for judgement day. It was music that made the connection and that broke it. It was the intensity of such a passion that stirred the relentless entering and exiting of souls around us, and with each other. It developed into a love-hate relationship with the music where we lost, gained, came to and left people. The power is in the sheer magnitude it has in bringing people together who are all in search of something. Unaware of what exactly, yet sure it is something; how long do we continue the search and when do we know if our answer has been found? And just like love, the obsession with music and all that is affiliated with it can always, at any time, bring about the threat of destruction. It mirrors love itself in its flourishing flaws of intensity, sacrifice, demolition, and we have witnessed far too many times the consequences of this obsession.

Our relentless and never-ending energy and effort in feeling something and search for something is what keeps us going back, almost refusing to learn the lesson. What is the price we pay to feel anything? The obsession can be limiting, blinding, trapping and detrimental when handled carelessly. So inevitably, we ought to continue with a constant strive to feed our passions and to learn and feed the vortex of our pleasurable sensations. We ought to continue to gather the fragments that feed the puzzle, acknowledging that it may never be complete, but each move in our life is a stepping-stone to feed our sense of belonging. We ought to celebrate our healthy feelings letting go of all that is destructive. Here we are some hundreds of days later, still dying and surviving.

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Written by: Shams Al Badri & Walid Nehmé

https://www.mixcloud.com/FibrePassion/fibre-sound-w-rapha%C3%ABl-top-secret-telmiz-paulo-martinez-walid-nehm%C3%A9/

Fibre talks with ‘A Guy Called Gerald’ & ‘Siamak Amidi’ about Gentrification and its effects on the music scene.

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        Are we so inclined to renew and brand anew almost everything around us? Are we always seeking for change regardless of the costs? Our favourite places are no longer our favourite, the people we thought we knew no longer do we know them. A particular quirk is at first an attraction, until it surfaces in full light and becomes a banal normality, and it is only then do we decide to change it, or leave it. Our environment is constantly evolving and devolving, some might say, in both a natural and unnatural manner, within and without our control. But one thing that hardly ever changes is a person’s true solace. For some it is their life long lover, their family, a morning cigarette, literati in blue and green or music. No matter the subject, it can give a sense of constancy depending on the circumstances. It can cushion, reveal, unravel, emancipate and make you face yourself. In our day-to-day, light-years beneath the black surface of twinkling lights, reign our metallic towers, the mayhem of shuttles and machines, as if in a sci-fi fiction, we are the monsters looking up. We forget to blend in with our natural surroundings, to immerse ourselves in all that is hand-crafted, to be lovers and artists of whatever kind. Then there are the few, dabbling in and out of the iron buildings and daytime lunacy forever trying to grab the stars, when everything around them is being stolen and lost. These few feel the urge to escape to the top or under the ground, because being in the middle is like being in purgatory, forever waiting on an answer, for the next step.

         The foggy taste of the holidays is in the air, it is five days away from Christmas and we are seated in the home of Siamak Amidi, waiting on a Guy, Called Gerald. A cat named Porto is minding his own business enwrapped in his own cravings.  The door opens to Gerald and he greets us in his full robustness. From the onset we can suss out that it will take a while to get him to warm up, but his intelligence is part of his aura. We were interested to know his take on Dubai, even though he is a regular visitor and show stealer at Analog Room. He extended his stay after his gig, which probably meant he was having a good time in this city, or was possibly avoiding something else. Then we discovered that regardless, “he feels at home so long as he is playing music.” And on being in London, his supposed home, he says, “I feel that my nose is being pushed out of my own home country.” Our conversation ensues with a discussion on his metropolitan city and where he lives and hangs out, and how the East part of the city has changed. We talked about Brixton in particular, and how it was once the area you would only dare to roll into if you weren’t from those ends, and how now it has become the equivalent to the gentrified Brooklyn of NYC. Having spent some time in NYC circa 1999, he shares that,

“Artists aren’t a threat to a ‘hood’ area or community.”

         A DJ, music guru, traveller and intelligent individual, Gerald shares his takes and observations on how the cities that he often travels to are changing, how the crowds and artists are reacting to the power of the corporate and the elite. There is a certain stigma that comes with nightlife, particularly with venues and artists that play certain genres and types of music. Quite simply, take Hip-hop and rap for example which is forever affiliated with violence, and then there’s Techno and its affiliation with drugs. These are mere examples of how these genres of music are perceived and the masses end up steering clear from areas where these scenes are strong. It is true that on many occasions, in many instances, over the decades, these genres of music have lived up to their stereotypes, with people being stabbed on a Hip-Hop night out, or overdosing on a Techno night-out, resulting in the shutting down of many of these venues overnight. However, it is a vicious cycle when an artist’s attempt to create and bring to light a sense of culture, is abused and used incorrectly. It is the artist as well as his or her followers that pay the price.

        But the irony is that the more artists infiltrate a particular area within a city over time, the ‘safer’ it becomes which in fact counteracts the initial rejection of a space, eventually appealing to wider parts of communities elsewhere. It becomes a calling for investors when they see and taste a cultural phenomenon on the rise. It is the industrial areas of big music cities such as Berlin and New York City that undergo these changes of gentrification, even though you would think no one would be interested in them. Yet what is happening is that they are being taken over by the masses, and their ‘underground’ music venues are being shut down and converted for other uses. Slowly, boutique cafés pop up, high-end stores come to life and the once raw part of the city becomes a kitsch replica of Manhattan. Prices rise and the ‘poor’ artists are driven out of their hub. It is indeed a vicious cycle of artists creating a space and it turning into a cultural, high-end investment, when most “true artists just want to be incognito.” The affect on the music scene is still not totally known, but the evidence is racking up with some of the greatest and most loved places closing up shop. Siamak asks though, “how are artists going to absorb these changes?” A question still too early and broad to answer.

         The approach of the city in question is very important in the sustenance or digression of its music scene. Take Berlin for example, one of the greatest providers of ‘underground’ music and urban venues, now also a target of gentrification. It bears a seamless attraction for artists from all over the world, which in turn makes us question, is this phenomenon also attracting investors to plot family friendly malls next to the renowned clubs? The changes in an urban landscape have a heavy consequence on the crowd and artists alike. The crowds in question may be driven to follow the mainstream scene, abandoning the true sounds of true artists, and the artist can be led into losing integrity in order to just make sales and a name for themself. When you analyse the Hip-Hop/Rap music industry today, it is entirely driven by the idea of ‘sex sells’ manipulating artists to feed further the numbness of a lot of so-called Hip-Hop music today. When in fact, for Siamak for example,

“Music is really about artistic invention, integrity and telling a story.”

         We cannot help but observe that this may be all in all a result of the system we are trapped in. A grand system of order, progression, capitalism and so on. When man is driven by his or her personal goals to success and achievement, what is the consequence that we are faced with? In the short term it is the loss of valuable moments that stir our souls, and in the long term it could be a total selling out and a reshaping of the arts in all spheres. It goes without saying that this vicious cycle of creating, sharing and succeeding has detrimental consequences where we can forget to touch base and can not recall our initial motivation, which is to do something different and honest. And so our true solace remains private and personal, untouched by others, forever radiating within the minorities.

        Are we being told or sold a story nowadays? These are some of the consequences of gentrification, its reference to the ‘renewing’ of a landscape and somewhat discreetly and overtly, the manipulating of artists, the music scene, and the disintegration of the ‘underground’ scene. In the end, more often than not, we find ourselves squeezing into tightly packed spaces that try to pay homage to the true sounds of true artists. Perhaps that is why we are so programmed to question, “why do all good things come to an end?” The question in itself hints at an awareness and anticipation that nothing lasts forever. And so we make do, we try to touch as if with a magic wand the faces and places around us, to feed our thirst, in our lifelong search and desire for the gentrification of our souls.

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Writer / Editor: Shams Albadri.

Photographer / Editor in Chief: Walid Nehme.

Siamak Amidi: https://www.residentadvisor.net/dj/siamakamidi

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       I remember stomping through the glossy marbled floor of Harrod’s department store back in my hay days of London, ready for a new day. My morning commute would have just ended and I am armed with an umbrella in one hand, a coffee in the other, and an unprecedented excitement in my head. An intriguing fella, always with an endearing and cheeky smile, a smile that told stories of charm and mischief, manned the department right behind mine. We had one clear goal in common, it was to sell dreams to the wealthy, to the wandering faces that walked in and out of the marble and golden walls of this ancient landmark of a department store. There is always more to a person than meets the eye, and at times it can be sussed out faster with some than with others, but what I remember about Mark, aka Maear Seaon was the way he talked. He was always poetic, always fluid as if in song when sending his morning greetings. That was all that stuck at the time, and several years passed, new countries lived in, jobs expired and new adventures began.

A mere stumbling on social media exposed where this soul had ventured off to, into the deep depths of London’s music scene, more precisely he became immersed in the hip-hop and rap genres. He was no longer selling dreams of lifestyle and product to the wealthy, but selling the truth to curious souls. Maear, Bones, A Boy Called Ric and MoSick together make up Jungle Brown. Together they created Flight 314, their first debut album taking after the name of a whole pi. So here I am seated in their cosy London studio filled with the nomadic objects of everyday life, trinkets and gems gathered from all over the world such as a coconut carved into an ashtray, asking him how and why and what made him do what he is doing. It was about taking control over his creative desire, putting into a tangible form and fruition his thoughts and ideas. And with that his entrepreneurial spirit kept taking off into further heights, taking him to the stages of the Jazz Café, the 02 Centre and London’s annual Carnival alongside the likes of Ghostface Killah. They have been doing what they love for years, as far back as when they were young’uns growing up in Bournemouth, until one day they reached their revelation, of joining up forces and going full throttle with their love for music.

A slight interlude as Bones the producer walks through the door, a bit thrown off with my presence in what is their sanctuary of a creative space, but it doesn’t take long for him to warm up and spill the beans on life and music. The challenge for him in making music is to always…

“…have belief in yourself and enjoy your own music regardless of what other people think.”

But then comes to mind the question, who are you making music for? Is it being created for the enjoyment of yourself or others? For your self-satisfaction? It is a question that artists of all likes debate with morally and internally; to what extent do they retain the authenticity of their work once it is a product, should it be shared with the world, should it adapt to various audiences or just be? That feeling of ‘self-belief’ can sway after numerous rejections, trials and tribulations but it is this exact feeling, once conquered, that keeps the momentum of creating. For Maear, it is “staying excited with your own hype” when not everyone understands what you are about from the get go. He continues on to describe an imaginary vortex, a picture he painted so well as an unearthly incubator of creativity and energy, that he needs to stay connected to in order to pursue his dreams.

The root of Maear’s inspirations come from “the idea that you can represent ideals, truths and ideologies in music” which may ultimately empower the listener by affirming their own thoughts and experiences. And hence his artist name – Maear (power) Season (moment), come rain or come shine, the truth will always take precedence.

“Music imitates life yet also creates life.”

Yet when dissecting his lyrics, they are far from crystal clear as he toys with innuendos, metaphors and subliminal messages to deliver the truths that he discovers along the way; truths on love, life and relationships. In Repeat, you can hardly guess that he is actually speaking of maintaining a relationship in our modern world, fueled with desire and counteracted by a lack of soul-to-soul understanding. For Bones, his inspiration comes from the people surrounding him, and to lay a beat as a foundation for heavy loaded lyrics to sway over. He grew up listening to the likes of Fleetwood Mac, Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin, moved by the sounds of Soul, Jazz and Funk from the 70’s and 80’s on vinyl. And of course, WuTang Clan, A Tribe Called Quest, Al Green and Otis Redding also rank highly on his list affirming his eclectic capabilities. Jungle Brown release their own work digitally and have pressed their album on vinyl. For them, it was necessary to have a variety of mediums to appeal to a wider range of people, for those who want a quick sound, yet also for those who take their time “digging.”

We dabble in and out of life stories, and the realistic necessity of an artist to maintain a part-time day job. This exact reality falls under Bones’ theory that we are living in a parallel universe, where we are constantly debating within ourselves, between our reality, experience and our imagination. Remember Froot Loops? Bones was so sure that it was always Fruit Loops, a mere example from countless similar stories of how easily we can be misguided, enwrapped in our own ideas with a loss of sense, self-awareness and vision of what is actually around us. And so, it is through their music that they try to represent the truth that is at times greater and grander than other ideologies. Their unconventional backgrounds “from a typical rapper” means that their stories within themselves are different, and they represent the truth as it is, giving life to their ideas.

Jungle Brown will unveil their second album soon. For Flight 314 –

https://itunes.apple.com/gb/album/flight-314/id1057510917

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       “The first rule of an underground party is to never talk about the underground party.” A line we put together as we bounced ideas around on the term ‘underground.’ Fight Club, the story of an underground and anti-corporate organization bringing men together to fight for kicks. Fictional yes, but it was one of our sources when thinking about the term ‘underground’ and how it is being misused and abused today. We have been in a debate over the term ‘underground’ for quite some time, and the answer remains a lot more elusive, complicated with its contradictions. As a pure definition, it is a term applied to describe any resistance movement or culture that deviates from the norm and the mainstream. What is clear is that the term is thrown around carelessly today, being applied to describe anything that is slightly unusual. Whilst this is valid to an extent, there is in fact a lot more unravelling to be done when it comes to the term. When we think of ‘underground,’ our minds subconsciously link it to electronic music, we immediately visualise a dingy abandoned warehouse, we see the grey foggy smoke and feel the decay of an industrial and urban city. We found ourselves unfolding many of the layers that fall under the term ‘underground’ the more we explored. We looked into the origin of the term, its affiliations and how quickly it rolls off our tongues today.

       We can start with a closer look at Raves, which originated from the 1950s as reference to wild, rock and psychedelic music parties occupied by like-minded ‘ravers.’ The key spot was the beloved Soho in London. It was the place to be, bringing together writers and artists, the bold and the beautiful, drunkards and druggies. They were united in cafes, bars and clubs that they claimed as their own by their deviation from the norm, their vision to be and let live and their vision to change their neighbouring environment. This was a culture closely affiliated to the ‘Beat Generation,’ pioneered by the renowned names of Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg, a movement at its height also in the ‘50s. The common denominator amongst the authors of this literary movement was the unprecedented experimentation and exploration with sexuality, humanity, freedom and being doused in the experience of being ‘beat’ or ‘beaten down’ in their everyday lives, which was then reflected in their creative material. We now envision the culture of Raves and the Beat Generation movement as well-defined and clear moments in the history of music and the arts. The majority of these raves were illegal, unauthorised and frowned upon. They were unheard of, unknown; it was a game of Chinese whispers and through word of mouth did ‘ravers’ come to know where the party was. The writers of the Beat Generationstruggled in getting their works published; the content was alien and audaciously absurd. That for us is the definition of ‘underground;’ it is the unknown.  It is not defined by a party on the basement floor of a building, or the 41st floor of a tower for that matter. But rather, it is secret, it is taboo, and it is unauthorised.

       Our access to almost everything, the promoting of almost everything, our connection to almost everything, means we have forgotten the quintessential definition of a frankly, remarkable term. Today, almost everything is on the surface except the gritty realities of wider world problems. Has our media, technology and social platforms grown so powerful that we have grown accustomed to being manipulated?  Their power – to choose what to re-write and redefine. What is even scarier is that the majority of us are aware that we are being directed, that the screws on our hinges are being tightened and we are hardly resisting. Have we become so focused on defining ourselves and building our own unique reputation that we have forgotten some of the most important chapters and developments in our history?  We have not forgotten the Lost Generation or WW2, nor did we let these periods seep back into our timeline, but rather we left them in their time. We have however forgotten the historical origin of a certain phenomenon or two that we have today, recreated and tweaked to suit our fancy. We let ‘dance’ develop and stretch through the archives of our history dating as far back as the 18th century and the movement of Romanticism. We let ‘dance’ blossom as it is part of the human condition and our need to release and express. But when we dance today, we dance in line with our culture and environment and hardly ever find ourselves going ballroom dancing, because that was a moment then, irrelevant now, and so we left it in its time.

      The ‘underground’ culture is a complicated phenomenon today. Take Berlin for example, an initially renowned city for its ‘underground’ clubs and scene. Yet witness the contradiction in this previous sentence itself, if we know about it and talk about it, to what extent is it really ‘underground?’ How much of an ‘underground’ attribute is retained for Berghain if there is a virtual reality website that allows you to see if you can get past the ‘toughest bouncer?’ It goes without saying that it is no longer ‘underground,’ yet the point here is that what happens ‘underground’ is no longer staying ‘underground.’ Perhaps you can say a sound is ‘underground’ because it sways away from the norm, its vinyl copies are limited and difficult to get a hold of, but can we really use the term to describe a perhaps unique, but well-promoted and exposed party? If a party is not ‘underground,’ it does not lose its credibility; it can be bad, good or great based on the music, the people and the energy. But, where do we draw the line in using the term? Can something really be ‘underground’ when everyone can know about it? If we talk about an ‘underground’ experience so openly, on what basis does it remain 'underground?’ Will we disconnect, unplug, and go to the ‘underground’ ourselves rather than let it find us?

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Writer/Editor: @madradar​

       Leaving home for a new environment is bitter sweet. Despite Dubai being the land of opportunities, it took a while to adjust to a place that seemed to us, to be quite alien. As any expat might say, ‘there is no soul’ and finding relief takes time. Nights in London and Beirut, now a former life, were deeply missed. Two raw cities where one felt embraced through each walk down every avenue and alley comes to a sudden halt as we find ourselves now gallivanting through hotel lobbies every weekend. Then one Thursday night, with our ritual craving for good music, a memory is triggered of some “different” place that a friend had recommended – the name was Analog Room.

       In the words of Kendrick Lamar, “the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice.” This stands true for the venue that is Analog Room. One of the few places in Dubai hoisting the true electronic scene where a Berlin and Detroit feel is always present. When entering, the stark contrast of the bright lighting outside and the darkness inside makes us lose our breath for an instant, as we are bewildered with a beautifully grim atmosphere. From the top to bottom blackness and discreet lighting, the walls are enveloped with every happy go lucky groover absorbed in their zone. Everyone is dancing like no one cares, like no one is watching, like there is no façade like there is no obligation to be someone you are not. We finally find ourselves. We find the place to be in the midst of a city where nightlife is painstakingly saturated.

       What comes with Analog Room is the story of the faces behind it. One crisp Tuesday evening spent with the mysterious wonder that is Siamak Amidi (Volt Music), unveils a truth about the ‘electronic music scene’ in Dubai. Some few years ago when the Hard Rock Café was the hottest place in town, Siamak and his partner Mehdi Ansari were in the background trying to bring to life a new scene. Despite their strict and dodgy ‘invite-only’ parties, the twosome were in the midst of birthing something unique for the city. Their parties at CATWALK were the stepping stones in creating a community, “uniting like-minded people together and in making things happen” says Siamak. He continues, “there was a lack of urban life here, I couldn’t even imagine doing this.” Having spent a good chunk of his life in Berlin, Germany, his pioneer spirit travelled with him and evolved in his new home, in a city where anything is possible. Despite the ‘hater-raid’ the two faced and the hustle and bustle of making dreams come true, they kept on simply for the ‘love of music.’ And voila, Analog Room comes to life in 2012.

       However, one of the many frustrations they face is the way in which the community is growing with its perception of the ‘electronic music scene’ here in Dubai. It has been developing into a hype and trend where the organic and sensational experiences it ought to create go amiss for it followers. No one is following the scene for the right reason and no one is turning up to the gigs. They are too alien and too daring amongst a crowd that is shaped to believe that all ‘that is commercial’ is the path to follow. We see that the scene is now battling between a subculture phenomenon versus a hyped up trend where international artists are overshadowing the local and resident DJs - a battle in which renowned names and popular venues are favoured over standards of music and sound. As devoted music lovers, we crave a killer sound system on a night out, a key point that is sadly missing in many venues. For Siamak, “standard chartered tracks” are filling up the rooms. The minority of the ‘electronic music scene’ who truly understand this subculture, are at risk of being pulled into the majority; those who are simply immersed in the ‘house music’ trend. Our suspicion was heightened as we found ourselves repetitively listening to the same track at the end of various gigs.

       This scene is a landmark, a part of history and a mode of expression. We felt relief through Siamak’s industrial like music. His approach to music sees that he is continuously manipulating the texture of sounds. Uncanny by nature, his music too is psychedelic and edgy, something unheard of in Dubai’s nightlife scene. For him, the challenge in creating new sounds and breaking free from common patterns is what intrigues him. His approach is shaped by his goal to maintain a standard of music, to steer clear from the norm and to continue preserving the little authenticity the scene currently holds in the city. Finally at some relief, this now ignites a hope and urge to convert this trend into a revolution, so long as everyone keeps on doing what he or she truly loves. So long as everyone stands against all that is penetrating the organic ebb and flow of a scene that should be both a “body and soul experience.”

       These sensations trigger a memory of our time in Germany. For all the avid music fans, it would be a lie to deny that Berlin is the bearer of the blacker berries, squeezing sweet juices. What comes with this memory is the freedom we had to express the emotions felt when embracing the nightlife there. The freedom to keep going, the choice to embrace everyone around and the liberty to share a passion as openly as the sky.

       Back to the basement floor of the Holiday Inn that holds Analog Room (of course, in a hotel) the night is thriving. The vibe is both familiar and eclectic keeping us sheltered yet later, yanking us out of our comfort zone. It is intimate, its audience a family, and it is the thread that holds the minority together. With an energy, crowd and sound that is deeply enthralling, it is the likes of Analog Room that fill the gap. What we take away from our experiences is that nothing is as true as our emotions. Our fight for doing what we love and what we believe in ought to endure. When that unknown void beckons us to keep on, we ought to listen to the calling. The scene for us is the means for a full on ‘body and soul experience.’ But even grander than this, it is a means for sharing, exchanging, educating, learning, inspiring, being inspired, coming together and feeling at home.

Writer/Editor: @madradar​

Photographer/Editor in chief: @nehmew​

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Links...

Siamak:

https://www.facebook.com/siamakamidi.music/?fref=ts

https://soundcloud.com/siamak-amidi

https://soundcloud.com/volt-music

FIBRE:

Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/fibre-339089636

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/fibrepassion/?fref=ts

I won’t thank you for the brainwashing

Or for the tépale squashing

But I will thank you for opening doors,

For travel in particular you get high scores.

Taking us into the unknown homes 

Of souls made from golden honeycombs.

It was the day before we were expecting him in our home for our steamed vegetables and whiskey ritual that we tried to find him on SoundCloud or Youtube, but strangely, to no avail. His name is Omar Jayyusi and he plays music when the time is right, when he sees fit. The Banksy of the music scene, he is totally off the radar and chooses to dodge social media and music platforms. He is a shy Palestinian guy from London, with a soft heart but a strong mind and sense of self-awareness. What is clear for him is what he likes and what he doesn’t like, what is clear for him is that his music is inaccessible and yet it is desired. It is clear for him and clear to us that he “wears different caps on the subject.” As music lovers, the only time we crossed him at play was at Analog Room, and after that, his musical talent disappeared for us. All that was left was his voice, telling us his tales on what he does and how he feels. This time however, we substituted the glass of whiskey with a glass of white wine, followed by another and another.

“Is art for you only or for other people?”

It was in random parties in random warehouses in East London where he was the most active, where he was at the height of his musical consciousness. That is not to say his mind is still not there, but it is a lot more subdued, tamed and secret. A vinyl collector too, he grew up to be militantly selective in his music as he ran out of ways to find good sounds. When he drops a record, it is a reflection of his personality and even mood, but not necessarily his best selection of tracks. We had Charbel Haber playing in the background and got to talking about the definition of ‘dark’ music. What is it that makes a sound ‘dark’ when your ‘dark’ can be my ‘beautiful’ or her ‘sad?’ For Omar, a ‘dark’ sound is when he remembers a “time that did not work out” for him. Our conclusion is that the chief answer is specific to each of us, shaped by our memory, understanding and perception of sound.

What is less of a secret and less of a surprise, is his standard 9-5 occupation by day, like most of us, kept for security and stability. His weekend is different as well, starting on a Friday night rather than Thursday throwing him further out of the norm that surrounds him. A fact that he could not care less about, this man is far from indulgent, speaking both materialistically and artistically. And this is ‘what the Buddha taught,’ to be devoid of self-centredness and to maintain a sense of self-awareness and to apply it globally too. He is a consultant with a lost love, a DJ with a taste in simple accentuated sounds, an observer of artwork rather than names and a ridiculer of this city for brainwashing its inhabitants. We wish we could suggest a way to follow him closely, but until then, memorise his name.

Discover what intrigues him musically –

Babyford:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KdC66PLrmSY

Thomas Franzman aka Zip:

https://www.discogs.com/artist/653652-Thomas-Franzmann

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Writer/Editor: @madradar​

Photographer/Editor in chief: @nehmew​

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www.fibrepassion.tumblr.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/fibrepassion…

// 

A delayed gratification, but a gratification nonetheless. A t-shirt with Ilian Tape printed on it was cut incorrectly. After having diffused the situation and the angry face of a man, it all worked out for the best. It was the first time that FIBRE found themselves looking out for the time on a night out. It was 23:45 and still no show, 12:12, 12:35 and so on. It was at around 12:50 that the Zenker Brothers finally made their appearance. Then that was it; we were instantly captivated and taken away by their mechanical sounds and enchanting smiles. The Munich brothers would playfully bounce back and fourth selecting their tracks and each would groove as the other sibling would be toying with the decks. Dario would look up with his eyes only to see the crowd reacting and look back down with an enigmatic smile forming on his face. Meanwhile, Marco’s body would tell stories of his nonchalant yet pleasantly impressed feelings. The reaction from the crowd left them slightly surprised as we later find out, that they were devoid of concrete expectations when coming to Dubai.

As the lights came on, the drum and drone of their sounds still resonated in and out of souls craving for more. People were lingering around the Munich brothers seeking more of that human touch, the touch that already teased them and us through the magical vibes that the bros radiated throughout the night. We find ourselves in the midst of a conversation exchanged here and there, rejecting insistent invitations from strangers, avoiding the spilling of vodka and immersing in more light-hearted banter. After a fifteen minute debate and a 3am check in, we find ourselves crossing the grand, black and dry streets of the city heading to an after party. It is messy and reminds us of our youth sweating between each plastic cup of tequila. So we find a corner on the balcony dimly lit by the streetlights radiating from thirty or so floors below and conversation ensues - life, love, lust and laughs. After the check in and the after party, the sun is rising and we are heading home.

We spend the next day driving around cruising between stories of the past in cities we love, books we read, cultures we embraced and experiences we dejected. It is New York City where one feels at home and free from judgement. It is Murakami’s raining sardines from the sky that can make one find peace with the turn of each page. It is the Balkan cuisine that is richer than the Bavarian’s. It is the experience of being booed whilst playing on the decks that is the painful yet essential experience in the journey of a DJ. It is a handful of various elements that inspire the Zenker Brothers in creating their sounds – travels, laughing on the couch with friends and any other certain favourable moments. We connect on a mutual obsession with Hip-Hop and Rap; Wu-Tang Clan, Gangstarr, Jeru The Damaja, Madlib and DJ Premier are some the names that were behind the brothers’ musical discovery and the beginning of their journey. On the commute and at almost any chance possible, they would plug in their earphones and jam to the beats and lyrics on their iPods.

Their code is ‘the human touch.’ A principle they stick by in all their endeavours, musical and otherwise. When playing a set, close to nothing is planned but rather, they improvise to follow the reactions and energy of the crowd. They describe how this touch in their sounds can be heard in the raw and fresh format that is neither perfect nor flawless but can at times incorporate ‘mistakes’ and a slip of the finger. Our crusading in and out of Dubai feeding the curiosity of both Marco and Dario continues. Kites are flying across a clear blue sky and feet are dipping in and out of the cold sea.  A paradox seeps within each wave and in between the toes of black and white figures, legs exposed and hair sealed. Standing on the edge of the shore in the dim light of the sun, the brothers have lost their stance – they are completely captured and are staring into the horizon attempting to fathom this strange yet intriguing puzzling place with its security in juxtaposition to its absurdity. Yet it is the moments enwrapped with the human touch that knock off the insanity and alien feel of the city, and that keep us on the ground.

//

Writer/Editor: @madradar​

Photographer/Editor in chief: @nehmew​

//

FIBRE:

www.fibrepassion.tumblr.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/fibrepassion…

Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/fibre-339089636

      We are cheekily sitting beside the waterfront of Souk Madinat Jumeirah on a hazy lazy Saturday afternoon and brown pillars are sheltering us from the light breeze. Salah Sadeq is a man on the go, constantly involved in something and he loves to keep busy. On his day off, he is moved by soaking up some culture and immersing himself in light and good-natured conversation, currently shaped around his fresh new dedication to being a vegan. A couple of hours into our sitting after a bird sprinkled some good luck into his lavish locks, we are laughing and exchanging stories, and he is delivering the truth. Despite his deep voice and larger than life vocabulary, which can be somewhat intimidating, he is in fact an honest, humble and loving person. He managed to use the word ‘doppelganger’ in a mundane sentence. “Too Strong” is not only the name of Salah’s label’s new EP, but also, quite succinctly, a term to describe the bond of his musical family - Techfui.

A designer, DJ, producer and head of his own label (Techfui) Salah has been in the game for over 20 years. Having started off in Bahrain where he lived most of his life, he was not aware of where the road would eventually take him. Opening the path as a DJ, he was first spotted in 1999 on the decks in what we now know as Sin City, Bahrain - ironically, a city at the time that was not ready for this scene according to Salah. He was being approached, being asked for CDs of his mixes and he felt like he was handing out presents to his friends, not knowing that he was doing something that the people were recognising and loving. One after party conversation triggers a thought as he discusses with a friend the possibility of creating his own label, now Techfui. For the name, he cleverly played with the concept of Feng Shui, a Chinese philosophical concept based around energy, renewal and the connection of people with the earth – a perfect resemblance to the identity of his label. For Salah, the key in bringing people together for his label, is the sense of chemistry and energy that must synchronise together. His work ethics means that the material and superficial elements that may pop up in the midst of the chaos must be stripped back, left behind leaving strictly at the forefront a sense of familial connection.

“Why am I going to make my own label?”

The community in Bahrain quickly exploded, bursting wide open pushing him to realise that “wanting to DJ and to have a good time” would have to transition to, “Ok, I have to start making my own music.” It was not an obligation, but rather the right time as he was feeling the urge. It was this exact realisation that allowed him to continue to do what he loves best with his music - surprising the crowd with his distinct sounds and taking them out of their element. It is one thing to make people to dance to a track that they love, and yet another thing to make them dance to sounds they do not know. He dabbles with natural, analog and instrumental sounds incorporating a lot of ‘old’ and ‘new’ elements. When asked at what point he is at his highest and most inspired, he answers when he is “emotionally down and sensitive.” Whoever said misery is an out-dated muse is sadly mistaken.

His path eventually leads him to Dubai, his new home. It was never smooth sailing for Salah. He shares with us the difficulty of finding and creating his own identity in a new city that was also disconnected from the scene. He compares it to building a brand and striving to have full control of the image of his identity. For him, it at times felt impossible to produce his own music as he felt “far away from the scene.” He was also conscious of not only booking ‘big names’ as that would be defeating his main purpose and the identity of Techfui, which is to create a platform for people with talent, creating spaces for them and feeding people’s reactions. And so, he decided to keep it simple and until now, he works on a first come first serve basis, recruiting artists from Canada, Turkey and Georgia into the family. A family where everyone is doing something they want and love, where more often than not, everything comes together organically, and luckily, every member is happy with the final result.  

The sun is setting on our thoughts and Kool & The Gang is playing in the background. He remembers his first time at Time Warp where he saw Sven Väth perform, he came in at the peak of the party and about twenty percent of the crowd cleared out as he did not go as hard as they were expecting at first. This got us thinking about the meaning of music at parties, an audience’s expectations and the organisers’ motivation, so we bounced some ideas back and forth. Salah asks, “Why does it always appear that people are waiting for something?” No one is to be held entirely accountable for the emptying out of a club beside ourselves; each and every single one of us who is involved. It is our lack of patience, endurance and curiosity that demeans the essence of music. Yet there is also a matter of taste, which is probable cause in justifying our freedom to stay and listen at a party, or to leave without looking back. Forever questionable indeed, yet it is our own responsibility to discover what we are getting ourselves into before a night out.

“There are so many ways to dance.”

Keeping true to himself and what he stands for, now launched is the second release of the year for Techfui featuring 2 tracks by Nohijo (Lee Sandwith) and 2 mixes by Tolga Fidan and Monsafe. The release party is around the corner and it will be featuring the EP main man Nohijo who comes from the U.K. and who recently moved to Dubai from Abu Dhabi with an obsession for electronic music, Tolga Fidan a soul from Turkey whom Salah describes as a "beautiful person" and Monsafe as well as CIRYL (Cyrill Reaidy) from Lebanon, the newest addition to the family. The set will close with Salah and Nasrawi, both already well-loved names, playing back to back. Seeking Nasrawi, he specifically longed for someone to bring to the table a sense of diversity and knowledge, and with this, you can expect an eclectic, spacey, groovy, stripped back, raw and dub-like-feel for the night.

It is at times a challenge for Salah to maintain the ins and outs of his identity and his label, to keep it on the ground. Yet he tries to do so by adhering to his golden rules, which are based around respect. Respect for the variations within the scene, respect for the artists, organisers and the approach of working together. In an environment where people change radically and rapidly, it is essential to be honest and true. The sun has not set entirely yet and Salah’s story is still to be continued. His momentum will keep on, radiating a sweet energy, to have a muse to play for and the crossing of lines in his musical configuration that will continue to build the strong chords of his family.

//

Writer/Editor: @madradar​

One should not have expectations in order to avoid disappointment, but true to our nature, it is almost irresistible. So, when our expectations are exceeded, it is a truly great sensation. Our interactions with Sebastian Zaravinos were mostly in the bright and sunny daylight over the roasting of coffee and toasting of simpleton words seeping in and out of polite and amiable conversation. Surrounded by the hum and buzz radiating from others nearby, we too find ourselves sinking into a banal daily ritual barren of desire and emotion. Then the night comes and our nocturnal callings flourish unravelling our passions, cravings and ability to stimulate a nutritional conversation. From Greece, with a black and white beard and envy for ‘beautiful houses and tasteless people,’ Sebastian shows us a charisma by night that is both soft and robust. He is seated in FIBRE’s ‘thinking chair,’ descending deep into his thoughts and memories on music, love, happiness and misery. He runs a café, Public, by day and reminisces over his love for music by night.

We sit with Sebastian as he formerly had a love for music so deep, which still exists today but is mostly overridden by a reality that is modernism. Up until the point that a famished bank account drove him to Dubai, music was his stimulation as a child and young adult growing up in Greece. Surprisingly, we delve quick and deep into the meaning of music. For Sebastian, “music is not only for dancing, it is mental.” He grew up as both an outsider and a rebel, playing with synthesisers in a musical home where classical music was handed down to him from his Father. We are back somewhere between the 80s and 90s, and classical music is becoming Sebastian’s roots in discovering and loving the sounds of disco music. It was the likes of the Eurythmics’ Here Comes the Rain Again that enhanced and refined his taste in enjoying the subtle background sounds of a track, the sounds that excited him the most.

He was developing a ‘chaotic brain’ wired through his experimentation with synthesisers as disco began merging with electro. Adorned with a cap and playing dress-up almost everywhere he went, he compares himself to an anarchist then – creating a revolution against the norm and extracting himself from the majority. He remembers being shocked when he first listened to Bjork – new and unknown. Her avant-garde take on music intrigued him and led him to discover more underground work at the time. His journey continued as he discovered the sounds of trip-hop – Massive Attack and Portishead, all of which solidified his love for more melodic and dark sounds. It was at this point in his life that music became more emotional and “left the mental.” He found that he could discover himself through music, by being taken away with sounds.

“MUSIC IS EDUCATION, AND EDUCATION SHOULD BE FREE.”

We playfully bicker with Sebastian over the origins of our taste in music. In analysing the course of music, we question is it nature, nurture or both that define our taste throughout life?  Are our experiences our own choices? At the end of the day, our choice in music for example, is natural. It is defined from early days and creates a nostalgic sensation when we listen again to these old sounds. For Sebastian, “when the music triggers something in the brain, it gives you what you need.” The functionality of the brain is unique indeed and our taste flourishes from its natural base and is eventually manipulated by our surroundings. True to his beginning musical roots, he would love to produce tracks at 120/126 BPM and play amongst a crowd of 50 or so people, enabling them to feel what he felt - to leave everything behind and trip, to embark upon a journey, and to concentrate on love. When asked about his relationship with music today and what he strives to achieve if anything, he shares,

“I want to make music. I want to educate myself and lock myself in the studio.”

“So, why don’t you?”

“We need to eat.”

It is modernism and modernity that can strip us bare of our own skin, of happiness, it can emasculate our men, numb us and leave us high and dry revelling in a black hole. Our urgency to ‘eat’ so to speak derives from our terror of the future, of what may come and the terror of being left behind. It was reality that called and counteracted Sebastian’s musical drive.  His mother struggled alone, and he grew up understanding the importance of being able to both literally and metaphorically, cater to himself. Opening Public in Dubai was his means and answer. A testament to reality, he replaced wires and buttons for knives and forks. He discovered what he calls the ‘misery transfer,’ where the people he would cross paths with would affirm that we all hate each other. Wise, experienced and brutally honest, he continues to turn the pages in his book of truth. Written in it are his definitions of happiness as nothing but an accumulation of moments and never a state, misery as a mental disease and that “becoming old means you have no idea.” Almost all of us struggle in finding happiness, and in turn substitute this never-ending challenge by bringing misery to others. He constantly found that people were escaping from something, “leaving houses because our houses couldn’t provide anymore.” He too was part of this calibre of people – it was humanity.

“WE ARE REFUGEES FROM PLANET EARTH.”

 He speaks very briefly of his time at military service. A year and a half of being in the army left him with food for thought – must there always be a tyrant to be held accountable for our mistakes? We are all managed in one way or another – by our bosses, our lovers, our dictators, our family. We are managed by a system, technology, state power, our jobs and our own lives. This too is ‘misery transfer’ and the insanity of humanity. We create borders in our rupturing modern world so that we forever feel safe, seeking only what is simple and light, avoiding obstacles and challenges, taking from others as if parasites and hardly giving anything back. We strive to get by the day decently in an orderly manner, sparkling a bit of character here and there enough to seem interesting, but our borders that are already set up protect us from commitments and stirring the obsessions in others. As if a buoy, we are at times untouchable, steadily floating in the middle of the water, visible, yet out of reach.

Some of us can recuperate and the rest of us will be obliterated from sentiment. If we take our stand, be true to ourselves, we will be free. For Sebastian, his recuperation from the terror of modernism comes with the love he developed for what he is doing. Public became his home as he spent years watching the same and new faces coming in and out of his doors. He was able to shake off the ‘misery transfer,’ and acknowledge that there is no progress without a sense of fear. He grew to see that people were coming together in his space; he was forming a hub for like-minded people. Some with close to nothing but air in their head, and some with great motivation, character and soul. To be, is to be exposed in a crowd without a care in the world; that is happiness. To be, is to be where you think, where you are stimulated, where you are motivated, where you are able to separate a working life from a living life, yet also let them marinate together when the time is right, so long as you are true.

...

Well, Sebastian is not on social media, but what you can do is visit his home ‘Public Café.’

https://www.facebook.com/publiccafeme/?fref=ts

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Writer/Editor: @madradar​

Photographer/Editor in chief: @nehmew​

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Follow FIBRE on:

Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/fibre-339089636

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/fibrepassion/?fref=ts

We let his hair do the talking, speaking a thousand words telling a hundred stories. Mohammed Abood, better known as DJ Mo City was first introduced to FIBRE as a ‘cool fellow Iraqi.’ Intrigued, we wanted to discover this character whose name kept popping up everywhere we went. Prior to our sit down, in the early hours of the AM at an after-party one night, whilst standing in a stranger’s kitchen like deer caught in the headlight, we find warmth in the instant that Mo walks in through the doors, hollering ‘Aslan Aadi.’ His arms wrapped around the neck of a fella he had just met that night, he is schooling him with the ins and outs of Arabic rap. We recognised in an instant that this man is enigmatic!

His story starts from when he was in Delhi, India where he was home schooled until he was able to join an Iraqi school when his family moved to Mumbai. He integrated himself into a community of expats, coming from Germany, Russia and the US to name a few. He described the cliques that naturally formed around him, the Iraqis, Germans and Russians as a ‘crew’ versus the Brits, French and Americans. He nonetheless felt like he belonged. This experience however was more than the foundation of his memories; it was his induction to music. He remembers how a British kid from East London introduced him to the sounds of Dubstep, Drum ‘n’ Bass and Garage, sounds that were unheard of at the time in India. Whilst twiddling with his moustache, he reminisces of how he was exposed to Hip-Hop, when his brother would come home tipsy and start rapping whilst sharing stories about his time in the club. It was his gradual discoveries and curiosity that drove him out of his bedroom and into dark, unknown alleys that were the home of a scene he wanted to be a part of.  It was happening in the clubs, the clubs that constantly refused him entry on account of his age, and instead, kept him waiting outside.

“I AM YOUNG, AND I LOOK YOUNG BUT I WANT TO BE HERE.”

 In spite of this, he found himself trying weekend after weekend, and his persistency meant his face would eventually become recognised. Whilst lingering around the back in flip-flops, the bouncer receives a call telling him to let the young’un in. Former connections meant that Mo was about to embark upon his first journey in the scene. He was soon enraptured, assimilated and became one of the regular faces there.  The club owner eventually throws it to him, the chance to MC in the club. Mo suddenly finds himself hosting the party every Friday night scoring 200 rupees per week. He quickly adopted the nickname of ‘Shorty’ and became the go-to guy for parties - he knew where they were at, and he knew what was up.

Over candlelight and with each drop of wax, he utters names of clubs, events, gigs and nights that he was involved in, that he helped give substance to, names that helped him understand better the scene and comprehend further his love for music. There was Odyssey in Gurgaon, Block Parties in Noida and Decibal in New Delhi. Following the music and wherever it took him, and at most times with nothing but $7 in his pocket, headphones and a CD player, he decided his role as a promoter and MC was what was quenching his thirst at the time. It was the intermediate link between the DJ and the crowd and Mo felt a deep fulfilment in linking the two together. It was the remedy for truly enjoying music on a night out.

Having made a name for himself, his experiences in India grew into dribs and drabs of involvement in the music scene – he found himself organising freestyle battle nights, promoting his own gigs and MC-ing across various clubs. Yet as with anything else, it quickly became saturated for him, and he was already waiting for the next phase of his life. A transition was marinating; he was no longer able to relate to the Hip-Hop scene and was seeking a deeper connection to alternative sounds. Hours into our sitting, we slowly unravel that his life is shaped by music. It is the essential key in determining his progression and at times his regression.

An interlude, he excuses himself and takes out a small vintage green tin. He takes out a comb and a small pot, and brushes a layer of wax through his moustache. He then reconnects with us and tells us about a call he received that was a major turning point and mark in his own history – DJ Kika from what seemed a lifetime ago gets in touch with him. She proposes they set up a Facebook group to promote and find other Reggae lovers in the country. A year passes, and Mo found himself organising a Bob Marley tribute, and by combining his skills and the knowledge of his accomplices Ragav and Zorawar, the birth of the Reggae movement ‘Reggae Rajahs’ flourishes in India. With this project, his approach was to promote concussion sounds whilst experimenting with new music unaware of the possible outcome. Yet he was also promoting peace through music, “dropping beats not bombs” in line with what was happening in his home, Iraq. It was a sentimental tribute to his home country, a country he visited not so frequently, a country that devastated him and hardly ever welcomed him.

 “I’M A SOLO GUY, WHICH IS BOTH GOOD AND BAD.”

 Just when he thought he had found himself, there comes a dark turning point in his life. He found himself juggling work and studies, catering to his family whilst struggling to hold onto his visa in India. Putting his studies off year after year to hold onto to his golden pass and his relentless urge to stay in India and finish what he started, his time was coming to an end. With one week remaining on his stamp before having to exit India for good, he accepted that what was written for him was written in black and white. He found the forces beyond his control aligning themselves, taking him out of his home, taking him out of a sense of order and taking loved ones away from him.

The result was an obligatory trip to his not-home, Iraq, and Mo found himself on the edge of losing hope. He questioned his stance in life, he questioned the meaning of family, he understood disappointment, cowardice and selfishness exuberating from people who were only looking out for themselves. He questioned how and why in a country that once was the ‘land of floating milk and honey.’ He however fought his dismal and scarring experiences in Iraq through frequent applications for a Schengen visa and numerous international phone calls. It was music that kept him fighting, kept him searching and that kept him defining his future. It was an emblem of hope and escape.  With abundant bookings to DJ in Europe missed, familial reunions in the UAE, nomadic escapes to Malaysia and couch surfing in Turkey, it was time for a new and more definitive mission, a new adventure.  

 “MUSIC SAVED MY LIFE.”

 So Dubai it was. It was an opportunity that made sense, an opportunity he embraced fully. After a disturbing shock to his system during his time in Iraq, he spent his first thirty-six hours in Dubai partying to ease himself back into his element. The year is 2013 and Mo is infiltrating the scene rapidly as the ‘underground music scene’ is at the birth of its hype. With OHM, he introduces The Lemon Jam, LOFI District and most recently Karak Beats alongside The 264 cru. His intention had shifted as he strived to “do something alternative and not necessarily underground.” He introduces Motellacast, a weekly podcast where he mixes the sounds of hip-hop with the likes of Billie Holiday’s caramelising blues. The eclectic sets he whips together are a tribute to forming and reforming alternative sounds. His life as a promoter is back and does him well; it endorses a liberty in him that he cannot find in a ‘stubborn’ DJ role. A role that he feels might limit his desire in creating a fusion, an eclectic cascade of genres in one set. Delitronica, Imported Goods and Dualism Records are a few of the many labels, nights and events affiliated with his name.

An MC, a promoter, a DJ, a restless soul and a nomad, he defines his home through music. His way of life depends gravely on where music adventures may lead him. When asked what is next, he nonchalantly, and coolly dismisses any sense of pressure in making that decision, in having the answer. He does not know. Yet he is open to the idea and driven by the energy of not knowing. It is music that will lead the way.

To follow his escapades -

www.djmocity.com

www.motellacast.com

www.the264cru.com

Instagram, Snapchat & Twitter @djmocity​

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Writer/Editor: @madradar​

These are the words of “Mad” Mike banks, one of the names behind the 80’s ‘Underground Resistance’ music collective founded in Detroit. The words kept resonating in our heads as we unraveled the multi-facets of Shadi Megallaa, a resident DJ at Analog Room, owner and A&R of Ark to Ashes and of an upcoming music record store - The Flip Side. His unfathomable attachment to music and the powerful hold it has on him was exposed in one casual sitting. What we will share here is the experience of one of the faces and his phases of the ‘music scene.’

Between the hours of 10pm and 12:20am behind the decks at Analog Room, Shadi’s hypersensitivity dwells in and out of his nerves and back and fourth through his arms. His fingertips make beautiful and unrecognisable mistakes, mistakes that aren’t realised by an audience detached from the sounds and engrossed in their zone. Between these hours, there is as few as seven people – as the party arrives, the essential elements of his set have disappeared limiting the smooth musical transitions. The warm up is left behind in the early hours of the night. There is a conflict between anxiety and excitement as he exposes himself amidst a crowd, experimenting with his broader range of music tapping into Hip-Hop, Electro, Funk and Jazz sounds. He however seems to be nonchalantly poised, one of the illusions he emanates.

What appeared to be at first a cool, calm and collected character relishing in his love for the game that one night every month at Analog Room, turned out to be in fact an unsettled soul.  A soul debilitating in his passion for music as his frustrations with the scene ascend. Over a plate of freshly steamed vegetables, we see the inner workings of a mind and heart that Shadi fights to keep interconnected.  His heart forever attached to that inexplicable moment of when the needle touches the record for the first time, is strewn apart as his mind tells him ‘you’ve been doing this for 16 years’ and no one knows, and very few care. This battle for him stems from his definition of ‘making it.’ For Shadi, to make it is to ‘remain consistent and true to yourself’ rather than ‘being successful.’ To ‘make it’ is to be obsessively passionate and connected to what you are doing.

“THE HIGH OF PLAYING A RECORD FOR THE FIRST TIME ON A SOUND SYSTEM THAT IS KILLER.”

He upgrades from his plate to numerous glasses of Jameson whiskey reminiscing about his past. His past tells innumerable stories of glory and hardships, both inspiring and deflating. He remembers his first gig at Analog Room, a gig that brings him to Dubai from NYC. A gig he couldn’t fully absorb and enjoy as his lover at the time, alongside her sister drunkenly calls an ending to the night. He misses the act he was opening for. He questions, is this the epitome of ‘mayhem and chaos versus calculated systems’ that draw us in to something and that keep us there? An eerie attraction to all that is disturbing yet compelling. He remembers visiting his best friend’s house as a child, and having to walk through the living room with the façade of being an angel in front of the parents, before being his true self when reaching the bedroom. He questions, is this a mirroring of walking through the bright hotel lobby before reaching the dark basement of Analog Room and playing devil? He remembers his first kiss as a teenager with a blonde girl named Louise at summer camp, and how every week there would be a turn around with girlfriends and boyfriends amongst his group of friends. He questions, is this a reflection of “not being able to have the rose without the thorns?” He remembers his time in Oxford, UK and discovering a record store – Massive Records. He remembers the owner Jay and how he would hold up a phone to the speaker whilst he was back in Abu Dhabi, allowing him to select his future records across international waters. He questions why do we as humans disconnect, exploit and lose touch?

“WE ARE DESIGNED TO ENJOY MANY THINGS.”

Random, absurd, un-relatable are some of the words he uses to describe Glenn O’Brien’s TV Party of the late 70’s. The show is another memory he holds dearly to his heart as he recognises the need for something similar today – a means of documenting ‘freedom’ and the way people of the same calibre come together and publicly relish in their liberty to express themselves and to simply just be. He also recalls the roots of his musical inspirations – the likes of Sasha & John Digweed, DJ Sprinkles and Quest Love, forming a hybrid of sounds that drive and stimulate his sets today. A couple of his loved tracks include ‘Lovelee Dae - 2020 Vision Remix’ by Blaze and ‘Silver Lining’ by Pearl Divers.

Such uncanny reflections on the past play an integral role in shaping the present. Where memory does not suffice, photos and memorabilia may “fill the gap.” His memories and 16-year long run have driven him to what he now calls ‘The Resurrection.’ With the opening of his record store in the works – The Flip Side, he hopes he can touch base again, be reborn and make sense of his experience in this scene. His wish, to be alongside someone he can co-exist with, someone he can feel liberated with - someone to spend hours with talking away into the night. Our constant touch with the past and our memory tells us it is essential to hold on to history and to build on it. We seldom realise that through our reflections on bygones, we are connecting to what is real now. As we swirl in and out of conversation with ‘energy parasites,’ our reminiscences are the catalysts in our present day ecstasy with those who actually make it count. Just like any one of us, Shadi’s cravings and desires expose themselves in a convoluted manner as he thinks and feels so sincerely in one sitting with strangers, strangers with listening ears. Whilst he may not have entirely found peace, he keeps on for that thrill of when the needle touches the record.

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Writer/Editor: @madradar​

Photographer/Editor in chief: @nehmew​

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Reach Shadi on:

https://www.facebook.com/megallaa/?fref=ts

https://soundcloud.com/shadimegallaa

https://www.mixcloud.com/Shadi_Megallaa/

https://www.facebook.com/TheFlipSideDXB/

https://www.facebook.com/ArkToAshes/

https://www.youtube.com/user/MrShadiM

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Music recommended by Shadi:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=joQlXOS-plM

“FROM BEIRUT TO ANATOLIA.”

During a recent visit to Lebanon, FIBRE stumbled upon a little gem, hidden in the treasure that is Bourj Hammoud; an area that is home to many of Beirut’s Armenian community. The history of this area is as dense as its population dating back to the fall of the Ottoman Empire. Under the grand Empire’s governing, over 1 million Armenians were exterminated in what is now known as the Armenian Genocide. The result was the Armenian diaspora community of Lebanon we know today, also found predominantly in Georgia, Russia and the US. 

Perhaps it is history, perhaps it is geography or perhaps it is experience that creates inner peace and order in the midst of chaos. Perhaps the frustrations we have with our history further our longing to belong, further our drive to change, further our need to create. In a nutshell, the result can be found in art, understanding, curiosity, love, empathy, humanity and passion, with the hope that every little effort counts in our spiralling world.

What is certain is that for Khoum, there is an undeniable connection with the past and the present. An experimental music project, Khoum aims to “redefine, rediscover and recollect lost pieces and elements of Caucasian, Anatolian and Armenian ethnic music.” The name itself has a history stemming from the Armenian music notation system of the 9th century, Khaz. A duo from Beirut-Lebanon, Bobes Aghjian and Haig Gragian have come together to recreate history. Deeply rooted in the past with a consciousness for the present, Khoum dismantle elements of Folk, Classical, Jazz and oriental music and reassemble them into a modern day hybrid of sounds that are both therapeutic and captivating for the ears.

We were intrigued to unravel the inner workings of their mind and their inspirations -

How and when did you first start making music?

We started making music 13 years ago and we’ve been the founding members of different bands such as Mihr playing Armenian folk music. However, Khoum is a newly formed project about 4 months old. We started Khoum because Mihr’s audience was the Armenian community and their expectations and receptivity was restricted to Armenian music. Our aim was to include oriental elements in our music because it reflects our identity and reality as Anatolian Armenians living in the Arab world. We have detached ourselves from the limitations.

Why the name ‘Khoum?’

Khoum is a dynamic musical sign in the ancient neumatic notation system invented by Hampartsoum Limondjian (Baba Hampartsoum). Hampartsoum Limondjian also contributed to the invention of the Ottoman notation system. We chose Khoum because this sign reflects the mystic element and the open dimension of our music.

How do you combine the various elements of Caucasian, Anatolian and Armenian sounds?

All the sounds are familiar to us. We do not think about combining the sounds. We just express ourselves through these elements.

  Who is your biggest inspiration?

We are inspired by music of the people and not popular music because it has a social relevance and it is the most familiar and the purest of music.

What is important about music?

Music has become independent and individual after the incorporation of technology in music. It’s either quality music or bad music. Popularity and exposure are not the norms to define the quality of music.

What keeps you going?

Our passion for music!

How do you make ethnic music ‘modern’ and relatable for your followers?

Ethnic music was passed down to our generation through oral tradition and other means. However, our ears were adapted to western music. Both elements are present in us. We just practice them.

What is the story behind your track/video ‘From Beirut to Anatolia?’

It is a musical journey from our present to our past. The abstract fragments of the music video conjure up images from the present and the past. 

How do you define home?

Home is a state in which you feel comfortable and an environment where you can express yourself and should not be associated with a specific location. 

What are you listening to this week?

Tinariwen, Ibrahim Keivo, Aynur Dogan.

What is next on your agenda?

We have several live sessions in Beirut after which we will release new compositions.

For Khoum, music is more than a passion, it is a way of life and being, it is an identity. An identity closely defined by their interpretation of home, but not solely that. It is also shaped by their reality and an ear for the raw foundation of music that we have come to know today.

Their current and future endeavours can be followed on –

http://khoumsessions.bandcamp.com/

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCROuVGloFBd9OQsS66oVkdw

https://www.facebook.com/khoum.sessions.7?fref=ts

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Writer/Editor: @madradar​