Rock Like an Egyptian

It struck me as a bit strange that Egypt’s most famous pop-rock group, Wust el-Beled (Egyptian slang for “downtown”) would elect to perform at such a stiff venue as the Gomhoriyya Theater. They looked a bit out of their element scattered across the wide stage, playing for an audience trapped in plush folding chairs. What I did not know, until later developments in their set prompted Aaron to inform me, was that a member of Wust el-Beled had recently made a public announcement: his commitment to Islamic morals no longer allowed him to play in venues serving alcohol. Which narrowed down their options to such elegant joints as the Gomhoriyya Theater.

To be fair, the theater’s old-timey sophistication could be interpreted as “hip” if you were looking for it. And many attendees of the Wust el-Beled concert probably were: the high percentage of baggy pants and funny hats and the lower percentage of veils marked a significant divergence from the style of the Cairo masses. However, as I noted the prevalence of English smattered stylishly across their conversations and the decidedly expensive look to their digs, I gathered that these fashion plates had most likely not drawn inspiration to embrace a bohemian lifestyle from a sparse and humble upbringing; no, much like Williamsburg’s “trust-fund hipsters,” most of these cats had probably inherited their access to coolness along with the many privileges of belonging to Cairo’s richest, most Westernized, and incidentally smallest social class.

Fashionable youngsters aside, the large number of elderly concert-goers sparked my curiosity. Do Egyptian music groups tend to cater to all generations, or do these folks simply have season passes to the Gomhoriyya? Either way, their visible enjoyment of the music attested to their capacity to enjoy Egypt’s latest brand of “cool.” And as I was to find out, Wust el-Beled is geared to please adherents to all manner of musical tastes.

The band boasts seven musicians, appearing to range in age from twenties to forties (it’s hard to gauge age around here – people seem to go from nineteen to fifty in one fell swoop), and in skin tones from olive-toned white to dredlocks-black. Wust el-Beled’s three guitarists affirm the Egyptian scene’s adoption of the guitar-heavy ratio ubiquitous in American rock groups. The remaining breakdown: an‘oud, a kind of Oriental lute, an electric bass, two percussionists and a vocalist, although one of the guitarists actually did more of the singing. Half of the group arrived late.

Together they struck a portrait that invoked at once a jam band and a traditional Oriental ensemble. They wore casual clothes, tee shirts, jackets, and jeans, and with the exception of the bongo-player, remained seated and concentrated throughout the performance. The frontman, if he could be interpreted as such (criteria: best-looking, highest voice, most convincing sneer), muttered commentary into his microphone between every song while the members conducted extended whispered conferences about what they might play next. From time to time the audience laughed and someone would shout out his commentary. A group of girls called out his name (Ismaïl) and squealed at the boldness of their anonymity as he squinted into the dark with a permissive smile. As the evening advanced and the band’s conduct less formal, shouted requests for favorite tunes grew more insistent. Basically like a regular rock concert.

Well, sort of. I quickly discovered that Wust el-Beled exemplifies the modern musical identity crisis. They covered styles ranging from Latino rock (inspiring Aaron’s snide nomer “the E-gipsy Kings”) to reggae to schmaltzty Arab pop to traditional Oriental pieces. However, it still came as a surprise when, toward the end of the first set, an upbeat number melted into a meditative and all-too-familiar drone. Is it? could it be? It is:

“Allaaaaaaaaaaaaahu akbar.”

The crowd went wild.

A long, brooding piece followed, in which singing members of Wust el-Beled showcased their prowess in ululation. The concert had transformed in full into a traditional interaction of performer and participant characteristic of Oriental musical occasions. These occasions are of course not concerts, but usually family or community celebrations in which all present have a role to play and certainly join in on the chorus. Yet at the same time the battling soloists and the varying responsive cheers also invoked the interaction at a jazz performance. Either way, I am no expert in Islamic law, but I know that in its most severe interpretations there was some bit about “no music for pleasure,” much less perversion of the fatiHa in rock and roll concerts, however devout the rockers. Such considerations did not seem to concern the members of Wust el-Beled or their fans, who were eating it up.

In the midst of this sacred moment, a rather comical parallel occurred to me, with a Christian rock show I had attended in high school. The concert took place in St. Cloud Technical High School’s South Auditorium, and featured a group of my classmates who called themselves “Manna-fest.” Beneath their searing electric guitars and pounding bass lines, one could make out such inspired rhymes as “Oh baby you know whenever you’re in danger/you’ve got a friend who was born in a manger” and the like. At the conclusion of the show, one of the musicians invited all willing audience members to come up to the stage and welcome Jesus into their hearts, to the accompaniment of a last, heart-wrenching number. Crowds of demonstrative teenagers swarmed to the front of South Auditorium, nno longer the territory of discordant pep band concerts but rather a holy space bathed in the stagelights’ divine beams. Tears flowed and enthused avowals fought to pierce through the amplifiers’ combined roar.

I permitted myself to imagine the corresponding scene in the Gomhoriyya Theater, should Wust el-Beled so invite their fans. They did not, of course; true to its schizophrenic character, the band soon abandoned the sacred section of its concert for more love songs and a crowd-pleasing “Free Palestine” ballad (“You can steal houses/You can steal land/But you’ll never ever steal a nation”). No, unlike Manna-fest, Wust el-Beled did not seem interested in making their religiosity the main event of their performance. To my knowledge, this particular form of inspiring the young faithful, the religious rock concert, remains foreign to Islamic culture. But seeing those hip youngsters grooving to the call to prayer in the same breath as bopping to romantic reggae and rocking out to free-Palestine, one has to wonder whether such developments are much farther off. Perhaps the conservative mullahs issuing futile fatwas against music would change their tune if they could see the extraordinary effects of the religious rock concert. I may just pen a letter to one of the usual suspects with a translation of that exemplary and compelling Onion article, “That Teen Jesus Rally Totally Rocked” to get ‘em thinking. Although the idea of Christian teeny-bopper evangelism spreading throughout this already rather troubled land does not exactly seem like a step forward. Best leave the rock concerts with a tuneful and tasteful half-time prayer break for now.