Syria's Electronic Music Scene
Interview by Zila Demirijian
Nightlife in Syria was an outlet for the youth to unwind: small pleasures that they now reminisce about. It may feel like a complete luxury in the current living conditions in the major Syrian cities, but the people in and around the scene will tell you that the dance floor is needed now more than ever.
The past few years saw a renaissance in the underground music scene, with massive raves across the country in historic sights like Krak Des Chevalier and the underground pubs in Damascus. Wherever they happened to be, what’s sure is that people are eager to shake things off and feel like they still belong to a community.
Philippe Zarif, aka DJ Boshoco, is spearheading this movement, and describes the crowd as hungry. He’s been playing sets across the country since 2017 and has been integral in reintroducing Electronic sounds to the dance floor. His journey, however, has not been easy. An avid activist, he left Syria in 2002 to study Law in Canada, and it was not until nine years later that he returned. Before playing in the homeland, he opened an artist house in Istanbul and toured Europe.
His touring schedule is still lined up with gigs in Cairo, Beirut, and cities in North America. But I caught him for an afternoon to talk about Techno music in Syria, emerging artists from Damascus and Aleppo, and the effect of nostalgia on music.
What got you into music production?
I liked music since I was a kid. I used to take piano and guitar lessons, and I loved Rock but there weren’t many stages to play in Syria. When I went to Law school, I stopped pursuing music. I would just play for fun, but thought that art was a luxury and that I needed to focus on my studies – the more serious things. In 2011, I decided that I wanted to do what I liked doing. I started with digital production, like Hip-Hop beats and Electronica, then shifted to Electronic music, when I saw the dance floor as a platform to express myself and find a community.
You were part of some kind of artistic collective in Istanbul?
I opened an artist house where musicians can come to stay. But my idea of support has changed since. Long-lasting relationships are based on a give-and-take approach, otherwise they fail. And the way I approached it made it an imbalanced relationship. That experience taught me a few life lessons that opened up the doors to what I’m working towards now. It’s important to be clear about your expectations from the beginning and make sure that the people you’re collaborating with also voice their expectations. I still haven’t given up on the artist house idea. It’s a great model to support emerging creatives and nurture a community. I want to recreate it in Lebanon this time. I would also like to help start a music academy in Syria. Young creatives are very knowledgeable musically, and almost academically, but they’re very disconnected from how the industry operates: the social media aspect of things, how collaborations and contracting work, dealing with the labels, the mixing and mastering... People don’t know how to morph a sample for it to be cleared of rights, or how to approach an artist when you’re sampling their work. My background in Law was focused on intellectual property, and that’s coming in handy now.
How did you muster up the creativity needed to cross over from a legal practice in Canada to DJing in Syria’s Electronic Scene?
I don't think I made a transition: creativity is after all not reserved for the Arts only. You have lawyers who are very creative and musicians who are not. The accumulation of experiences is very important to me. I think that overspecialization is a very Western and modern thing. The future to me calls for versatility: the more different things you do, the easier you can adapt.
How would you compare the energy in the music scene in Amsterdam and Paris compared to Damascus?
In Europe – and even in Lebanon actually – people have become a bit blasé. It’s hard to stir an emotion in a crowd. People in Syria are still hungry for it. They want something new. The first time I played in Damascus was something else: people were so receptive that they cried on the dance floor. That’s not just my impression as someone from the place: the international DJs who played here felt that same, different energy. So many smiles. People were happy. You don't see that as much anymore. And for me, as a Syrian, having the platform and support at home is important as a foundation for the work I do abroad. It’s important for me to have a fanbase in my home country and represent this place.
What are some of the biggest challenges of performing in Syria?
That the music scene doesn’t really exist. It needs a lot of work, and people need to be more connected – at least with the rest of the region and mainly to be able to afford bookings. It makes more sense when you can share the costs. I have high hopes for our boys who are in Dubai. If they establish themselves there, they can represent us. The challenge is in learning the tools that will make you noticeable to the global radar. The funds spent on culture in Syria aren’t enough to sustain alone.
Has there been a change in people’s receptiveness from when you first started performing?
It’s difficult to generalize. I always have to pull the brakes on improvising when I play in Syria. As I said, the scene is still new and if you experiment too much you might lose the attention of those who like your music and came with expectations. Sometimes people want to see what they’ve been seeing in the West: big drops, tracks they like… The challenge is to break out of the mainstream. That’s not to say that some party-goers are not receptive. I’ve split my folders now. I have something that is more Syria, Dubai, Erbil. Music that is for a younger audience that’s new to the scene, and wants a taster. And I have something for those that want to hear new sounds and feel different emotions.
Where would you play the second folder?
In the smaller clubs in Lebanon where you’re invited to experiment. For example, I’ve been playing with Frequent Defect who have a warehouse in Mkalles. It’s very communal: people know each other, but anyone is welcome. No telephones. No one is recording. I can test tracks there. It’s very important to have this outlet. It’s the same in Egypt. I played Cairo Jazz Club recently. It was “Alternative Tuesday” – Fridays are more for the mainstream stuff.
Why fuse Tarab and Techno?
It’s not that I fuse Tarab and Techno as much as that my culture is eclectic. Growing up, my mom would listen to Aznavour and my dad to Najwa Karam. Those experiences are what come out in my sets. The only person who really fuses Tarab and Techno is Hello Psychaleppo. He quite literally dissects the genres.
Who are your biggest influences?
The first ones that come to mind are Prodigy, Fatboy Slim, Snoop Dogg, Cypress Hill, Aznavour, Wadih El Safi, Abdel Halim Hafez, Najwa Karam, and Guns and Roses.
Photo: Hasan Belal via The National News
In 2020, you released “Semsem”, a track you described as an homage to your bittersweet feelings towards Aleppo. What are some of your fondest memories of growing up in the city?
Aleppo is very present in me. A lot of my experiences growing up revolved around music. There used to be a CD shop by the square. We would always go there, and the owner, Armen, would help us pick out music. We would buy CDs on a loan, and try to find a way to pay him back. My sister and I would throw parties on our rooftop. Aleppo was kind of disconnected, and people like Armen introduced us to new things so we got to choose what we wanted to listen to. In the past, Aleppo was the hub for music, and we need to make sure that everyone knows that this city has a lot of history. It needs to become a place for tourism, food, and music again.
What do you say to those who say that it’s not the time for parties in Syria?
I never entertain those comments. On the contrary – we need to be present. Everything is hard enough as it is: we cannot judge each other because we have no visibility. The main lesson I learned in Aleppo is to excercise how to stop judging. The more you judge people, the more you judge yourself and become paralyzed.
Boshoco playing a set in Beirut in collaboration with Hello Psychaleppo at Ballroom Blitz. Photo: Hasan Belal, via The National News
Tell us more about Siin and being a regular feature and partner at these events
Michael Atallah is the genius behind Siin. I was involved more as an artistic director in the beginning, but there isn’t enough work right now. There’s still more curiosity around big acts coming here. I think it’s because people in Syria want to feel like they are still part of the rest of the world. So there’s not much curating to do as much as there’s seeing what is available to us. But I think that the dynamics will change in the long run – and Siin is important for that. Having a big company like Siin makes people more interested in the electronic scene in general and eventually, these people will want to hear new, fresh sounds. I’d love to see more underground collectives introducing different sounds.
Are you optimistic about the future of techno in Syria?
I’m not optimistic about the state of the world in general. But these conditions bring out more creativity. I think part of what we’ve done here, whether through my solo work, or my work with Siin, is give people a platform. A lot of young people are starting to produce. You can tell who’s really passionate about it. There’s a young guy from Lattakia – Beyond Electric – who has great potential. I am also working with Maher Green, a Qanun player and graduate of the Higher Institute of Music in Damascus. We’ve been discussing how he should incorporate Qanun into electronic music. There’s potential in general. Things are getting harder but we have to push through. I can’t stress enough on how important it is to create a regional network. We have to stay optimistic or we’ll end up staying still.
What are some of your most memorable experiences DJing in Syria?
I remember when I played at KAI Sunset Bar. It was an unexpected night, and the eve of playing at Krak des Chevalier, so we were supposed to take it easy that night. We ended up playing until nine in the morning. Another one was Siin’s first gig which was on the beach. We were expecting 200 people and 800 showed up. I played for more than six hours and I can easily say that it was the best gig of my life, because it was in Syria. Another surprising event was the very first time I played in Damascus at Tunnel. People were so receptive!
Any advice for the creatives in Syria?
Don’t judge anyone, and that includes yourself. Be proud of what you do. You have to give yourself a lot of value before expecting it from others. There is no right or wrong as long as you are being respectful and open to new things.
Where are you playing next?
I’m going to play in New York and DC with friends from Laylit, a queer Arab collective based in New York. One of the founders, Saphe Shamoun, is from Aleppo. I’m releasing a bootleg remix that samples Shabjdeed with a video that my friend, Somar Al Sheikh, made based on The Attack on Titan. It’s an homage to the work that BLTNM is doing right now. I really respect them: they’re the best example of a good modern Arab label. I also want to focus on my YouTube channel because Instagram is silencing us. I have a Boiler Room set on a Sawt Syria special they’re doing. I’m also working on a track that’s going to be the main theme of a documentary by my friend, Ali Al Sheikh, on skaters who teach kids from camps how to skate. It's a huge collaboration: we have Khaled Omran who’s the best bassist in the region; Maher Green on the Qanun; Ali Al Sheikh on the trumpet; and Tarek Khuluki mixing and mastering. Many others will be involved. I get excited about these big collaborations because I can learn from these people. We’re also doing an Afro track for the summer with G the Doctor who’s also in Siin.
Natalie Bahhade (aka DJ Nass) is the only woman Djing in Aleppo right now. She’s the co-founder of Karasi Collective, a project aimed at providing a platform for artists in Syria. Her return to Aleppo was unplanned, though its outcome has been a pleasant surprise. Her career path was not planned either. The 27-year-old did a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology in Lebanon then went to Italy to get a Master's degree in Arts and Culture Management, which coincidentally brought a fresh perspective in her work in the art scene in Syria.
The first time I went to see DJ Nass playing was at Al Ahwaz Cafe, a venue barely big enough to fit 25 people. The door remained open well after midnight, and people were flowing in and out, sitting on the tables scattered outside, or dancing next to the DJ booth. Strangers were going up to each other to introduce themselves, offering cigarettes and exchanging phone numbers to stay in touch for the next night out – an uncommon occurrence since Aleppans are rarely known to venture out of their tightly-knit groups. I sat down to chat with Natalie in the same location. She talked about her experience living abroad, finding her place in a male-dominated industry, and understanding the importance of community.
Were you always into music?
Growing up in an environment where vulnerability was not encouraged and where we were forced to deal with war from a young age, kind of turned me into an emotionally cold person. The only sphere in which I felt allowed and at ease to feel anything was the creative scene. It started in Lebanon, where I would go to galleries and poetry nights. Music connected me to people who gave me a safe space to be myself. I wanted to use music as a tool but didn’t know how to. When I went to Italy to do my master’s, my main group of friends were studying music at Erasmus. It exposed me to the process of making music, and they encouraged me to learn. I got a MIDI keyboard. During the pandemic, we had nothing to do, so I spent my time making music and creating mixtapes for friends.
Did studying psychology impact your creativity?
Definitely. It helped me structure it in a way, and understand the importance of community, especially the psychological effects of putting two very different people together, where they start out as strangers and end up belonging.
In 2022, you co-founded Karasi with Mark Ward. Tell me about this collective.
Karasi Collective is a large creative umbrella for us to do anything we want at the right time with the right people. Since there are no activities in Aleppo, we have the freedom to do anything we can think of, but it’s also very challenging because it’s hard to maintain a schedule in Aleppo – people always come and go – and we don’t have a lot of suitable locations. That’s why we keep coming back to Al Ahwaz. DJ Remon was working on an EP – a mix of oriental classics with electronics – and I suggested we do a pre-release listening party there, and we invited everyone we know. I met this photographer in Damascus who wanted to do something in Aleppo, so we hosted an exhibition called “The Crow’s Eye”. People who contribute don’t do it for the money – it’s mostly volunteer work. We are just trying to have a good time, connect people, and build a base for a strong creative community.
When did you start playing in front of a crowd?
When I came back to Aleppo, I spent time meeting a lot of new people. I still couldn’t find the creative community I needed to soothe me. A year in, I reached a level of boredom I had never reached in my life and it really affected my mental health. I had to do something about it. It’s common in pubs in Lebanon, for someone to prepare a themed playlist, so I suggested doing that to the owner of Al Ahwaz. On the first night, we did Arabic funk and soul inspired by Habibi Funk. A lot of people showed up. We moved half of the chairs to make space to dance and didn’t take any reservations. We wanted people to be forced to interact and have fun with each other. Karasi Collective actually took off from there.
What was it like DJing for the first time?
I was definitely nervous because it had been my dream for a long time. I remember I was shaking at first. It felt really, really good. Just seeing people enjoy the music I was playing. Back then, I was still playing on virtualDJ on the computer. I hadn’t touched a mixer yet.
When did you switch?
By Karasi Collective’s second exhibition, we had built a real community and wanted to do something fun for them. We organized a closing party. Boshoco was our main headliner and he pushed me to be the opening act. That was the first time I played on a mixer.
What do you do when you feel like people don’t immediately catch the vibe?
I vibe with myself until they do. When they see a DJ having fun, they have fun too.
Was coming back to Syria always the plan or was it a spur-of-the-moment decision?
Definitely a spur-of-the-moment decision. To me, it was never gonna happen. Then I went to Italy and the idea we created in our heads in Syria about the “amazing West” completely shattered. There’s similar corruption and everyday problems there. There’s racism. Those systems don’t play in your favor. I wanted to do something to help Arab artists, but there were enough tools and platforms there. I realized I could that here instead: we have talented artists who need the right tools, platforms, financing and exposure.
What influences your musical style?
Music that makes me feel good. As a DJ, my main genre is Groove House which is similar to my personality, I think. It’s what I play at sunset events. I’m very much into Funk, Groove and Soul, and I feel like House music connects everything in a modern way. At parties, I do Tech-House: it’s upbeat and fast, and nicer to dance to.
Who are your favorite musicians?
That’s a really hard question. I’m into Arabic Hip-Hop like Alpha, Coast, Shabjdeed, El Ras, Marwan Moussa, and Bu Kulthum. When it comes to Electronic music, Black Coffee is in my top three, as well as Claptone, and Life on Planets.
What was the general reaction to you pursuing music in a male-dominated field in a traditional society?
My parents weren’t very happy about it, but they never built any obstacles for me. I’m used to being the only girl in a male-dominated space. I work at a furniture company surrounded by men. It does limit my exposure, because I had to decline a bunch of gigs I was invited to because becoming mainstream would affect the reputation of my family business and everything here revolves around reputation. But thankfully, people’s reaction was so welcoming and appreciative. They build me up. The other guys would always insist on me being in the lineup. They created a safe environment so I wouldn’t feel like the odd one out. They understand the importance of having more women in this field.
What’s the landscape like for women who want to be DJs in the region?
A lot of women are getting into it, but it’s definitely still male-dominated. They face a lot of problems, but I feel like we’re heading in the right direction. Those who have a problem with it are just as likely to be toxic to male DJs.
What’s the biggest challenge of playing in Aleppo?
The crowd. They approach new things with apprehension. They want events but they don’t show up. The community that we have built now is very young and diverse. It’s amazing that we can give them the space, but it’s still very cliquey and I haven’t found the right equation yet to bring everyone together. I would like to have more diversity in age and social backgrounds.
What does the art scene in Syria need to flourish?
I think there’s a lot of soul and culture in this place but there’s a lack in platforms and tools, and this is what we’re trying to offer with the Karasi Collective. I’m glad to see more people working on this because one collective is not enough. I think Karasi’s influence has successfully reached beyond Aleppo, and we need to see the same efforts in other Syrian cities as well.
What are you working on currently?
We started a podcast about the culture scene in Syria, which will give you glimpses of some musical ventures. I’m also starting my own line of products and furniture called Naba, inspired by my main job in my family’s furniture business. I recently launched my first product – a wooden speaker – a perfect representation of the two things I love.
What are your top three must-see places in Syria?
The Aleppo citadel, for sure, Al Ahwaz, and Mashqita. There’s this private cabin at the end of Lake Mashqita that you can only reach with a boat. There’s no electricity and no connection so you can just unwind with friends.
Any advice for young musicians?
Just do it, honestly. A lot of creatives think about things but never do them because of a lot of excuses. It’s hard and challenging but it’s worth it.
