Four of the five members of Mashrou’ Leila are sitting around a table in blinding sunlight and dark glasses (they have a strong sartorial preference for black). Ibrahim Badr, the bassist, is still somewhere between San Diego — the most recent stop on the group’s second-ever US tour — and New York. Where exactly, no one knows. But he does arrive in time for the band’s two sold-out shows in Manhattan, before they move on to Canada and later Europe.
While the band’s art school origins and dark pop melodies have earned them comparisons to Roxy Music and Radiohead, their international fanbase is still new. The fact that they sold out shows in cities across the States in under two days was a surprise to the group’s members — Hamed Sinno (lead vocals), Haig Papazian (violin), Carl Gerges (drums), Firas Abou Fakher (guitar and keyboard), and Ibrahim — more than anyone. And, ironically, the surge in their popularity outside of Lebanon owes a lot to the very people who are trying to ensure the group never performs at all.
In April this year, the Jordanian authorities banned Mashrou’ Leila from playing at an amphitheater in Amman. “The written justification officially provided is that the performance would have been at odds with what the Ministry of Tourism viewed as the ‘authenticity’ of the site,” the group wrote in a Facebook statement that was shared many thousands of times over. Unofficially, they were told the ban was due to their “political and religious beliefs and endorsement of gender equality and sexual freedom.”
Hamed, the group’s lead singer, is openly gay — perhaps the only openly gay musician in the mainstream Arabic music world — and the group is outspoken about LGBTQ rights. Since they formed in 2008, in fact, the members of Mashrou’ Leila have never shied away from voicing any of their political beliefs. They once sang their song “Al Hajez,” which rails against Lebanon’s police checkpoints, in front of former Lebanese Prime Minister Saad Hariri and included the original chorus which translates roughly as “you fucker, you cunt.” The group’s music also became closely associated with the discontentment and resistance of the Arab Spring.
So when news broke, shortly after the guys landed in the US, that 49 people people had been shot inside Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando, by a man who pledged allegiance to the Islamic State, their very existence as a band fronted by a gay Muslim was suddenly more politicized than ever. We spoke to the group about censorship, the bad kind of Lebanese pop, and finding the right words.
This album is a lot more dancey than your previous records. Have audiences reacted to it differently on tour?
Hamed: I’ve always said this, and I stand by it: we’re a live band. Being onstage has been our biggest advantage — especially in countries where there’s a language barrier. We came to the US thinking it was going to be a little rough and that for the most part the audience was going to be Arab expats. But it’s actually been the exact opposite. It’s been really rewarding to see that happen, and that language isn’t the only thing that matters. I think part of that is publicity.
Carl: The mood of the album is very also different. It’s much more dark and, yes, dancey. So people are dancing and screaming at the end of the show.
Haig: And a lot’s happened since the last time we were here, like the Jordan thing. A lot of people just recently discovered us.
What was the real reason behind the ban?
Hamed: The media made it more than anything else about LGBTQ activism, and that’s understandable. But that really wasn’t how stuff started. It started with a priest having a problem with some of the lyrics because he decided they were blasphemous. It wasn’t just about sexuality, it was much more dangerous. They said, one, that we “promote sex.” Two, that we “promote homosexuality,” as if you could play a show and suddenly people are burping rainbows. Three — and this was incredible — they decided that we get people to “incite rebellion against governments and societies.” I mean, if it were possible to promote that, it would be great.
When the news broke about Orlando, did you immediately feel like you wanted to address what had happened onstage?
Hamed: We have been. It’s crazy playing this album in particular, because so much of it is about mourning inside nightclubs. We’re operating in a world where now all the words mean something different. In my head, this was an album about being in a club and getting fucked up after my father passed away. Now it’s about being fucked up in a club and mourning the death of so many people. And knowing that the crowd expects us to say things is [strange]. We’re sort of in this position where we’re everything the US hates. We’re darker. I’m Muslim. I’m queer. It’s a pretty interesting point to be in. Especially when you have people trying to pit the queer community against the Islamic community.
Did you also feel like you wanted to say something on a personal level?
Hamed: Sure. When these things happen and you know there are people that are listening to you, and that you have this platform you could use to try and make the world a better place, you do to some extent feel obligated to say things.
But there’s also this weird thing where by virtue of being Arab, reporters will always ask you to “speak for your people,” as if anyone could. There is this pressure. And I feel white musicians don’t have to do that. Even though you’re coming here in your capacity as a musician to tour and play music, people want to deal with you within your capacity as an Arab, or a queer Arab, or a queer Arab Muslim, or a queer second-generation Arab-American Muslim. But regardless, maybe because we are those people, it is important for us to say things when we can.
And after Orlando, something very clearly needed to be said. We saw politicians do something so violent towards the LGBTQ community, which was to rob us of our sense of agency. Suddenly this straight-up attack on us, for homophobic hate purposes, they won’t even acknowledge that. They made this an Islam versus US thing. To pit communities against each other like that… In the whole history of the queer community, the only thing that’s pushed queer liberationist agendas further has been our ability to network amongst each other and create support systems. That’s why clubs are so important. They’re where you forge so much of this camaraderie, your ability to fight, your ability to come out, your ability to not feel like a monster. When you divide the community up, and say queers of color are the people you need to hate — not systemic hetero patriarchal capitalism, or Trump, or the NRA, but the Muslims — it’s such a violent thing to do.
Have you felt any of that violence personally since you’ve been in the US?
Hamed: Yes, sure. This thing happened to our bassist at the airport when he was coming into the country. There was another Arab behind him in line who got confused and tried to cut the line and the security officer started yelling at him in English. The guy didn’t really speak English so the officer was a total asshole to him. He said, “All of this is going to change when Trump wins.” And I got Trump-threatened the other day too. I went to this big drag party and I’m getting out of the elevator and this guy takes one look at me and starts yelling, “Build the wall!” I think he thought I was Latino.
Over the past few years, have you seen changes in Lebanon in the way you’re welcomed, or not?
Hamed: We get a lot more media exposure than we did when we started. Partially because we have more legitimacy, partially because we’ve become harder to ignore. It’s getting better.
And are laws relating to LGBTQ rights changing?
Hamed: Very gradually. But that’s the thing with Lebanon. To actually get the structures to change is almost impossible. The entire penal system is fucked. And it’s not just about LGBTQ stuff. It’s also about systemic violence against women, domestic abuse. It’s a very long, uphill battle.
For a lot of people in the US, you might be the only Lebanese pop group they’ve heard. How would you describe the generic Lebanese pop you’re going against?
Hamed: It sounds a lot like what you hear coming out of some kebab vans in New York. I’m serious! Today, I was getting onto the subway and there was a van pumping it, and I didn’t know whether I should dance to it or be [embarrassed]. Because of our history and colonialism, there’s this weird thing across the Arab world where people are very caught up in the idea of cultural production having to be within some kind of collective identity. And that collective identity is always some very nostalgic idea of what were we “before white people ruined everything.” It tends to be regressive.
Is there any kind of alternative music scene in Beirut?
Hamed: There is, but it’s underdeveloped.
How did you make it work?
Hamed: Right time, right place, right guys!
What, for you, is the long-term goal? Who would you want to collaborate with? Where do you want to play? What would be the ultimate sign of success?
Hamed: Beyoncé!
Carl: For me, it’s Wembley. Three nights in a row at Wembley.
Hamed: Part of why we continue to do stuff in Arabic is that there’s this really weird idea that just because something is in Arabic it’s “world music.” Already the word “world” is such a problematic way of categorizing music. So for me, it would just be amazing to have an Arabic track played on the pop chart — where it should be.
Credits
Text Alice Newell-Hanson
Photography Katie McCurdy