Recently in Beirut, Youssef Rakha witnesses two sides of post-war night life In the nightclub scene of post-war Beirut, BO18 and Michel Elefteriades' Music Hall are among the most vibrant venues. Lying, respectively, in the East Beirut massacre site of Karantina and the Starco Complex (in the city's traditional commercial centre), they arguably represent Beirut's age-old dual aspect -- the one Christian and Francophone, the other (though one of the war's so-called green lines, lying as it does in the twilight zone separating Beirut's hypothetical two halves) a melting pot of remarkable religious, ethnic and cultural diversity. (It is worth noting that Karantina, having turned from the Beirut sea port quarantine at the turn of the century to an Armenian refugee camp in the 1920s, and eventually a Palestinian one through the 1970s, when the famous massacre occurred in 1976, has only recently been incorporated into East Beirut's more prosperous stretches. Likewise the commercial centre -- the site of much destruction and bloodshed during the war -- has taken on the general characteristics of present-day West Beirut.) Yet both venues demonstrate that, in the wake of the Lebanese Civil War (1975-1990), the musical heritage of the city became all the richer. With Marcel Khalifa setting the work of Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish to music, Ziad Rahbani offering a running commentary on events (in the form of comedy as well as music), and Ahmed Qa'bour giving the conventional patriotic song a humorous or emotional edge by turns, the war in itself may be said to have made a direct contribution to such plenitude and variety. In the last 15 years, much like other aspects of post-war Lebanese life, live music has been situated in the neoliberal framework of a business- oriented, West-inspired society. Designed by Bernard Khoury, whose principal gripe with much reconstruction work was the way in which it ignored the immediate history of the locations in question, B018 evokes the notion of a tomb -- at several different levels. Far more than a Disney-like memorial to the 1976 massacre, it incorporates the experience of burial into its very construction. One enters and exists through a narrow passageway giving onto a circular courtyard with a retractable steel ceiling that opens and closes periodically through the night. The space is constructed almost entirely underground, with only the steel semisphere of the roof showing. Much seating folds up, like a coffin; and on every table there is a small coffin model that opens to reveal the picture of a dead music star. Khoury did not intend the building as a direct reference to war or any of its trappings, however; and judging by the attitude of the prosperous, Westernised crowd that patronises B018, no such dynamic operates at any obvious level. Rather, the sense of claustrophobia one feels on traversing the passageway (in the course of which one pays the hefty entrance fee) combines with the mirror-lined steel of the ceiling, occasional exposure to the sky and the typically stuffy atmosphere of an overcrowded nightclub, to give a uniquely eerie impression -- one that proves life-affirming by virtue of acting as an incentive to participation rather than having a dampening effect. Here as elsewhere many of the bouncers are ex-militiamen; and it is almost as if the compulsion to dance and otherwise respond to the stage performances is by way of fleeing the sense of danger or impending death the atmosphere of the place subliminally summons up. (Many have testified to the danger of war having a life-affirming effect on their personal, intimate and private responses to life.) Of the many young bands who use B018 as an exposure forum, 'Aks Esseir (Wrong lane) -- the band of the by now well-known rapper Rayes Beik -- is among the most stimulating. Politically outspoken, Rayes Beik delivers his carefully constructed messages in his own distinctive rhythms which, though recognisable as rap, benefit from the local musical heritage and respond to lines from Arabic rather than international pop. The voice of an angst- ridden generation who suffered the consequences of war without instigating or taking part in it, he broaches subjects like cultural identity and political standpoint in a vernacular at once deeply engaged with street life and one step removed from it. This is no doubt partly the result of his own relatively privileged background -- something that often generates irony. (The tone in which he insists on "enough playing with the American", for example, is in itself remarkably American; so too when he claims that "they're living it up", he sounds remarkably like one of "them".) Yet there the words, poetically strung together and often pronounced at remarkable speed, acquire a force that lends them credibility. And there is remarkable courage in the way Rayes Beik takes issue with Beirut's new capitalists -- themselves, in many people's views, the war criminals who messed up the life of his generation of educated Lebanese. It goes well with the atmosphere of B018 even as it outshines much less politically vociferous fare. Perhaps Rayes Beik's most powerful image is that of "speaking in silence" -- a silence, he says, that makes his voice "loud in Beirut" -- so loud some call for his death. That said, the experience of B018 remains distinctly exclusive; one has the feeling that the venue is only fully accessible to a rich and powerful clique -- white-skinned and seemingly sectarian -- a sense almost wholly dispelled at the Music Hall, located in a far less politically charged part of town, and built like a 1940s Egyptian cabaret (or at least so one imagines). Full of deep red velvet, with frilly curtains and large, restaurant- style tables arranged in a gradation that helps improve the stage view, the Music Hall boasts a far more representative range of clientele -- perhaps the full range of Beirut's constituency -- and provides a rigidly constructed programme so seamlessly coordinated it allows for little fluctuation in audience response. The brainchild of the Greek- Lebanese entrepreneur and music enthusiast Michel Elefteriades (the Arab world's answer to the miraculous impresario), the Music Hall thrives on the Oriental Roots Orchestra, which he founded -- a rich amalgam of musicians from all over the world who, individual virtuosity and expertise within a specific tradition notwithstanding, achieve a remarkable degree of integration. Harmony may not be technically the right word to describe the result of their jamming, but even though they include traditional Arab, Balkan brass and Caribbean elements working together and very often simultaneously, nothing jars. Everyone more or less contributes to everything but, depending on the performance being presented, one or more elements of the orchestra will be given the greater space to stand out -- with the adding notes and rhythms rather by way of embellishment. Many performances -- the male belly-dancer who, dressed in T-shirt and jeans, brought the evening to a remarkably debauched close, for example -- were dance rather than singing centred, something that allowed for even more variety in the way of mixing and matching instruments, musicians and music styles. Among the more outstanding participants are the veteran Mount Lebanon voice Tony Hanna and East Jerusalem Chehade brothers, Rami ( oud and vocals) and Farid ( buzuk ). Though sadly without the accompanying Yugoslavian Gypsy Brass Band on this particular occasion, Hanna appeared in the waistcoat and top hat he had taken to wearing to adapt to his new-found soulmates. (CDs testify to an incredibly refreshing mix of Lebanese melancholy and Yugoslav cheer, although the upbeat dabka rhythms, perhaps to a greater extent than to the plaintive droning of ataba, prove readily adaptable to the sound of Balkan brass.) For their part the Chehade brothers made their greatest contribution in the context of other people's numbers -- Rami's quiet, flowing approach perfectly matching his brother's fiery energy. Adopting a distinctly Oriental image, the Chehade brothers, though Christian, are sometimes jokingly mistaken for members of the Taliban. Their own, Grammy-winning CD testifies to profound mastery of the widest range of traditional Arab sounds. But it was their individual skill and capacity for connecting with the audience that made them stand out that night. Their presence testified to the open, inclusive atmosphere of the Music Hall, which made for a truly rewarding evening. Palestinians singing alongside Maronites and all manner of foreigners demonstrated the virtues of pre-war (West) Beirut even despite their situation within the aforementioned neoliberal framework, which evidently allows for them still, notwithstanding its consequences for the worse off and in defiance of increasingly perilous political conditions. Such, indeed, is how one imagines the Paris of the East at its best.
