Shaaban!

By Tarek Atia
Shaaban Abdel-Rehim is his name, and rapping is his game. Except Shaaban, a sha'bi (popular) singer who's made his way into the mainstream, doesn't even know what rap is -- he just does it. And he does it effortlessly, with lyrics that are a fluid mix of rough street smarts and wholesome country soul. Currently commanding the top of the sales charts, Shaaban is quickly becoming the most sought-after live performer in town.
The man who dares to sing, without any adornment, "I hate Israel" is also the voice of wisdom. In an earlier hit, he reminds us that "the days of Al-Sitt [Umm Kalthoum] are over, now we're in the age of the Internet." The scope of his cultural commentary is wide, but Shaaban's everyday life is remarkably simple. Tucked away in the small village of Mit Halfa, about an hour outside of Cairo, Shaaban still lives in his family home with the large extended family he supports.
An unassuming house with a modest plot of land, Shaaban's village home is a far cry from what one has come to expect from a pop star who's made it to the big time. But Shaaban prefers to stay true to his roots. His family -- the brothers, sisters and cousins who always surround him -- call him their baraka (blessing) and say they "kiss the ground he walks on."
It was easy to find Shaaban when I made my way out to Mit Halfa last Friday afternoon. Once in the village, I simply asked the first person I met where his house was. It seems that anyone will happily point you in the right direction. Once there, I found Shaaban holding court amidst his large family. His youngest son, Adawiya, is named after the sha'bi singer who made it big in the 1970s and '80s with hits like Zahma ya Donya Zahma (Crowded, crowded world). Today, Shaaban's music seems a natural outgrowth of Adawiya's popularity. Shaaban is the Adawiya of the third millennium, if you like.
And as millions of TV viewers saw on Mamdouh Moussa's popular Ramadan talk show Asrar El-Negoum (Secrets of the Stars), he can still iron -- foot iron, that is, since Shaaban started out as a professional ironer. He picked up the traditional trade of ironing by foot from his father, who picked it up from his father before him. His brother, who still works the foot iron, is one of the last remaining foot ironers in the country.
Driving around with Shaaban on full blast is an exhilarating task. You are quite sure that other motorists are staring you down; some looking at you like you are out of mind, others shaking their heads, and still others practically sticking their necks into the car to listen. At a traffic light one morning, a cop car was idling beside me while I was listening to a Shaaban song about having a prepaid mobile phone card instead of a monthly line. The officer in the passenger seat leaned over and said, "Do you want to trade tapes?"
"You like Shaaban?" I asked him.
"Isn't he the guy who sings about hating Israel and Ehud Barak?" he asked.
That he is, indeed, and his family is worried sick that he might have gotten himself into a situation he can't handle. They fear some mad Israeli will try and kill him, now that every little kid on the street has the words "I hate Israel" stamped on his brain. But Shaaban had never anticipated such a big hit.
"I thought it would be big here, in the countryside, in Shubra, places like that," he says. "But a guy called me from Arish and told me the tape is breaking all records in Palestine, so it has reached the people."
The first time I heard a Shaaban song, it was his wandering epic from the album Mabakhafsh (Nothing Scares Me) about how much society has changed -- the one about bango, the Internet and the demise of real music. That's Shaaban for you -- he's always ripping into the scene and pumping himself up as the last of the Mohicans. Actually, someone else writes most of the lyrics -- schoolteacher Islam Khalil -- but Shaaban says he provides the ideas. And, of course, the way he sings them is electrifying, hard to ignore. He doesn't mess around, not with album names like Mabathadidsh (Nothing Threatens Me) and Matidarsh (You Can't).
Who is this guy? Is he his own creation, or a concoction born of very smart handlers? Maybe a little bit of both, but mainly just a result of the times we live in. Like rap, he has his finger on the pulse of a changing society, ready with the quick rhyme that lays it out like it is.
"I'm going to Amsterdam. I'm going to leave my band like Ibrahim and Hossam," he croons, making fun of both Mohamed Heneidi's film Hamam fil Amsterdam and the soccer star twins who left Ahli for Zamalek in the same stroke.
Being on top of events is Shaaban's style. "Like the lady who cut her husband up into pieces and put him in bags," he boasts, "I did a song about her the same month."
Asked if he writes his songs with a certain audience in mind, Shaaban responds that he writes his songs for the general public. "But I never expected them to reach the class of people that they've reached," he says. "I've done my songs at the sha'bi level. I never expected them to reach the American University. I've begun to sing in Mohandessin, Heliopolis, Nasr City and Maadi. Everybody listens to me now, thank God."
Trying to explain the Shaaban phenomenon, one well-educated gentlemen remarked: "The rich look around them and see that their role models are greedy, cut-throat business tycoons and movie stars who have lost touch with traditional culture. Now comes this completely illiterate lower class guy and he's singing simple words of wisdom. The appeal is irresistible. It feeds straight into the fears and stereotypes that everyone has."
But being in touch with the people is full of contradictions, which may be why Shaaban is so good at it. He represents everything that's mixed up about our lives. He is the living embodiment of our inability to achieve our dreams -- the underdog we want to win because of how simple and honest he seems to be.
And yet his songs are words, not deeds. He sings about quitting smoking, and yet he smokes like a chimney. He sings about not wearing bracelets and jewellery, yet he is laden with gold. He sings about new clothes and hairstyles making it hard to tell the difference between men and women, but he boasts about getting his shoemaker to fashion him a men's version of a women's shoe with diamond studs, at LE300 a pop.
As Shaaban lit cigarette after cigarette, I couldn't resist asking him why, if he's always telling people not to smoke and not to wear bracelets, he himself smokes so much and wears bracelets.
"I said I was going to stop smoking white cigarettes and start smoking red ones. Did I say I was going to stop smoking completely?" he asks nonchalantly.
"Yeah," I say, "you sing, 'I'm going to stop smoking.'"
"In early January," he chimes in, mimicking the song.
"Exactly," I say.
"Well maybe I mean next January."
"So you do plan on quitting?"
"Of course, that's only natural. Doesn't everyone?" he coughs.
"So you've stopped the whites and now smoke the reds?"
"Yeah."
"But reds are stronger than whites."
"Yeah."
This nonsensical demeanour has both made Shaaban the butt of intellectual jokes and maintained his image as the voice of the people -- the town crier spreading the word. But Shaaban makes sure to play it both ways, having recorded songs that sing the praises of the president and mega-projects like Toshka, as well.
So what's next for Shaaban? Now that the money is rolling in, will he start singing about the amenities of the good life? Or will he retain his honest, hard-nosed edge? "I'm never going to change," Shaaban declares confidently. "I'll just help those around me even more."
Meanwhile, one wonders if there are dozens of Shaaban wannabes waiting in the wings, ready with even tougher, more streetwise sha'bi raps, if only deep-pocketed producers and the censor will give them a chance.
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Open buffet 4 - 10 January 2001
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