Street art

Serene Assir watches as downtown Cairo's backstreets turn into a point of convergence for some of the country's most original musicians

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Young musicians come together to play amidst the sounds of Cairo coffee houses photo:Sherif Sonbol

Nightfall. A few minutes' walk from Al-Tahrir Square and Egypt's central bureaucratic complex -- and even closer to Talaat Harb Square, where the office of Ayman Nour stands above the Greek Club -- runs a typical enough backstreet: concrete, wall paintings, street cats; men, women, a baladi café; tea, coffee and politics. Nothing new in all this. Walk just a little further down the alleyway, though, and you'll encounter an unexpected element -- music, live, spontaneous and instantly engaging -- testimony to downtown Cairo's role in the vanguard of Arab musical creativity since the start of the 20th century. Meeting at baladi cafés owned by musically open, or perhaps just indifferent landlords, musicians of all ages and varying degrees of professionalism, wealth and success have gathered in such backstreets to listen to each other, to cheat, show off or just be...

And most of the time, naturally enough, they bring their instruments along with them, sometimes managing to secure a performance venue or a potential record deal, or the sale of new lyrics, even a song. But most of the time, the backstreets simply provide them with something no other space tends to have: freedom, the freedom play (in both sense of the word), the one ingredient essential to the production of fine music. At any given point, indeed, starting at 11pm or so, perhaps three or four guitars can be heard in downtown cafés. Instruments are passed from hand to hand, with people sounding out, one after the other, their latest compositions or favourite songs. Sometimes the guitarists are joined by oud players performing classics or improvising on a mode. On rare occasions, the odd violinist joins in with chord improvisations: a good song stops passers by, who stand around the tables and sometimes throw in requests.

Always, there is audience participation, with plenty of soul. "The fact that we work here is a mere coincidence," lyricist Khaled Amin told Al-Ahram Weekly. "We are all friends, and as we sit together and converse, an idea might occur to us. And we simply act on it there and then." Of course, the fact that the artists are allowed to play out in the open contributes to their choice of meeting place. "If we met in a café in Mohandessin, Zamalek, or any of the wealthier districts, we would not have the freedom to do what we liked," Amin added. "Here there is enough space for us..."

Speaking of his favourite downtown hangout, the multi- talented percussionist George Wahib told the Weekly that "the café is a state of mind. The street is in itself a form of art. Imagination and reality come alive here -- and they become one." Singer and composer Mahmoud El-Shabouri is somewhat more cynical: "Well, as far as I'm concerned, I play in the street because I have no other place to play. At home I have a family, and rules." Yet "this is the live experience that we, as musicians and artists, require in order to produce creative sounds," according to Wahib. "Home is all about conservatism and traditionalism; the street, on the other hand, is movement, activity, change and possibility." But what remains the most outstanding factor in bringing artists downtown is perhaps their sheer dedication to the spirit of art.

Like Amin, they tend to be highly critical of the stars: "None of them are artists. They are all products or producers. They have no soul. Personally I've learnt that even when they choose to buy a good song with meaningful lyrics, they don't even understand the hidden message it conveys. But that's ok, as long as it gets sung." El-Shabouri agrees: "It is because of the mass commercialisation of music that I have decided not to make a living out of it. How can I compromise my work for money? I cannot find a way. I am not about to sell my music out." So does the Nubian percussionist Walid Abdallah: "Music is something I love. This is why I enjoy sitting out here, listening and learning, always."

That is not to say that downtown's musicians are marginalised, though. " Bent Bilady, last year's hit by Fares, was written here," Amin told the Weekly, referring to the café where these conversations took place. "Many times, when we meet and write together, we know that the songs will not be heard beyond our circle of friends," he went on, not without a hint of sadness. "You see, what is missing in the Arab world as a whole -- and Egypt is perhaps the main culprit here -- is a real underground movement," DJ Mohamed explained. "Hence there is no room for creativity. All creativity dies when there is no room for freedom."

Is there hope for one? While Amin said there always is, El-Shabouri was more ambiguous. "Maybe," he paused, "there isn't. It's all very well that we sit and play here. But in the big picture, our music remains esoteric. And though there may be some beauty to what we do, we have no effect on anyone. Situate us elsewhere for a second and think about it. We all know that if we decided to go public with street art and play in spaces like Al-Tahrir Square, like musicians in other countries do, we'd be arrested."

Having sat quietly thus far, the senior Sudanese composer, bassist and Spanish guitarist Abbas Abul-Keleak decided to intervene at the very end: "As you know, the jazz movement started on the street. And it was only years into its inception that it became politically and artistically acceptable. What these artists here are doing is mixing styles and feelings from all across the world. Blues, jazz, rock, pop, street sounds -- all in one. They are the new jazz. But they just don't know it yet. But they are more revolutionary than jazz musicians ever were. For they are Arab, and so above the mix of rhythms and cultures, there will always be melody. We innovate and listen to each other. This can only be good..."

And, as if to impose a reality check, there was a momentary interruption. "Stop that racket -- can't you see I'm trying to sleep," shouted a neighbour peering out of his window, above the café. The musicians -- rebels to the core -- looked round, turned back, laughed, and played on. The night was young, and they had only just started.