Thread by @aelghossain

Five years ago, Lebanon, Arabic-speaking people, & the world lost a legend. His name: Melhem Barakat. Abu El Majd. El Musicar. Maestro of Madness. Every song was a carnival. Every note was a whisper from the gods. Every call, howl, stomp, or gesture was a testament to our spirit.

When he was young, Melhem was handsome, talented, and almost casually great. As a child, he clashed with a demanding father who told him to not bother trying to play music; in later years, Melhem and others surmised that the old man must have been trying to motivate him.

He would sing around town and then in Beirut cafes; others who heard him, still a teenager, pushed him to study music. He went on to study under, and work for, different musical teachers and overseers—including in the ballyhooed, sometimes jealous, sometimes restrictive Rahbanis.

He kept at it, though. With his piercing voice, he broke every barrier before him, made his name, and put himself on the Mt. Rushmore of Levantine—and, in my view, all Arabic-language—Musicians. Today, we remember him and go through some songs and little notes:

He was a star on stage, slicing through the air and our hearts with songs like Shbak Habibi:

He went on to do great things. He was a man out for full-spectrum dominance. He wrote his music, sang, arranged on stage, performed like an impassioned madman, and became a maestro who commanded his faithful band and adoring masses alike.

Melhem composed more than 3,000 songs during his life, while doing innumerable uncredited work and gifting different stars songs that never had his name—though they had his unmistakable imprints—on them.

Paying gigs in Beirut and taking his talents to the stage, Melhem later struck out on his own. Already popular, he put out some early, prominent music videos (in the contemporary sense). See this one, for corniness:

Losing prime years to war, cheap or faulty recording equipment, poor acoustics, and other challenging conditions (evident in some of his songs of the era, which is why we must look to live versions he did later), Melhem kept up his work for decades.

Aside from occasional interruptions due to love or other matters (not the time for that, hoss!) Melhem kept on keeping on. Liberating himself and growing creatively, he became the Musiqar we know and remember. Now, with warm up out of the way, here are some sweet songs & trivia:

Salem Aaleha. This live version is especially entertaining, playful, and powerful. Melhem loved performing in Carthage; others loved his presence there, turning out in droves and clamoring for the master.

For a gateway song, along with Salem Aleha, we have Habibi Intah. This is an example of the sort of song that can warp uninitiated people’s sense of his work. It’s still fun, sometimes. Whatever, sue me :)

If you’re in the mood to chase after, or beg, or just wonder about, a lost love? Try Irjaaili, a less fun and more morose approximation of “Baby Come Back.” Euf, the power...

Are you off love or lust, at least for a while? Obvious choice: E3tazalt el Gharam. (More on this one below.)

If you’re in a fucking feistier mood, which I strongly recommend in different circumstances, you may wish to consider what I call the Defiance Trinity:

Defiance Trinity, Song 1: Baddak Mallion Sinneh. (Tell 'em, Melhem. Tell 'em.)

Defiance Trinity, Song 2: Rouhi Shouffi. (Well, go on then...)

Defiance Trinity, Song 3: Sayyer Kazzab. (Yep.)

Defiance Note: Melhem made these gems after one of his unfortunate little hiatuses, putting himself back on the stage when others would’ve succumbed to age and surrendered to their own lethargy. Psh. Not the Musiqar!(Up next: “Serenity Now!” – Arabic Edition.)

If you prefer to steer into skids, perhaps because you’re grappling with serious “feels” (to quote younger Thunder Cats like @dannyhajjar), you may consider another set of songs: Keef?, Ya Hob Elli Ghaab, or—damn, this kicks—El Farq Ma Beineh W Bainak. Links for these, below.

@DannyHajjar Keef?

Tangent: “Keef?” was a song I learned while… cruising in a Pontiac. It only encouraged the instinct to question, and question, and question people. You may wish to keep your children from learning this one until they’re of a suitable age.

Ya Hob Elli Ghab.

El Farq Ma Beineh W Bainak... If you don't know, you better figure it the hell out. Listen. And enjoy.

*Spontenous interjection by bandmate*: Aiwa Abu El Majd! Drob, ya Melhem… Drob.

OK... carrying on:

Coming out of the weird interjections, in which we mimic seemingly spontaneous but totally contrived ones he had bandmates and audience members do to improve the “ambience,” we take in other songs on this day:

Hamama Beida. Nice song. It reminds me of silly memories and misunderstandings. As a kid, learning Arabic at home and using Melhem’s music to help, I thought he was referring to a bird’s “egg”—not the color “white.” (A nun in Zahle straightened me out.)

The nun also helped when I mixed up words for 'turtle' and 'wasp,' calling me a donkey' for declaring that 'a turtle stung me.' (I neither forgive nor forget, ya Ma Sœur! Watch your back.) To move past memories, we put on another great song: Taa Nensa.

“Qamarein” is one of Melhem’s more renowned songs. Most people don’t know the story of love, or lust, behind this one. Couple side notes, after the song link, before we again pick up the main line:

Melhem, who performed frequently (much like a residency) at Damascus hotels during the Lebanese civil war, saw a lovely lady at a table. She was with a Syrian regime figure: Though he never mentioned who that was, Melhem has repeatedly alluded to it being some security hand.

Anyway, Melhem and the lady kept looking at each other—he at her from the stage, her at him from a table where she was doubtlessly bored with fat-cat thugs. He kept seeing her around. Others warned Melhem against playing with fire. He was neither concerned nor dissuaded. Champ.

Looking at her and the moon, which in Damascus just hangs in the sky, as it did that night above the open-air performance area, Melhem decided to put together a song. He called up one of his wordsmiths and shared the melody. Told him to write lyrics, quick. And, fun tidbit:

Though he was previously annoyed with how one of the musicians kept plucking away and joking during intermissions, Melhem now turned that into an advantage: That once-annoying plucking pattern forms the now-famous opening of Qamarein. Find that cool? Just me? Fine.

The barking? Well, that must have been the lust. Anyway, after he performed that song live, Melhem went up to his room.

A little while later, the lady knocked. “Who,” she asked, knowing the answer good and damn well, “was that song about?”

Boom. El Musiqar struck again.

Over time, Melhem kept gifting other people songs as he had done as a young man: Majida El Roumi’s Etazalt el Gharam (shared above) is a relatively recent example of a song that Melhem initially wrote for himself but gave to someone else to perform.

When she heard the music, El Roumi was so touched—she cried, in some tellings—that Melhem just gave it to her. Melhem would later perform it in playful duets or during interviews (when he showed off casual excellence, despite being ill).

Here is one:

Later on, Melhem struggled with health issues that he hid from the public. He had a habit of exhausting himself during performances, even in his prime. At least a couple times, Melhem went back on stage after being treated or even after having been in a hospital.

He had cancer. Although he sometimes seemed to be tiring, with his once-piercing voice now deeper and richer anyway, Melhem kept up performances, interviews, and recordings. He performed two big concerts just before passing away. He did not go gently, or tamely, into the night.

Some songs are, or seem different, now: Walla Marra Kinna Sawwa, for instance. Like the masters of blues, or others, he laments, chides, or just states in a way that lets you rejoice.

Ya Hobb Elli Ghab is another one, a bombastic ballad that seems different now that the man himself is gone.

Leaving this stage called life, Melhem left a pair of songs that make it seem that death—or departure—was on his mind: Kermal el Nasyan and 3ed el Ayyam. Links below.

Kermal el Nasyan:

3ed el Ayyam:

People have their opinions. Melhem is my favorite. He has at least 100 songs that, even alone, put him among the greats. These are just a few, which I listened to last night.

He wasn’t just some singer, or some composer, or some performer, or some character. He was all these things, never to the detriment of any of them and always to the benefit of all of them.

One of his friends, a poet, put it best: At Melhem’s funeral, Nizar Francis—one of Lebanon’s most underrated wordsmiths, who also wrote the lyrics while Melhem wrote the music—left us powerful parting words: 'Rise. Rise, Melhem. [Death] is not for you.'

Melhem left this world too soon. One day, I hope to honor him with a proper piece. For now, I’ll just say that he lives on forever in our hearts. R.I.P, Musiqar.