Rave against the machine

The story of the first time I went to a club is an excruciatingly clichéd Lebanese tale. The kind you’d expect a foreigner to concoct for their faux arthouse film. But alas, life in Lebanon does toe the line between the real, the fictitious, and the surreal.

I grew up in a working class household in the sha’bi (popular, although much-feared and looked down on) neighbourhood of Tariq El Jdide, at the southern border of Beirut. It was in 2005 that I was on the verge of turning 18 and finishing high school, and in the midst of a tumultuous emotional exploration around my identity and desire. My dearest cousin promised to take me to a club for the first time to celebrate my birthday, but a few days prior to the promised date, a massive explosion led to the assassination of the Lebanese prime minister. A series of violent and dangerous events rocked the country for the months that followed, rendering my coming-of-age moment on hold until further notice.

Months later, we finally drove up to Acid, which stood in the middle of a lonely street on a hill overlooking Beirut. As we made our way onto the dance floor, through the smoke and a web of Y2K green laser lights, I observed those around me—people of different ages, looks, gender identities, and expressions letting loose. In that dark and sweaty space, I saw a microcosm of a community that operated on the margins of society. Little did I know that my psyche would forever be changed. 

Lebanon’s tapestry of socially and culturally diverse communities sits at the heart of what makes it distinctive. The latter statement might be the reason for the tiny country’s seemingly perpetual state of upheaval as the Lebanese spar over their collective identity. Simultaneously, it sets the grounds onto which rich and varied cultural expressions blossom and cross-pollinate.

Despite large swaths of the population being religious and/or relatively socially conservative, it is no secret that Lebanon’s nightlife remains the most permissive among its Arab neighbours. This transforms the dance floor into a space of open-ended expression, exploration, and experimentation, particularly for communities benefitting from the cloak of the night.   

Dancing is integral to Lebanese culture, and permeates its every stratum and environment. We find any and every excuse to stomp, jiggle, and twirl. Whether it’s for public celebrations, weddings, or more intimate affairs, we dance. Some choose folk dance, with the dabke being our primary choice, while others opt for belly dancing, borrowed from Egypt. And then there’s the multitude of expressions adopted on the nightclub’s dance floor.

Following its independence from French colonisation in 1943, Lebanon entered what many people coined the “Golden Age”. In popular culture, this period is portrayed as one of prosperity, glamour, and cultural vibrancy—especially in Beirut. The era is known for its famous luxury hotels, nightclubs, and a thriving entertainment scene. As the 60s and 70s rolled on, disco dominated the dance floors of discotheques across the country. It is crucial to note that this era was also defined by staggering social inequality, and the “Golden Age” was only attainable to some. 

It all came to a halt by the mid 70s with the outset of the 15-year civil war, which left most entertainment spaces shuttered, and relegated disco to nostalgic radio stations and abandoned bars. Following the ‘end’ of the war in 1991 and throughout the years that followed, the Lebanese were trying to pull themselves out of the devastation, with young people yearning for oases of hope where they could simply converge and dance. Young music fanatics who,  throughout the war, were experimenting with making and playing music at home were now looking for a space to share it with the hungry masses.

As the country enjoyed a period of relative calm in the late 90s, nightclubs mushroomed in and around Beirut, but the shadow of inaccessibility persisted. Revellers were expected to pay massive entrance fees or forced to reserve private tables that came with astronomical bills. Strict dress codes of outdated gender roles were enforced: shirts for men, heels for women or risk no entry. Once inside these luxury establishments, the music that played was a carbon copy of mainstream radio, and a singular roster of DJs monopolised the nightlife scene. In the midst of this, where do the misfits go?

Right before the arrival of the millennium, two nightclubs set the stage for a new era that introduced electronic music, quality sound systems, and a progressive view on the dance floor: Acid and B018. 

Both venues stood at the periphery of the city, catering to audiences who also operated on the margins. B018 was an afters venue, renowned for its line-up of electronic music DJs and famous for its austere architecture, which leaned heavily into war aesthetics. Acid, on the other hand, adopted a hedonistic approach with statues of Hindu deities adorning its bar, very cheap drinks (to the detriment of its patrons, including myself), and a diverse crowd that challenged dominant heteronormative ideals.

Both spaces provided a safe refuge for groups of people who, up until that moment, would only gather in private domestic spaces. Groups who did not feel at home in the mainstream clubs that approached music with narrow-mindedness, and embodied the very social conservatism that the youth were trying to flee. Most importantly, though, it was putting these groups in community with each other, in clash or in harmony, and the encounters that ensued turned into their own initiatives further down the line. 

Moving into the late 00s and 10s, nightlife continued to grow and proliferate. As B018’s dominance waned, its heirs came in the form of big-production razzle-dazzle clubs like The Gärten and Uberhaus. Besides the curious fact that they both chose German names, they were able to attract some of the world’s best talents in electronic music and bring them into the mainstream. Acid, on the other hand, was forced to shut in 2009 after continued pressure by the municipality and a series of police raids, tactics used to intimidate venues that did not adhere to dominant societal norms, according to the state.

One of the key players in reviving these spaces is Sandra Melhem. After feeling disappointed and unwelcome in most of the mainstream clubs, she decided to take matters into her own hands and launched parties that diverged from normative clubbing. “Every system has its loopholes, and we operate by figuring them out in order to provide spaces to those who need them the most.” Melhem’s projects include Ego Beirut, Projekt, UFO, and Recess, all of which have proven to be a safe space for marginalised communities.

Adjacently, mobile pop-up parties like Cotton Candy and C U NEXT SAT proved very popular with a younger and more diverse audience who enjoyed a lighter atmosphere with disco and electro-pop. The temporal nature of these pop-ups, which did not rely on a fixed venue, allowed for new musical talents to emerge. “Back in the day, it was very intimidating to get into music,” recalls Renata, a DJ and co-founder of artist collective Frequent Defect. “It was not inviting for new artists, but the flexible structure of pop-ups allowed for new faces to emerge.”

This diversification in nightlife led to bringing music, people, and environments from the underground into the mainstream. In the safe havens of venues like Ego or the now-shuttered Bardo, the late 2010s also saw an implosion in drag culture and nightlife performers who would go on to perform in bigger and more visible venues.

“I had to fight and challenge the way we are perceived within these spaces,” reflects Sasha Elijah, a nightlife performer and door controller whose non-normative gender identity makes her presence in nightlife an act of defiance in of itself. “My fight is for all women like me, who have historically been central to music and nightlife.” 

Against the backdrop of a seemingly thriving cultural scene and positive societal shifts, quiet murmurs of discontent with the state turned into loud rumblings and erupted in the autumn of 2019, when Lebanese people took to the streets demanding reform. The communities that occupied the dance floors of the underground and counterculture spaces were at the forefront of the ‘revolution’. 

Despite a glimmer of hope, both the uprising and the party were soon to be over in a series of cataclysmic events. The pandemic and lockdown of 2020 seemed to metaphorically announce the end of an era and the outset of a dark chapter that saw the devastating port explosion as well as the total collapse of the currency and banking sector, which led to rampant poverty and a severe brain drain. The barbaric Israeli aggression on Lebanon, which began in 2023, continues to hamper recovery attempts. In fact, Skybar, a staple of Beirut’s nightlife scene, sheltered hundreds of people displaced during the attacks in October, transforming into a sanctuary for the community. 

“We have to continuously adapt to the ever-fluctuating circumstances, simultaneously negotiating with authorities to ensure these spaces remain open,” Melhem shares, explaining the daily fight to maintain these vital spaces. “Some are dismissive of the value of nightlife, but the people you come across in the club are the same ones shaping society,” adds Elijah, reflecting on why such spaces are worth fighting for. “There’s so much power in learning to cherish and respect the diversity we encounter on the dance floor, and taking those principles into our life outside.” 

Melhem echoes the sentiment: “I wish those in positions of power in culture were more interested in cultivating nightlife. The dance floor is a space that nurtures young people and teaches them not only about music and dance, but also community and respect.”

Renata, alongside Frequent Defect co-founders Patrik Abi Abdallah and Joseph Junior Sfeir, are proposing an alternative. The trio met in the tiny Yukunkun bar, an alternative club and music venue. “We started Frequent Defect as a commentary on the social and political situation.” The collective’s multifaceted programming gives space for local and international artists to freely convey and experiment with their work. “You don’t go into business with people just because you like the same music—we do it because of our shared values.” Such initiatives rejuvenate the nightlife scene in Lebanon and offer a glimmer of what the future holds.

It comes as no surprise that Lebanon lies at the intersection of multiple fault lines, constantly in fear of a historically titanic earthquake threatening to engulf all that thrives above ground. Compounded by the seismic political and cultural shifts constantly reshaping their existence, and faced with colossal uncertainty, the trailblazing underground nightlife community continues to provide space for young people to expand their horizons—and dare to dream.