How Zouj spins on Raï and presses it in his own language

Raï drifted in slowly, like heat rising off the deserts of western Algeria. Long before it became a global dance language, it lived in the dust and intimacy of Bedouin gatherings around Oran, carrying stories across generations. Rooted in Oran’s 1920s port-city culture, raï, meaning “opinion”, gave working-class people, especially women, a platform to speak openly on love, injustice, and taboo issues during the French colonial era and beyond. Early songs were raw dispatches from everyday life like heartbreak, exile, whispered romances, and small rebellions tucked between tradition and desire. Cheikhs and cheikhas sang them at weddings and long night journeys, their voices riding flutes, frame drums, and whatever brass was at hand.

When these voices reached the cabarets lining the border towns, the music mutated. French pop chords drifted in through colonial residue, Shaabi phrasing tangled with Maghrebi hooks, and suddenly Raï had a different shine. What began with hand drums and rustic melodies soon found itself pushed through amplifiers, soaked in nightlife, and carried by a generation of cheb and chaba singers who weren’t afraid of expressing themselves in any way they wanted, despite what some might consider “inappropriate.”

Post-independence, the music ran headfirst into modernity with accordions, sax riffs, and folk improvisation collided with drum machines and cheap synths, producing that unmistakable 80s raï swagger, the era that launched Khaled, Mami, and a whole diaspora of fans who treated the sound like a compass pointing home. By the time the millennium clicked over, raï’s architecture had gone fully electronic.

Each decade redrew raï’s boundaries. Spanish guitar flourishes, French chanson melodies, Levantine motifs, and Middle Eastern rhythms wove themselves into the sound, expanding its reach without erasing its working-class roots. The music never stopped evolving, just as its audience, the restless, the young, the economically squeezed, never stayed still.

From this constant motion came way-way, Algeria’s hyper-online, hyper-distorted offshoot of raï that emerged around 2014. Its signature sound is almost hard not to identify the Yamaha A1000 mimicking instruments like the rababa, its presets bent into distinct, folk-like timbres, layered over glitchy drum loops that feel both ceremonial and mischievously digital. Across Moroccan border cities like Oujda, the scene thrives in backrooms, garages, and late-night meetups.

There isn’t one official founder, though Cheb Ahmed and Cheb Mohamed Benchenet have been making way-way since 2014 long before it made it’s way to Tiktok there’s that one part where he sings, “Way way, way way, way way,” and the instrumental underneath is basically the blueprint for what became way-way, that one patch of specific Algerian drum rhythms we started hearing more and more as everyone began riffing on that single section in their own way.

“My raï-inspired project started as an experiment, out of curiosity,” Zouj says. “I was lucky enough to learn the sound in Oujda from the OG producers who actually make it. I love putting myself in spaces where I can pick something up. It took time before I met people willing to let me tag along for a couple of days and show me the ropes.”

Way-way songs follow their own internal rules with specific drum loops and structure, but within that framework, experimentation is key. French/Moroccan/American, based in Berlin, multi-instrumentalist and producer Adam Abdelkader Lenox, aka Zouj navigates the world like a travelogue, he detours, late-night studios, side streets, and rabbit holes that open into cities, genres, and collaborators, each place leaving traces in his sound. “I’ve never pretended to be “good” at playing. I’m always like, listen, this isn’t the best take in the world, but it’s my best take.” Zouj tells Dazed MENA. That’s very much the punk-rock, punk-hardcore mentality he grew up with. In a punk band, it’s always been more about intention and energy than tightness or perfect, crispy-clean sound. It’s about the story, the lore, the feeling behind it. 

Raised in the Moroccan diaspora, Zouj grew up hearing raï and started making music as a teenager with his mum’s computer, pirated software, and a Line 6 Pocket Pod. Influenced by internet-age extremes, math-rock, vaporwave, Japanese grindcore, UK bass, and Toto’s Africa, he developed the “outsider-pop” sound that defines ZOUJ.

As random as it gets, it all started while he was scrolling through TikTok in 2022, discovering a kid dancing to something raw, clipped “like punk but it isn’t.” The sound pulled him in deeper, leading him through Cheba Warda, Cheb Bello, and the new wave of Chebs. Even though he grew up with the older chebs from vinyl and cassette recordings his mother played, this digital, chaotic branch of raï had already been alive for nearly a decade before he found it. By the time he caught on, the sound had been bubbling since 2014 – 2015.

Sabahu Al Kheir Men Zouj, is a product of this restless curiosity to find the on-ground roots of Way-Way. The mixtape unfolds like a travel journal. 2choufat (with Rita L’Oujdia) nods to Way-Way’s roots; Waah Rani Lachit (with Pakkun) bends raï around Casablanca flow; Hasni 93 (with Losez, Laï, and Syqlone) swings from Algiers to Paris to Beirut; Se Quitter (with Elias) recalls ’80s raï; Ma Cherie (with Naiires) closes with tongue-in-cheek romance and heartfelt melody. Way-Way’s structure is rigid, but its process is radically spontaneous: “record it, upload it, move on.” Ma Cherie embodies that ethos.

Zouj explores and admires raï with respect, contributing in his own experimental way without claiming its history. “Okay, we did this. I don’t know if I’m going to participate in this genre any further; it’s a bit of a spinoff for me. I took the leftover tracks and decided to put them on vinyl, documenting that chapter of my life.” 

YouTube deep-dives, long drives, borrowed keyboards, ghosted sessions, and one phone call rerouted the trip. A small-batch vinyl will arrive via Oddventure, the independent label he co-owns, where his punk instincts still live, with a DIY cover of pixel phones, kitsch motifs, and North African street scenes, a tactile souvenir of curiosity.

The A1000 anchors every track with its honky, buzzy textures that emulate the rababa. Zouj layers looping percussion, 808 sub-bass, and drum programming that twists Way-Way’s template into Berlin club logic. Four-on-the-floor kicks collide with chaotic shaabi rhythms; handclaps and staccato hits form a weathered, saturated soundscape. The mixtape doesn’t trace a straight line through raï; it wanders through the alleys, each track leaving a breadcrumb toward the next discovery.

The first time I called Zouj, it was around 10 AM Berlin time. The phone rang a few times before he picked up, out of breath and awkwardly half-laughing. “Sorry, man,” he said. “I’m locked out of the studio.”

And right off the bat, he tells me he’s an early bird who wakes around 9, works until 4, then lets the rest of the day unfold, structured almost like a corporate schedule, which I personally find unusual for a creative life. There was no performance in his voice, no attempt to put on a persona for this media person, I, he’s talking to, and just like that, the interview began.

When people describe your looks and background, they mention punk. But how do you see that part of your life?

I played guitar in a hardcore band for a long time, and now I play bass for rappers for a job, basically. So that’s not really my music per se, I’m just an operator. So that’s something I also do just for sport. I just like it. I know how to tour. I’ve done that until I was 25. So I really… I was a bit late also in making my own stuff.

How did that shape your approach to the album?

I don’t sit and think conceptually. I do what I can do. And what I can do is based on what I’ve done, like hardcore, touring, being broke, being stubborn, being tired, being excited. It’s all there.

A week later, after our first chaotic phone call, I met him in Cairo, this time in person, with the same chaotic sincerity as our first call. He’d texted late that morning after I’d already waited downstairs at his Maadi place. He says, “Bro… I’m locked inside this time,” and, of course, he was. By the time I finally got him out, he was buzzing with restless energy. One hand on his shoes, the other clutching the vinyl copy of Sabahu Al Kheir Men Zouj: “Sadly, the only copy I was able to grab on that trip. I want to leave it to the Waha Studio guys, since I’m basically residing there most of my time here.”

We headed out on foot, first order of pastries as he scanned the bakery window like someone judging a mixdown, picking something while complaining and praising at once. Coffee in one hand, vinyl in the other, we walked toward Waha Studios. He moved as if he’d memorised the neighbourhood, pointing out sounds, textures, and odd Cairo rhythms that made him shake his head.

The messy, funny, distracted conversation snapped into focus the moment we stepped into Waha. He turned on the speakers, unzipped his bag, and pulled out his laptop, then he looked at me and said, “So you were asking me what I’ve been working on earlier, huh?” It wasn’t planned. One minute we’re splitting a croissant, the next he’s building a track skeleton, letting instruments speak what he couldn’t say earlier. We stepped outside a little after for a chain-smoking session, and the next part of our interview began.

Do you ever feel caught between being a musician and being a “producer” for others?

All the time. But it’s fine. Playing bass for rappers is just something I do. It doesn’t define me. It’s like a sport. My thing? My own music? That’s when I actually think. Or not think. 

How would you define your music?

I’d say it’s experimental, in the best way. It’s not genre-less, but it’s hard to box. I like textures that feel nostalgic, and I try to tap into the basics as much as I can, if that makes sense.

What’s your favourite musical or instrumental exploration?

For a while, I was deep into modular synths, patching instead of playing, generating ideas I’d never get from a piano. But it became too time-consuming, so I sold it all. Then I spent months on analogue synths, but other times I’m just writing guitar chords. Every instrument gives me a different kind of energy, if that makes sense. Some mornings, I wake up convinced a pop song only needs a killer bassline and a topline. The next day, I’m sure it’s all about chords. I probably look insane from the outside, but that’s how it goes.

Since you’re obsessed with synths, what was the first synth you ever got your hands on?

My first poly synth was a Roland JX-3P. People call it the better Juno, just less hype. I bought it for 700 euros cash with money I made running a weird retail hustle in Germany back when that was semi-illegal. The guy I worked with got visited by the tax police, didn’t pay taxes, and went to prison. I dipped immediately. But with that money, I bought the JX-3P, sold it later for no reason, and then bought it again last year and spent a month playing only that.

Do you see yourself as privileged to be exploring that much in different areas?

At least this year, yeah. My family’s fine, so I don’t have to run errands for anyone but myself. That’s a huge privilege. I can dedicate my days entirely to music. But even then, creativity doesn’t have a schedule. There’s no magical time. I remember a rapper telling me, “At 3 AM, the devil speaks to you.” Exhaustion brings strange ideas. I do late-night sessions occasionally, and they feel like going to a wild party, coming home wrecked, and the next day eating a burger while watching Netflix.

Then how does location shape your perspective, like, for example, here, right now?

It changes everything. In Maadi, I feel like I’m on top of the food chain. In Germany, I’m surrounded by people who grew up safer and wealthier. Most of the European music industry comes from financial stability. I grew up poor with a single mom. Even if I don’t lead with it, it shaped me.

How do you approach bias and critique?

Admitting your own bias is where real critique lives. I remember being disappointed by a really big artist, partly I hated it because of suburban bias, but I could see why people liked it. The best reviews acknowledge: “Here’s my take, here’s my bias.” Everyone’s subjective. We’re all up in our own opinions. Some dislike music for orientalist reasons, others because of privilege gaps. I like honesty.

Do you think artists are too sensitive to their music, or is all art deep?

I think so, you know. Sometimes, if it’s not deep, it’s just like… maybe you don’t get it. Maybe I just don’t get it. We’re really going down to the actual question: what is art and what isn’t? And that’s definitely not my place to say, I don’t like romanticizing some artists, I’m just more drawn to someone who’s managed to carve out the time and the curiosity to develop their own intuition.

Is there anything you’d like to share about yourself, your music, or any stance you stand by?

Like, I hope some journalist will go and document. I don’t know if it’s destructive or not. I’ll let someone else smarter than me decide. But I think there are very interesting things going on, especially in popular underground scenes that are not even underground. For example, Mahraganat,  this is documented, I feel, but like Way-Way in Algeria, for example, why is that not documented?

I hope someone will really take the time to do journalistic work on new waves of underground music in the MENA, but the stuff we’re stealing from. I’m talking about, like, Way way and Mahraganat etc, like, authentic music genres that came out. These guys don’t get a platform because we’re an elite who feel like it’s not presentable or some shit. And that kind of bothers me.

Final question, what’s coming up next for you?
Next year, I’m going to release a full LP. Like a 15-tracker on ‘The Zouj’, but it’s not like a particular exploration, there’ll probably be a bit of raï in there.

So next year, I’m dropping a full-length record. Finally. After just doing mixtapes and weird shit. Now I’m ready.

As I was walking up the stairs from the basement studio of Waha, Zouj tossed me the only vinyl copy he had with him. It hit the gap between the steps and got a dent. “Have it,” he said, as if it was meant to be with me, maybe not with the dent, but I guess it was meant to land with me.