SceneNoise x Amsterdam Dance Event Present CROSSFADE: Lebanon

As part of a multi-part editorial collaboration with Amsterdam Dance Event (ADE), SceneNoise presents CROSSFADE, an editorial series exploring the histories, systemic challenges, and evolving identities of electronic music across the Middle East and North Africa through the people who have shaped each local scene.

The third episode turns to Lebanon, where electronic music has evolved alongside decades of political volatility, economic disruption, and physical destruction, repeatedly adapting as external circumstances threaten to bring its cultural infrastructure to a halt.

For decades, Beirut has occupied a singular position within the region’s nightlife landscape. Its club culture has survived war, political instability, economic collapse, a devastating port explosion, and recurring regional conflict. Yet, each systemic rupture has been met by a successive generation of artists, promoters, and communities finding new ways to gather.

On a humid Friday night in Beirut’s Gemmayze district during the early 2010s, stepping into a dimly lit basement bar felt less like standard leisure and more like entering an unwritten consensus. Outside, the state power grid would regularly fail, forcing venues to run entirely on private diesel generators; inside, no one was looking at the ceiling lights. They were listening to a sound that had yet to secure permanent institutional backing in the city.

Before Beirut became known for monolithic open-air venues and internationally touring selectors, its electronic scene existed as a constellation of micro-communities scattered across tight basements and pop-up parties. Discovering dance music in Lebanon was not driven by algorithmic recommendation, but rather by an intimate initiation mediated by neighbourhood circles, local selectors, physical media exchanges, and a shared hunger for alternatives to commercial radio broadcasting.

The roots of that culture stretch further back than the current generation might suggest.

In the early 1990s, electronic music was introduced to Lebanon through private house parties before gradually moving into Beirut’s clubs and nightlife spaces. In those early years, music discovery relied entirely on physical touchpoints, personal networks, and physical travel.

DJ and former Ballroom Blitz co-music director Rita recalls entering the Beirut scene in 2004 after living in France, where she had been immersed in warehouse raves and early electroclash movements.

"When I came back to Lebanon, I barely knew anyone in the scene," Rita recalls. "I was working at Virgin Megastore, which ended up helping a lot, and I started playing at Torino Express and at underground parties in the mountains, abandoned cinemas, wherever people decided to set something up... Things worked differently then, and most of it happened through people. Someone would hear me play somewhere, like what I was doing, and invite me to something else".

For Rita, the scarcity of digital access engendered an active, deliberate relationship with track selection and curation.

"When I started, music was harder to access," she explains. "You travelled and came back with records, you waited for someone to bring you an album or a vinyl, you exchanged music, burned CDs for each other. So music passed through people, and that made your relationship with it much more personal... People came to listen, to be surprised, not to dictate".

For producer and DJ Rolbac, that process of discovery began outside Beirut altogether. Growing up in Zahle, within the Bekaa Valley, he found himself part of a small group of friends discovering electronic music together, eventually building a local scene of their own.

“Yeah, it was a small group of friends who were discovering electronic music together. Without realising it, we brought a new sound to our village and built something from the ground up,” he recalls. “At the time, it was simply exciting to create a scene around something we loved and were curious about”.

His relationship with music had started even earlier, shaped at home by a drummer father and a DJ uncle. “I remember watching my uncle DJ in his bedroom when I was around seven or eight, playing tracks like Sash! - ‘Ecuador’ and Darude - ‘Sandstorm,’ while my father’s drumming taught me rhythm,” he says. “That environment made music feel like a natural part of my life from a very young age”.

As Beirut’s club landscape expanded, the pull of the capital became irresistible for peripheral artists seeking technical growth and broader platforms.

“In Zahle it was different because we built our own scene while hearing about movements happening in Beirut,” Rolbac notes. “But I quickly moved to Beirut to discover it, and at 17 I started playing there. Once I saw what was happening in Beirut, I knew I needed to be there for the inspiration and opportunities that weren’t available in Zahle”.

Rolbac’s entry into production occurred through direct peer-to-peer generosity when he approached a neighbour whom he heard composing tracks through an open window. “He eventually introduced me to FL Studio and taught me the basics of production,” he says. “I also can’t talk about my start without mentioning Eli Atala and Elias Merheb, who were there from the very beginning, who pushed me to produce, guided me and definitely are part of the reason I was able to launch a career”.

That sense of peer support became one of the scene’s defining characteristics. During this era, early underground anchors, including Torino Express, B018, and The Basement, provided crucial spaces for non-commercial curation. Formative crews and selectors such as Kaotik System, Beirut In The Mix (led by Ronin, Nesta, and Phil), Behind the Green Door (run by Yousef Harati and Olivier), Romax, Tia, and Ziad El Zein offered vital alternatives to mainstream commercial nightlife.

“Kaotik System was a big part of my discovery,” Rita reflects. “I went to their three-day Electronic Music Festival in the Bekaa in 2004 without really knowing anyone there, and came out of it with friends who are still my friends today. It also introduced me properly to Lebanese ravers and helped shape a big part of my sound, especially breakbeat and jungle”.

Prior to the institutional expansion of dedicated electronic venues in the 2010s, Beirut's broader nightlife economy was heavily divided between exclusive commercial venues and a nascent underground.

Ali Saleh, co-founder of venues including Überhaus and The Gärten, remembers encountering a scene still split down the middle.

“When I was barely legal, electronic music in Lebanon was split down the middle,” he recalls. “The major part was the commercial clubs like Skybar, and the underground scene was barely scratching the surface. While cities like Berlin were moving towards house and techno, Lebanon’s big clubs and raves were sticking to dance-pop”.

That disconnect created a quiet urgency among a small network of promoters and DJs who felt the city needed a different kind of platform.

“My early clubbing days taught me very quickly that nightlife in Beirut catered mainly to the elites,” Saleh explains. “Entering a club without a table reservation meant you had to be there when doors opened, and space was limited to 30 to 60 people tops. Table charges were ridiculous, and crowd interaction was minimal because you were confined to your table. Even at places like B018, exposure to international artists and various genres was limited. It had that stigma of ‘underground is dark’. We felt the community was looking for a home for self-expression and discovery."

The launch of Überhaus in 2012 marked a structural turning point, giving central visibility to micro-communities operating on the fringes through genre-specific concept nights and bi-monthly international bookings. Shortly thereafter, the team expanded their footprint by launching The Gärten, an open-air destination that welcomed live graffiti art, film screenings, and community gatherings alongside raves.

Around the same time, the team behind C U NXT SAT, including Jade, Tala, and Wassim Bou Malham, were laying the groundwork for what would become Factory People and The Grand Factory.

“The vagabond parties we threw back then were because we all wanted to play music that was globally the new underground sound, but major clubs were still operating on whatever was popular on the radio,” Bou Malham recalls. “Grand Factory changed so many things. It made nightlife about music rather than status, hosting live bands, Arabic alternative showcases, film activations and workshops alongside raves. It was the first in the region to introduce the multi-room experience”.

The introduction of multi-room programming allowed distinct musical sub-cultures to co-exist within the same building. Rita, who held residencies across Reunion and Grand Factory before serving as co-music director at Ballroom Blitz, highlights how these distinct room sizes fostered artistic progression.

"Grand Factory was where I really learned the business of nightlife... Reunion was a completely different model. Smaller, more intimate, a club within a club. Having a residency there gave me exposure, but also taught me what a smaller dance floor can give you as a DJ," Rita explains. "By the time Ballroom Blitz started... the programming broke the predictable mould, gave local artists real space, and brought artists you never imagined you’d see in Beirut... You’d play something you thought was incredibly niche and suddenly realise half the room knew exactly what it was".

James Khoury, co-founder of music agency and event organiser Hot Axis, observed this golden era while absorbing energy from both local operators and European clubbing hubs.

“I was drawn by the raw, unfiltered energy of Beirut’s underground,” Khoury recalls. “Before Hot Axis, my understanding was shaped by early club founders and independent promoters like Retrogroove, who built world-class dancefloors in a city that barely had functioning electricity... Although Berlin shaped my understanding, and Sonus Festival in Croatia had a huge influence on me, Beirut proved that if the music and curation were right, people would show up regardless of the circumstances”.

As spaces expanded, Beirut’s electronic ecosystem grew from a modest local network into an internationally recognised hub where agents and touring artists began reaching out directly to local promoters.

However, unlike European electronic hubs that benefit from state grants or municipal support, Lebanon’s scene is built and maintained by private actors operating in a state deficit. Promoters and venue owners must function as utility providers, sourcing private diesel generators during power grid failures, managing spot cash logistics during bank freezes, and absorbing massive overhead volatility.

“Our hustle and adaptability are our superpowers; we know how to build a festival in the middle of an economic collapse,” Khoury notes. “But it places a massive burden on private actors. We don’t have government grants or institutional backing; we have to be our own infrastructure. If we don’t build it, it doesn’t exist”.

Emile Houkayem, founder of Aegis Festival, views this self-reliance as an expression of cultural agency rather than mere survival.

“We Lebanese like to call what we go through resilience. But I think the deeper reason is that we have a lot to say,” Houkayem observes. “We’ve lived through so much over the past 40 or 50 years that we have stories we want to tell, and we want to show the world our own perspective, not one that was dictated to us”.

Yet, Houkayem stresses that operating without institutional support limits long-term stability. “No one is coming to save you, so you learn to do it yourself,” he adds. “At the same time, you can’t do everything alone. We want to build it here, and building it here means the world to us”.

To offset high production costs and international artist fees, venue operators frequently employ a hybrid model incorporating VIP table sales alongside a central dancefloor.

Khoury defends this arrangement as a practical economic necessity, provided the energy of the room is protected.

“Table culture is deeply embedded in how this region experiences nightlife, and right now, it’s a practical reality that helps keep the lights on,” Khoury explains. “The compromise only happens if you let the tables hijack the room’s energy. The core dancefloor must always remain the centre of gravity, with the music dictating the vibe”.

Bou Malham notes that Beirut developed a unique ability to bridge both models when curated thoughtfully. "Lebanon is a special place when it comes to nightlife. One of the very few cities worldwide that was able to grow in both spaces: the VIP services spaces and the dance floor. We always made sure in our projects to cater to both, and they both co-existed beautifully," he says.

The financial collapse of 2019, followed by the COVID-19 pandemic and the devastating August 4, 2020 Beirut port explosion, pushed this infrastructure to its absolute limits. Venues across the city suffered severe structural damage, while hyperinflation eroded local purchasing power.

“COVID and the economic crisis took away many of the cultural spaces that used to survive year by year, and that had a real impact on creativity and on the freedom people had to express themselves,” Houkayem reflects. “After the crisis, many of the people who carried the scene left, and there was no real handover from one generation to the next. So we had to reinterpret the scene in our own way”.

In response to venue closures, collectives adapted by decentralising, organising pop-up gatherings in unexpected outdoor locations across Lebanon.

“When the clubs closed because of COVID and the crisis, collectives started throwing events in unexpected places,” Houkayem explains. “That opened a new horizon: people rediscovered Lebanon, events became less repetitive, and experiences started to be built around the party itself. Discovery became a big part of what kept people connected”.

For artists, however, fewer venues meant fewer weekly outlets to develop their craft.

“With fewer venues, the weekly outlets and residencies where artists develop became much harder to find,” Houkayem notes. “Some talented artists at their creative peak didn’t have a medium to express themselves, and a number stepped away. That’s something we’re all working to rebuild”.

The crisis also prompted a fundamental reassessment of nightlife priorities, with Houkayem arguing that an over-reliance on mega-events risked obscuring music discovery.

“We had reached a point where the scene leaned heavily on mega parties and on doing things the easy way, essentially buying our way into culture,” he states. “When everything is geared towards results, salaries and the biggest headliner, and you have to sell tables to cover it, the discovery process gets lost. And discovery is the true essence of this culture”.

For companies like Hot Axis, surviving meant diversifying beyond weekend ticket sales into artist management and B2B agency work. “The reality of operating in Lebanon taught us quickly that surviving purely on volatile weekend ticket sales is a suicide mission,” Khoury says. “We had to diversify into artist management and B2B agency work to create a baseline of predictable cash flow that could insulate us from the country’s shocks”.

Sustained volatility accelerated an unprecedented emigration of Lebanese DJs, producers, and promoters to expanding entertainment markets in the UAE, Saudi Arabia, and Egypt, or across Europe.

Ali Saleh emphasises the immediate structural loss this ongoing brain drain inflicts on domestic communities.

“The accelerated departure of Lebanese talent has been an enormous loss for our scene,” Saleh reflects. “A scene grows when people are there week after week: playing music, opening spaces, taking chances and bringing the next generation into the fold. When that talent leaves all at once, you lose the relationships and continuity that took years to build”.

Houkayem highlights the exhausting operational cycle caused by continuous talent departure.

“The brain drain has been one of the hardest things to work with,” he notes. “You build, you educate the people around you and learn alongside them, and then they leave, and you start the process again. That isn’t sustainable”.

Rita describes how the loss of core creative peers created deep emotional absences.

"We lost a lot of people. Friends left, really talented people left, and you still feel that absence now... It's less like a scene in one place now, more like a group that spans a few cities, but people still pull each other in". Yet this geographical dispersal has simultaneously built a resilient global network.

“People may be physically further apart, but Lebanese artists continue to represent the scene internationally and build connections that can eventually bring new opportunities back to the region,” Rolbac suggests.

Houkayem echoes this, viewing the diaspora as a vital bridge. “Lebanese people abroad have helped other Lebanese artists, and their presence, whether seasonal or temporary, has supported the sustainability of the market here,” he says. “My hope is that we bring people back”.

As Lebanese selectors secure regular bookings on global circuits, their artistic identities have moved beyond broad regional clichés. Rather than relying on overt samples of traditional instruments to signal their origin, contemporary artists command international respect through technical proficiency, selection, and genre fluidity.

“Our artists don’t need to rely on cliché oriental samples to validate where they come from,” Khoury states. “Their identity is rooted in their technical mastery and how they command a room. They are operating as top-tier selectors who are getting international recognition based purely on their skill”.

Saleh attributes this adaptability to the multi-faceted dancefloors that train Lebanese selectors.

“They came out of a scene where people were exposed to many sounds, and where a night could move between different moods without losing the crowd,” Saleh explains. “You can hear it in their curiosity, in the way they connect with a room and in the freedom they bring to their sets”.

For Rita, performing internationally revealed that her musical identity is rooted in a particular mode of listening. "What feels normal to me at home, and the sensibility Lebanon trained in me, has contrast somewhere else," Rita reflects. "So I don't think I take a specific Lebanese sound abroad. I take a way of listening, connecting things, that was shaped here".

Rolbac carries that same emotional depth onto global stages.

"The biggest thing I carry with me is the energy and connection I experienced growing up in Lebanon,” he says. “I’m proud to represent the country wherever I play, and I think that sense of community, resilience and emotional connection naturally becomes part of my sets”.

Furthermore, Houkayem stresses that international exchange works best when rooted in authentic relationships rather than transactional deals.

“What I love about these connections is that they’re built on friendship rather than business,” Houkayem remarks. “The exchange between Lebanese artists and their peers abroad is supportive, not transactional, and that’s worth more than any agency deal... The bigger and better Lebanese artists become around the world, the stronger the scene at home gets”.

However, achieving true parity requires building structural pillars beyond individual gigs. “It isn’t fully equal yet, and there’s work to do,” Houkayem adds. “That work goes beyond the party. It’s about building the pillars of a music industry: studios, record labels, artist management, booking and marketing agencies that help artists grow”.

Back home, a younger generation of artists and independent collectives is constructing a fresh interpretation of what the scene can look like. Unburdened by the desire to replicate monolithic mega-clubs, these newer crews are prioritising intimate, street-level micro-scenes, lab-like settings, and experimental formats.

“There’s a younger generation building micro-scenes, taking things back to the streets and doing them the way they should be done,” Houkayem observes. “Intimate, lab-like settings, small rooms, diverse formats. There’s a lot happening, even more than I know about, and that’s a great sign... What they do differently is keep it real. They're not chasing scale for its own sake; they're building from culture outward”.

Rita finds inspiration in this commitment to artistic depth over quick commercial visibility.

"Some of the younger DJs and producers are honestly inspiring, because there is something incredibly pure in how they relate to music," Rita reflects. "They're digging backwards, finding the sounds that speak to them, and protecting small communities around those sounds... Even if the room is small. Sometimes that's enough to keep a culture alive".

Bou Malham urges this upcoming wave to fuse global movements with local socio-cultural heritage.

"I think we should look more inwards and see how we can fuse our cultural values with the global musical movements," Bou Malham asserts. "I urge the new generation to dig deeper into our own heritage and see how we can present that to the world".

The central challenge facing Lebanon's electronic ecosystem is transforming raw survival energy into lasting institutional foundations. For a culture that has continuously adapted to external disruptions, the next phase is about building the infrastructure, studios, and educational platforms that allow it to sustain itself across generations.

“What gives me optimism is the scene coming together to rebuild,” Houkayem concludes. “Artists of every kind are exchanging music, services and help with each other, and that’s adding a lot. The next step is creating more spaces and events where people can learn and share knowledge, not only in studios and at parties, but in places where people exchange thoughts and ideas”.

For a scene that has repeatedly rebuilt itself from physical and economic debris, moving from surviving disruption to deliberately building what comes next represents its most consequential shift yet.