Beirut’s Anthem

Did I ever mention that I used to have a crush on Yasmine Hamdan? No? Never?!

Well, I was in my teens when Yasmine’s career was hugging a Saturn V Space Shuttle and breaking the sound barrier on its way to stardom. Her voice tainted Beirut’s indie scene at the break of the new millennium while her band “Soap Kills” (formed alongside Zeid Hamdan) was shaping up the trip hop – electro pop – jaw drop  music movement.

The first time I saw Yasmine perform Live was at Circus (Kids’ note: Before Skybar there was Crystal in Monot. Before Crystal there was Circus. Before Circus, you weren’t born yet)

That night I came back home broke my piggy bank and planned to buy a wedding ring. Being broke, adolescent and idiot, Reality came into my parent’s house and dropped me a note under my room’s door which said: “Dude, you need to chill”. But I wasn’t labeled as a penniless idiot adolescent for nothing. So the next day I intended to write her a love poem. At this point, Reality had enough of my bullshit and decided to personally knock on my door, slap me in the face and order me to fucking study for my final exams. (Which I did)

How to knock down Beirut with one Arguileh

Im not gonna try to PG13 my writing in this article just so you can present me as “The nice guy” to your parents over dinner. You all know that each post over here has a big fat invisible Parental Advisory Explicit Content sign and by choosing to read this blog you herby accept that you have understood and agreed with the terms and conditions of ForgivingBeirut which were never written nor mentioned anywhere on this blog.

Some things in Beirut are getting more disturbing than watching midget porn or going down on your own grandma. Im not referring to our political parties who are tailoring an election law which secures them an undisputed win way before casting any votes. Im talking about one thing that holds a special place in my heart: Music.

Im a guy who spends endless days looking for this one strike-of-genius song with the same rigor of a gold digger panning nuggets on the riverbeds of California in 1849. So while filtering the fuck ton of tunes on the internet, I’ve had my fair share of unpleasant surprises.

I wasted some of my writing energy in the past blustering about those surprises incarnated as Mariam Klink and Lara “Porn” Kay, thinking that we‘ve reached the rock bottom of the art scene.

I laid it out, got the frustration off my basement and then vowed to turn the page and write only about decent bands and artists who deserve praise. But kids, sometimes Karma shits on you even when you’re holding an umbrella.

I have no clue how I convinced myself to click on this video. I knew I was backstabbing myself in that split second, but I guess my curiosity listened to my rational mind with the same attention that my dick normally does.

So I pressed the play button.

HOLY KARANTINA!