The Lebanon is somewhat like psychoanalysis: you can always talk about it, mention what you’ve heard about it, but ultimately, you need to have experienced it to understand its most intimate workings. Not lying on the couch, much like not living in the country in question, does not guarantee access to the main signifiers.
Between the partial legislative elections in Metn and the upcoming presidential elections in September, Lebanon is almost on the brink of civil war, and the international community is making efforts to help the Land of the Cedars find a solution to its problems. Under these conditions, one might think its inhabitants would hide at home, paralyzed by the imminent danger. This would overlook the extraordinary life force inherent in the Lebanese. An old friend from Beirut recently told me how, during the 1975 war, he had his apartment balcony in Ashrafiyé rebuilt six times, destroyed by successive bombardments. This tension may not be unrelated to the heightened need to find an outlet no matter the cost in pleasures. As these articles will endeavor to show, nightlife remains intense. Despite everything. Or more likely because of it.
Let’s start with the “Music Hall,” a trendy cabaret where all sorts of “world music” performances occur every weekend. Located downtown, it is wedged between tents pitched by Hezbollah militiamen who, for around 50 dollars per night—the average monthly income is 500 dollars—occupy this part of Beirut by force, and, on the other side, double rows of barbed wire coiled around an army tank whose turret seems to act as a directional signpost to the final destination. In this peculiar atmosphere, one wonders who would dare venture to the “Starco” building, whose basements—which, along with the rooftop terraces, become for obvious security reasons very sought-after venues—house one of the trendiest cabarets in the Lebanese capital.
For four years already, Michel Elefteriades has reigned as the absolute master of this renovated nightclub with more than 500 seats. Absolute master is not a mere phrase since, like the show split into eclectic “slices,” “His Excellency” Michel I, the self-proclaimed “Emperor” of “Nulleparistan,” a Peter Pan-like imaginary land, appears as a somewhat fragmented character whose intense personal history, shared between the Lebanese war, his exile to France, and subsequent engagement alongside Fidel Castro in Cuba, would have condemned him to retreat into a fantasy realm. Although he claims to be an “atheist Islamist,” he seems to remember the basic catechism principle that “charity begins at home”: he listens to those he calls “his subjects,” recruits “his artists” himself, whom he invites to nurture “his producer rights.” Of high quality, his show offers a chaotic but artistically interesting alternation of Latino and Arabo-Cuban groups (Hanine y son Cubano), Jazz Bands, traditional Lebanese singers mingling their voices with more contemporary ones (Wadih el Safi and José Fernandez), Palestinian musicians (the Chehade Brothers), Balkan gypsy instrumentalists, and even a male impersonator of Edith Piaf with a beautiful voice but overflowing tremolo—all artists mixed in an astonishing patchwork as colorful as the one who discovered and produced them. No problem with the nearby Hezbollah since Michel Elefteriades supports Michel Aoun, considers “Israel as an aberration,” understands “perfectly those who become terrorists,” regrets there isn’t a “September 11th every year,” and has just returned from a conference at Tehran University: naturally, that helps. His general opposition to alcohol does not prevent his establishment from selling hundreds of bottles along an impressive bar proud of brands that, not too long ago, would have sparked the wrath of “Al Manar,” the “Party of God” television. This supposed habitual water drinker pays little attention to the background of his personal computer, featuring animations of Heineken cans and bottles. This place holds some distinctions: Bernard Pivot presided over one of his famous dictation exercises there.
Throughout the dozen performances, an audience likely far removed from this political ideology stamps their feet with enthusiasm and gives standing ovations to the artists. With 30% regular customers and no advertising budget—solely word of mouth—the “boss” with long hair, whom General Aoun allegedly “asked to cut” to become his assistant, looks all clad in black like an orthodox priest, with his cane resembling a villainous caviar dealer in “The World Is Not Enough.” He can nevertheless boast of genuine success. It is said that a good leader knows how to surround himself to compensate for his deficiencies. His more Cartesian lieutenant, Jade Aboujaoude, fresh from the successful management of Beach parties in South Beirut (Bamboo Bay, Jiyé), shows remarkable organizational skills: from selective reservations he grants or denies based on the interested parties’ voices over the phone (better to speak French or English to secure a table and not fall into the undesirable category) to negotiating a clever contract with the “Starco” tower to switch the stage’s electrical network to the building’s generators every evening at 10:30 pm to avoid a power outage. “Music Hall” summarizes, in a sense, a portion of this Lebanese genius: artistic creativity bordering on madness, audacity and provocations, a bit of showmanship… and a good dose of resourcefulness.
