Between Diaspora, Creative Urgency, and Morricone: A Conversation With Musician Charif Megarbane

For Charif Megarbane – Beirut-based musician, producer and restless sonic cartographer – genres, borders, and industry norms aren’t barriers, but starting points. Things to cross, blur and reshape. 

Across over a hundred albums – released under shifting aliases via his DIY label Hisstology – Megarbane has drawn a musical map that moves fluidly between Lebanon and Naples, West Africa and the forgotten soundtracks of European cinema. His work is mostly instrumental: vivid, cinematic, Mediterranean in spirit, constantly evolving.

With Hawalat, his latest album for Habibi Funk, Megarbane reflects on diaspora, urgency and the informal networks that keep ideas – and people – moving. We spoke with him about Beirut, streaming, power cuts and building a world through sound.

Let’s start from the very beginning. How did music first enter your life? Was it something you grew up with at home, or did it come later? 

Charif Megarbane: I didn’t grow up in a musical family. Both of my parents are architects, so there were no instruments around, but creativity was always in the air. There was a strong appreciation for the arts, for technique. My father used to play jazz records – I remember Keith Jarrett and some improvised stuff – so I was exposed to those sounds early on.

I asked for a guitar as a kid, though I wasn’t too interested in theory. Then, in my early teens, I discovered a four-track cassette recorder. That changed everything. Being able to overdub instruments – it was a huge epiphany.

That early DIY, analog approach – long before it became trendy – still defines your music today.

CM: Yeah, that was before computers. I’m part of a generation that only got computers and the internet later, during our teenage years. I’m kind of pre-software. My first recordings were just guitar and ambient sounds. Even then, I was trying to create the illusion that someone else was playing – almost like building a musical persona with multiple voices. A kind of positive schizophrenia, in a way. And I quickly got bored just playing guitar. There are so many instruments out there, so many possibilities.

That impulse to create freely, to invent musical alter egos and experiment across sounds – it almost feels like the founding principle of Hisstology, the label you started. What was the idea behind it?

CM: When I moved from Lebanon to Canada for university, I started a rock’n’roll band called Heroes and Villains. We toured a bit, and I got to experience the classic cycle: record an album, tour it for a year or two, then start working on the next one. I quickly realized the part I loved most was recording – the actual creation of the music – not so much rehearsing or being on the road.

So the idea behind Hisstology was to create a space where I could make music on my own, in total freedom. I didn’t want to be tied to one genre or a fixed lineup of instruments. And I wanted to be free in the way I named each project.

So in a way, Hisstology became a kind of personal archive?

CM: Exactly. From the beginning, Hisstology was like a music lab – a place where I could make albums just for myself. Most of the time, there was no promotion at all. I’d invent different aliases, just to have fun finishing projects – picking track titles, building a loose concept for each record, designing the artwork.

Over time, the projects started to pile up. I stopped seeing them as separate albums and began thinking of them as part of a single, continuous body of work. For me, Hisstology is like one massive album – made up of dozens of smaller ones. It became a way to trace my own artistic process – a record of where I was, creatively and physically, at different points in my life. I traveled a lot, and these albums reflect those shifts.

The first Hisstology release dates back to 2009 – a very different era, before streaming fully took over.

CM: Yeah, definitely pre-Spotify. But at least there was Bandcamp – a platform where I could share my music and also shape its aesthetic. You could create an album page with artwork, titles, and a whole environment around the release. That was important, especially since most of the albums were never printed physically.

I’ve uploaded over a hundred albums on there, and I’m always slightly worried they’ll tell me I’ve used up too much server space! I mean, yes, it’s still a corporation. But compared to Spotify, it’s a much healthier model for artists.

We’ve explored this theme often in the magazine: artist revenue, algorithmic mechanisms that shape listening habits, playlists, trends. How do you navigate this landscape – as an artist, producer, and listener?

CM: Like a lot of musicians, I’ve seen every side of it: streaming revenues are almost nonexistent, touring is harder, venues are shutting down, and there’s less public funding for culture. The space is getting smaller.

About Spotify – I heard about Spotify’s CEO’s extremely dodgy investments, and I remember seeing a statement where they suggested that artists should just release more music to earn more. But honestly, what you make from it might be enough to buy one beer per year, if you’re lucky.

Over the years, I’ve worked with many models. I released some of my Cosmic Analog Ensemble [one of Megarbane’s long-running projects] material with the French label Mybags, whose founder refused to put anything on Spotify, out of principle. I respect that deeply – even if most people still end up discovering music through Spotify. It’s like a shop window: you need to be there. But algorithms and playlists have a power that goes beyond taste.

Your albums often feel like soundtracks for films that don’t exist. The term “Lebrary” – a blend of Lebanon and Library Music – has been used to describe your sound. How do you feel about that label? And what are the core influences behind it?

CM: “Lebrary” was just a wordplay – Library Music isn’t even a real genre, technically. It’s more of an umbrella term that includes everything, from bossa nova to calypso to experimental jazz. For me, it was more about the approach than the style. But these days, everything gets reduced to one word.

Film music has always had a big impact on me. I love the Italian school – I could talk about it for hours. Ennio Morricone, of course, but also Alessandro Alessandroni, Piero Umiliani, Piero Piccioni. The first time I heard Morricone was through Cinema Paradiso and it left a deep impression. Then, through my father’s records, I discovered more obscure Italian soundtracks – films where the music was on another level. I know these musicians often worked together; it felt like a real scene. Their lifestyle, their models for creativity – they still inspire me, also beyond music. There’s imagination and intellect in their work. It’s not just vibes – there’s structure, thought, complexity.

Do you feel there’s a deeper musical connection between Italy and Lebanon – something beyond soundtracks and the “Lebrary” tag?

CM: When I discovered that kind of music, it felt like I was listening to something I already knew. I don’t want to over-intellectualize it, but I do believe there’s a Mediterranean connection, a shared sensibility. Lebanon and Italy are part of the same world. I try to avoid clichés, but there’s definitely a bridge there. Sometimes when we look at the map, we focus too much on land-based influences. But the real connective spaces are the seas – the oceans. Especially the Mediterranean. Before the civil war in Lebanon, there were strong connections: international artists playing in Beirut, but also in Cairo and Alexandria.

For me, it’s not about nostalgia, I wasn’t there. It’s history – a sense of regional exchange, of cultural and economic flow that was disrupted by the war. After that, Lebanon turned inward. Borders closed. People turned against each other. And unfortunately, we’re seeing something similar again now.

Lebanon is always present in your work. But how have present-day Beirut, the political situation and the country’s difficulties influenced your work?

CM: I’m not an academic, but despite everything, Beirut and Lebanon remain incredibly vibrant. When you look at the number of artists – in music, painting, sculpture – the creative energy is undeniable. There’s a lot of frustration, and people need ways to release it. Whether it’s going to the gym, partying, or making art, it all becomes a form of emotional evacuation.

In Lebanon, we don’t have public electricity or water 24/7. Half the day you rely on your own generator, and that means fuel, planning, limits. So when you’re working on something – say, recording a track at 8pm – you know the power might cut at 10. You don’t have time to overthink: no “should I add a bridge?” or “should this come earlier?” The clock is ticking. You just do it.

There is this feeling in Lebanon – this DNA of urgency. A need to evacuate frustration and unpredictability through expression.

It happened to me many times that while I was playing the electricity was cut. I lost a lot of material that wasn’t backed up. But it’s okay, in a sense, it’s only music. Not a symphony you wrote in five years.

You mentioned discovering contemporary Italian musicians recently – what about Naples and its funk tradition, from Pino Daniele to Nu Genea? In your music, there are references to that world, perhaps unconsciously or maybe because, as you were saying, there’s a Mediterranean connection?

CM: Yes – I got into that world a few years ago. I met the Italian musician Bassolino and we quickly became friends. I also had the chance to visit Naples, which feels a lot like Beirut. There are so many parallels.

When I started listening to the disco side of Neapolitan music, it immediately felt familiar. It reminded me of Abu Ali by Ziad Rahbani – Feyrouz’s son [note: this interview was conducted prior to the recent passing of Rahbani on July 26, 2025]. There’s something in that Mediterranean groove, in the arrangements, that feels very close – even if it’s coming from a different context.

Four years ago, you started collaborating with Habibi Funk – becoming their first contemporary artist, releasing new and original material under your own name. How did that come about?

CM: We started releasing a quick EP, Tayyara Warak, to announce the collaboration. I was aware of the label’s legacy – I was a fan myself. I discovered the work of Ahmed Malek through them, and even some Lebanese artists I hadn’t come across before. It was strange, in a good way, to have a German label introduce me to music from my own country. 

Creatively, it felt like a continuation. Jannis [Stürtz, Habibi Funk owner] suggested I release the album under my real name. I thought it was a great opportunity – it didn’t mean abandoning my other monikers, just that this one would stand on its own. Of course, it was a different process. These albums have more distribution than the Hisstology ones, which mostly live online. I paid more attention to the tracklist – to how the record flowed. But the spirit was the same. The best part is that they gave me total creative freedom. On Hawalat, I even added a jungle track just to see what they’d say – and they said nothing. Full trust. I eventually removed it, but the whole process felt very natural.

Did working with them change your creative process in any way?

CM: Yes and no – it was the first time I made an album consciously about Lebanon. On Hisstology I’ve explored many concepts, but never one explicitly linked to home. This felt like the right time.

Still, I didn’t want it to be a nostalgic homage, or something anthropological. It was more how I imagine Lebanon – my idea of home. The first instrument you hear on the album is actually Japanese. But it sounds Mediterranean. That felt right to me: a personal tribute, from the inside.

And the tribute continued, first with the EP Hamra (Arabic for “red”) and then with Hawalat, your latest album.

CM: Hamra was the first in a planned series on primary colors – but it’s also the name of one of Beirut’s liveliest neighborhoods.

Hawalat was different. If Marzipan was looking at Lebanon from the outside, Hawalat is someone in Lebanon looking outward – diaspora and beyond.

The title refers to informal money transfers – something I encountered in my previous work, in the humanitarian field. In places without banking systems, the only way to send money is through informal channels, based on trust. That idea – informal international exchange – became the album’s concept.

Musically, it reflects that too. For the first time, I worked with musicians from across the world – Sven Wunder, a Swedish orchestra, Bassolino, LNDFK from Naples, and others. Super talented people. The idea was to reflect those informal, global influences.

Your music, especially under your own name, is instrumental. Why did you choose not to sing? You also play a lot with titles, with evocations and cinematic feel. We noticed that a song on Hawalat is called Bil Fay – is it a tribute to Bill Fay? How do your titles come about?

CM: Bil Fay it’s a wordplay in Arabic – it means “in the shadow”. But yes, it’s a nod to Bill Fay. And he passed away the same month the album was released. 

As for singing, I’ve done it before, with Heroes and Villains and in other projects, but these days, when I use my voice, it’s more as texture – onomatopoeia, not language.

Part of it is avoiding one specific language. And also, instrumental music is more accessible in some ways. It’s a challenge I enjoy: trying to paint a full picture without lyrics, to give you a story or a feeling through sound alone. That’s the Morricone school – storytelling without words.

How does your compositional process work? Where do the songs come from?

CM: It’s very stream of consciousness for me. When I have an idea, I try to realize it right away. That’s the advantage of modern tech – with a laptop, I can mix and record anywhere.

I once made a whole album in Kenya with just a laptop battery and a microphone – before the battery ran out.

Sometimes it starts with a melody, sometimes a smell, a memory, a film. Often, in the first few minutes, I can see the whole picture: the arrangement, the mix, even the mastering. But the longer you wait, the more that vision fades.

For me, that’s the sensitive moment – when everything is tied together. And I try to capture it.

This is how it works for me. 

Last classic question: what about your future projects?

CM: I’m finally doing a dubstep album – it’s time. [laughs] No, seriously – I’m reviving Cosmic Analog Ensemble, and doing more collaborations with different artists – not just as a guest, but working together in the studio, co-writing, producing.

The biggest one right now is coming out this month: it’s called Acqua Marina and it’s by Prefaces, released on Ruptured Records and Hisstology in mid August.

I’ll also be touring across Europe between November and December – including a few shows with Roger Fakhr.

So, one last thing: do you still have time to sleep?

CM: Yes, and I sleep very well!

Camillo Vegezzi is a freelance music writer based in Milan. He has collaborated with various music magazines and is a contributor to the cultural section of Il Manifesto. Read more of Camillo’s writing on Something Curated here.

Lorenzo Villa is a writer and editor based in Milan. He writes about lifestyle for Harper’s Bazaar Italia and collaborates with the literary magazine Galápagos. Read more of Lorenzo’s writing on Something Curated here.

Header photograph by Rick Tonizzo.