Hamid El-Shaeri: The Man Who Defied Tradition From Benghazi to Cairo

CairoScene

04-06-2025

In 1978, at the heart of Tripoli's Al-Saha Al-Khadraa, pianos, violins, guitars, drums, and keyboards were set ablaze—accused of being Western, un-Libyan, and tools of cultural corruption. The scene echoed the infamous Nazi book burnings of 1933, where works by Ernest Hemingway, Karl Marx, Sigmund Freud, and others were reduced to ashes for being deemed un-German. At the time, the Libyan authorities ordered inspections of homes, schools, and universities to ensure they were cleared of all so-called 'corrupting instruments.'
Amongst the onlookers was a teenage Abdelhamid Ali Ahmed al-Shaeri—later known as Hamid El-Shaeri, and then as Il Capo—who watched helplessly as his prized piano, awarded to him for his academic excellence, and a keyboard gifted by his father were destroyed in the flames. At this moment, he knew had to flee Libya. The young teenager couldn't really understand why he had suddenly been made a national enemy, or why he was made to feel this way—but he knew the only answer would be heading to Cairo.
Hamid El-Shaeri was not an isolated case of personal ambition clashing with political authority. He belonged to a pioneering generation in Libya that listened to music with a new ear and read its notes with a fresh vision. His peers—like Nasser El Mezdawy, who fled to Italy, and Ahmed Fakroon, who sought refuge in France—were part of a generation defined by defiance and the courage to create, pursuing renewal at a time when the safest path in Libya, musically, was strict adherence to artistic tradition.
Stepping into Egypt as a stranger, a foreigner entering a land he had only seen on television, Hamid El Shaeri brought with him what would come to define his distinct sound—his roots, carried all the way from his hometown in Benghazi. Though he never studied music academically, he understood it instinctively. That unorthodox path shaped the unique direction his music would take—marked by deep sentiment and raw emotion. This was evident in his debut album 'Ayonha' (1983). While it didn't achieve widespread success at the time, it laid the foundation for the Hamid we know today. That early neglect didn't last; a year later, his second album 'Raheel' (1984) found resounding success, especially amongst younger audiences.
Hamid El Shaeri didn't just enter the Arabic music scene — he rewired it. Dubbed the godfather of 'Al-Jeel' music, he introduced a sound that was bold, electronic, and unapologetically modern. He layered his vocals to mimic the effect of multiple singers — a stark contrast to the traditional Egyptian style that relied heavily on a single performer's vocal prowess. Using synthesizers, drum machines, and Western funk and pop grooves fused with Arabic melodies, Hamid injected the region's music with a much-needed jolt of youth and energy. At a time when Arabic music was steeped in classical orchestras and long-winded ballads, he trimmed the excess and cranked up the soul, creating catchy, yet emotionally rich tracks that resonated across generations.
Egypt was changing—and so was its soundtrack. In the early 1980s, the country was still reeling from the seismic shifts brought on by President Sadat's Infitah, the open-market policy that restructured Egypt's economy and daily life. After Sadat's assassination, the streets felt restless. Uncertainty lingered in the air, and with it, a growing hunger for something different—something that spoke to a new generation trying to find its voice in the chaos. That's where Hamid El-Shaeri stepped in. Bold, modern, and unapologetically different, it echoed the pulse of a nation in flux. The youth welcomed Hamid like a long-awaited answer. He didn't just arrive on the scene—he arrived right on time.
Hamid wasn't just a trailblazing solo artist—he was the mastermind behind the scenes, crafting enduring hits for stars like Amr Diab, Hisham Abbas, Mostafa Amar, Mohamed Fouad, Simone, Ihab Tawfik, Ali Hemeida, and Hakim. He gave many of them their first real break, and in doing so—whether by design or instinct—he helped shape the future of Egyptian music, as these artists went on to dominate the scene for years.
But it wasn't all smooth sailing for Hamid in Egypt. Controversy seemed to be his constant companion. When politics wasn't the reason pulling him down, other forces found ways to hold him back. The changes Hamid brought to Egyptian music didn't sit well with many — was the shift too radical? Maybe. Hamid El Shaeri found himself clashing with the establishment once again—and, ironically, the same accusations followed him all the way from Libya. He was blamed for destroying Egyptian music heritage and corrupting the youth. To many, his music was once again labeled too Westernized, accused of lacking any authentic identity.
To his surprise, the slamming wasn't limited to his music— even his appearance on stage drew disapproval from the musical aristocracy of the time, as he often performed in sportswear. What they didn't realize was that he was setting a new benchmark. Many musicians would soon start imitating his style, paving the way for the sporty-funky aesthetic that became a hallmark of the '80s and '90s.
That relentless challenge to the academic order led to his ban from the Musicians' Syndicate for a full four years. What did they tell the public? They claimed the delayed payment of a whole EGP 16 was behind the non-renewal of his license. Did it stop him? Not quite. Hamid wasn't even sure why he'd been banned, but he knew the issue ran deeper than a missed fee. He kept producing and composing under pseudonyms, quietly crafting hits while others took the credit such as 'Sabry Aleek Tal' for Rajaa Belmaleeh and 'Maktoob' for Alaa Abdelkhalek.
In fact, much of Egypt's music scene feared Hamid El Shaeri for his heavy use of electronic music, which they believed threatened the livelihoods of traditional instrumentalists, according to Egyptian music journalist Amgad Alaa. Hamid was leading a shift, and the question naturally arose: was Egyptian music about to change forever?
'Anything new sparks concern. Our generation appeared out of nowhere — we were a shock, not just to the audience, but to the people in charge of Egyptian music at the time,' Hamid El Shaeri said in a TV interview. 'They were stunned. Keyboards? Guitars? Drums? Where's the classical structure? It became a generational clash. They couldn't process what was happening — an album with just eight songs? A track that lasts three minutes? What even is that? The shock was simply too much to handle.'
Once his suspension was lifted, it marked a clear victory over the establishment, tradition, and the old guard. Hamid returned with an even broader musical vision, blending more genres than ever before. Flamenco music with Arabic melodies—who would've thought? His comeback was defined by rhythms and instrumental styles he had rarely explored. He returned with 'Nour El Ein' by Amr Diab, his biggest hit to date, along with the singer's entire new album.
Beside Amr Diab, there was 'Sidi Mansour' with Saber Al Rubai and 'El Soud Oyouno' for Mostafa Amar. For Hisham Abbas, he produced 'Habibi Dah' and the iconic 'Nari Nareen'. And of course, 'Lolaky' by Ali Hemeida—a track that became a runaway hit. These are just a drop in the ocean—examples of the remarkable work Hamid crafted for others.
In Italian, Il Capo means "the chief" or "the boss." In the Arab music dictionary, it means Hamid El-Shaeri. Perhaps it was his courage to defy norms that earned him the title. Or maybe it was his relentless drive to innovate—and his readiness to clash when necessary. That, essentially, is what made Hamid so distinctive. The nickname was first given to him by Fares, a singer Hamid himself discovered. And from that moment on, Il Capo stuck—becoming part of his legacy.
'Art is eternal. We, the artists, are only temporary,' Hamid El Shaeri once said.
We still sing his songs by heart—but just as much, we remember the battles he fought. That's the thing about real art—it doesn't play it safe. It breaks rules, stirs things up, and leaves a mark. Sticking to the script never made anyone unforgettable. It's the ones who dare to be different, who stay true to what they feel, that end up becoming legends. Hamid didn't force it. He just poured his heart into the music—and people felt that. No act. No polish. Just honesty, raw and real.
Il Capo rose just as Egypt was shifting in the 1980s, delivering the sound they didn't know they needed