Moving Still to Launch 'Klub Sukar' in Dublin Ft. Nooriyah April 19th
A New Home for SWANA Club Sounds in the Irish Capital
Mar 29, 2025
Dublin's club landscape is expanding with the launch of Klub Sukar, a new night dedicated to SWANA and diasporic club sounds, curated by Moving Still. For its debut on April 19th at Yamamori Tengu, Moving Still reunites with Nooriyah, marking their first time sharing the decks since their Boiler Room showcase.
Nooriyah has built a reputation as one of the most forward-thinking selectors in club music, weaving together Arabic percussion, UK funk, and global bass sounds. Pairing her energy with Moving Still's deep, groove-heavy selections, this b2b promises to be a highlight of the night.
Also on the lineup: Masha, who brings her fresh take on Arabic pop and club sounds, and Nora Moon, joining Moving Still for B2B session exploring North African and electronic influences.
Klub Sukar is an evolution of Sukar, Moving Still's cultural event series blending food, art, and music, but this time, the focus is purely on the dancefloor. Expect rhythm, movement, and high-energy selections that bridge the past and future of SWANA club sounds.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
CairoScene
2 days ago
- CairoScene
Hamid El-Shaeri: The Man Who Defied Tradition From Benghazi to Cairo
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
CairoScene
2 days ago
- CairoScene
This Exhibit Reimagines Eid in Space at Dubai's Museum of the Future
The experience reimagines Eid in 2071 with AI, robotics, and cosmic exploration. Jun 03, 2025 This Eid Al-Adha, Dubai's Museum of the Future is inviting visitors to imagine what Eid could look like in the year 2071. From June 14th, the museum will offer a range of interactive exhibitions that combine artificial intelligence, robotics, environmental science and sensory experiences. Among the main attractions is a simulated space journey aboard OSS Hope, a fictional orbiting space station. The immersive experience gives visitors a glimpse into Eid celebrations beyond Earth, reflecting the UAE's growing space ambitions. Guests will also be able to meet Ameca, a multilingual humanoid robot capable of interacting in Arabic, English, Hindi, Chinese and other languages. Additional exhibitions include 'Al Waha', a series of mindfulness activities focused on mental wellbeing, and 'Earth Dreams' by media artist Refik Anadol, which uses AI and climate data to visualise planetary change. Visitors can also explore 'The Vivarium', an interactive lab that models how genetically engineered organisms might survive in future habitats. For younger visitors, the 'Future Heroes' floor offers hands-on activities designed to encourage creative thinking and collaboration. The Museum of the Future, one of Dubai's leading cultural destinations, will operate throughout the Eid holiday. Tickets are available online through the museum's official platform.
CairoScene
3 days ago
- CairoScene
What If Tumblr Was Built on Mashrou' Leila, Not Arctic Monkeys?
So I grew up on Tumblr. It shaped the way I write. It shaped my music taste. And both of those things ended up shaping me into a music journalist, a career that started somewhere between obsessively reblogging The 1975 edits and being a hardcore Arctic Monkeys fan. I went to their concerts more times than I can count (still waiting to see Lana live… one day). Back then, my phone background was a grainy black-and-white picture of shirtless Matty Healy that I had to hide inside a folder on my Samsung Corby so my mom wouldn't find it. I had entire pages filled with 'aesthetic' gifs, lyrics in Courier font, and that eternal search for curated melancholy. So I had this random idea one day at work, and I sent out a quick survey, just asking my friends and coworkers if they remembered the Tumblr era. And they did. Deeply. Not just the photos and the filters, but the feelings. The obsessing. The quiet heartbreak we all romanticized at 2AM. Everyone had their version of it, but somehow the memories all rhymed. It felt like we were remembering something sacred we'd all built together. And maybe that's what we miss the most, this collective act of reimagining. So I decided to take it one step further: to imagine what Tumblr might've looked like if it had been built here. Around us. Around our music. Our lyrics. Our dramas. Because let's be real: we didn't just have the aesthetic, the makeup, the fashion, the deep stares out of taxi windows. We had the language. Arabic poetry can make you want to isolate yourself from the world and cry on the bathroom floor. We didn't need to scream 'Lovin' you is hard, bein' here's harder', we had 'Inta Eh' by Nancy Ajram in a goddamn nightgown. Why did Lana get the monopoly on sad-girl seaside rage in 'High by the Beach' when Nancy literally did it first? That's what this is, Tumblr-core reimagined. A world where the Middle East and North Africa shaped the internet's soft grunge aesthetic instead of watching from the sidelines. Where we didn't just reblog, we created the canon. What If Our Nostalgia Didn't Need Translation? Let's talk about it. The feel of Arab Tumblr would've been split into two parallel universes - one revolutionary, one romantic. But at their core, both were built on the same thing: feeling everything all at once. And for many of us, this wasn't an aesthetic we curated, it was just life. On one end, you've got revolutionary-core: the gritty grayscale of resistance. Protest footage reblogged with Arabic graffiti across the walls. Photos from the streets of Syria, Egypt, and Tunisia during the Arab Spring, tear gas clouds, raised fists, cracked asphalt and hope. Martyr dedications in bold white text on black backgrounds. Smoke curling in slow motion over lyrics like 'صوت الحرية بينادي'. Sadness, yes, but with purpose. Melancholy layered over memory, over movement, over mourning. And the soundtrack? Bands like Cairokee with 'Yal Midan' and 'Matloob Zaeem', whose rise was directly carved out by the revolution. The kind of music that made you feel like history wasn't something that happened, it was something you could scream into existence. Jadal playing in your headphones on the bus ride to a school that might be closed tomorrow because of political unrest. 'Akher Oghneya' lyrics scribbled in your notebook like a secret prayer. You'd scroll past rainy street photos of downtown Cairo captioning 'Kenna Netlaka' by Fayrouz. Or find an old radio playing protest songs in the background of a grainy kitchen snapshot. A Darwish quote pasted over a photo of a scribble 'قف علي ناصية الحلم وقاتل' The vibe was grief, but it was alive. Then there's fluffy-core - soft revolution. Glitter in tea glasses. Pomegranate seeds on Persian rugs. Cats stretching in window sills as the call to prayer echoed in the distance. Henna tattoos, evil eye bracelets, Tarot decks next to Nagat cassettes. The kind of mornings where you wake up on your teta's balcony to the smell of coffee and the soft hum of Fayrouz from a neighbor's radio, a memory so shared it feels collective. Girls in fake Doc Martens & skinny cigarettes (or shisha) typing lowercase captions like 'normal people scare me'. Books stacked on a nightstand, Gibran, Qabbani, and a half-read English translation of Rumi. The nostalgia wasn't performative. It was rooted in something tangible. Something that smelled like jasmine and sounded like hope in the background of a childhood memory. And the architecture? Already Tumblr-coded. Cracked walls with vines growing through them in Palestinian cities. Hand-painted ceramic tiles from Morocco. Yellowed photos of old balconies from Lebanon. Mashrabiya shadows in Old Cairo filtering sunlight like God himself applied a sepia preset. It was all there, the melancholy, the romance, the rebellion, long before hashtags or aesthetics told us it was cool. Arab Tumblr wouldn't have been an aesthetic we borrowed, it would've been one we invented without knowing. What If Our Fangirls Looked Like Us? Let's be honest: if you were on Tumblr, you had a secret fanbase. Whether you were writing moody poetry in the tags, or just reblogging edits at midnight, you were definitely hiding something. One Direction fanfics, Alex Turner thirst edits, maybe even a Lana Del Rey shrine. But imagine if our fanbases looked like us. Instead of The Neighborhood or 5 Seconds of Summer, we'd be posting Mashrou' Leila lyrics like they were gospel. Zooming in on 'Lil Watan' w 'Raasuk' and setting it in bold white Arial on a low-res photo of a protest in Beirut. We'd be crying over 'Shim El Yasmine' the way we cried over 'Robbers.' There'd be Jadal song lyrics in the captions of selfies taken on Retrica app with tangled headphones. Elmorabba3 edits floating around with glitchy VHS filters. Teen girls would be wearing their band t-shirts with denim skirts, fishnets, and that signature chipped black nail polish that says i overthink everything and romanticize heartbreak. And don't even get me started on the Arab girlie pop icons. There would've been a whole soft pink Tumblr niche dedicated to Sherine, Ruby, Nancy, Haifa, Elissa—dark hair, blonde highlights, lip liner, spaghetti straps. CD covers scanned and shared around like holy relics. Posters taped to every bedroom wall. Let's be real: Arab girls started all the aesthetics that are trending now (specially Y2K core). We just didn't get the credit. What If We Typed in Arabic? If you were on Tumblr between 2012 and 2017, you know that lyrics weren't just lyrics, they were personality traits. Black text on a white or pink background, no punctuation, always lowercase. Halsey said 'I found god / I found him in a lover' and suddenly everyone had a flower crown and a god complex. Lana Del Rey breathed 'we were born to die' and it felt like heartbreak had a soundtrack. Melanie Martinez had us romanticizing our trauma and crying in pastel, baby-doll fonts. Now imagine that energy, but in Arabic. Imagine posting the lyrics of 'Yumain O Leila' from Jadal, قلت نام وقوم تنساها ، او عد عيوبها تكرها، بس حتي العيوب بتحليها after a late-night argument with your highschool boyfriend. Arabic is already a poetic language, but when those lyrics hit just right, it's devastating in the best way. Heartbreak, nostalgia, identity crises, all already Tumblr, just waiting for the aesthetic treatment. If the Tumblr girls knew about Mashrou' Leila in 2014, their dashboards would've never recovered. What If It Was Still Ours? This piece started with a question, and a bunch of replies that said 'hey, I remember this too.' Maybe we didn't have a Tumblr-core Arab world in real time. But maybe we didn't need to build it. Maybe we already had it, in old Sakia concert flyers, in stolen lyrics in our Notes app, in blurry phone clips of someone covering an indie song in a bedroom somewhere. One Mashrou' Leila reblog at a time. One sad girl anthem. One grainy gif of Cairo at night. It's late. But it's here. And it's always been ours.
