Poetic and politically charged, Mayssa Jallad's debut album examines a five-month battle during Lebanon's civil war, unpacking its contemporary relevance with a sequence of passionate, minimalist, vocal-led experiments. RIYL Jarboe, Grouper, Cocteau Twins.
It's on 'Markaz Azraq (December 6)' that 'Marjaa...' reveals itself most vividly. The track comes at the album's mid-point, decorated by 'Heavy Water'-esque guitar strums and elevated by Jallad's impassioned, cracking voice. It's relatively minimal music, but doesn't demand more than it offers; Fadi Tabbal, who produced the album and adds synth and sound design to many of the tracks, simply plays acoustic guitar here, leaving Jallad's voice to do most of the lifting. She paints a picture of Beirut in the 1970s when it was split by a bloody civil war. The title of the album is a reference to a battle at the beginning of the conflict, which Jallad wrote about in her masters thesis, wondering if architecture itself might have been the main protagonist.
So with her compositions, she tries to rebuild a broken landscape: the opening tracks are a stroll through a confusing city filled with empty buildings and new developments, and the second half is directly focused on the battle itself, shining a light on a historical conflict that's been obscured over time. And she manages to build this world by only hinting at the past directly - the sounds of oud and buzuk hum occasionally into the frame, but don't overwhelm Jallad's skeletal constructions. Her voice, and her poetic phrases, dominate the album and glue it together with a sense of mystery and revelation. It might sound like folk, but there's no mistaking its raw blues.
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Poetic and politically charged, Mayssa Jallad's debut album examines a five-month battle during Lebanon's civil war, unpacking its contemporary relevance with a sequence of passionate, minimalist, vocal-led experiments. RIYL Jarboe, Grouper, Cocteau Twins.
It's on 'Markaz Azraq (December 6)' that 'Marjaa...' reveals itself most vividly. The track comes at the album's mid-point, decorated by 'Heavy Water'-esque guitar strums and elevated by Jallad's impassioned, cracking voice. It's relatively minimal music, but doesn't demand more than it offers; Fadi Tabbal, who produced the album and adds synth and sound design to many of the tracks, simply plays acoustic guitar here, leaving Jallad's voice to do most of the lifting. She paints a picture of Beirut in the 1970s when it was split by a bloody civil war. The title of the album is a reference to a battle at the beginning of the conflict, which Jallad wrote about in her masters thesis, wondering if architecture itself might have been the main protagonist.
So with her compositions, she tries to rebuild a broken landscape: the opening tracks are a stroll through a confusing city filled with empty buildings and new developments, and the second half is directly focused on the battle itself, shining a light on a historical conflict that's been obscured over time. And she manages to build this world by only hinting at the past directly - the sounds of oud and buzuk hum occasionally into the frame, but don't overwhelm Jallad's skeletal constructions. Her voice, and her poetic phrases, dominate the album and glue it together with a sense of mystery and revelation. It might sound like folk, but there's no mistaking its raw blues.
Poetic and politically charged, Mayssa Jallad's debut album examines a five-month battle during Lebanon's civil war, unpacking its contemporary relevance with a sequence of passionate, minimalist, vocal-led experiments. RIYL Jarboe, Grouper, Cocteau Twins.
It's on 'Markaz Azraq (December 6)' that 'Marjaa...' reveals itself most vividly. The track comes at the album's mid-point, decorated by 'Heavy Water'-esque guitar strums and elevated by Jallad's impassioned, cracking voice. It's relatively minimal music, but doesn't demand more than it offers; Fadi Tabbal, who produced the album and adds synth and sound design to many of the tracks, simply plays acoustic guitar here, leaving Jallad's voice to do most of the lifting. She paints a picture of Beirut in the 1970s when it was split by a bloody civil war. The title of the album is a reference to a battle at the beginning of the conflict, which Jallad wrote about in her masters thesis, wondering if architecture itself might have been the main protagonist.
So with her compositions, she tries to rebuild a broken landscape: the opening tracks are a stroll through a confusing city filled with empty buildings and new developments, and the second half is directly focused on the battle itself, shining a light on a historical conflict that's been obscured over time. And she manages to build this world by only hinting at the past directly - the sounds of oud and buzuk hum occasionally into the frame, but don't overwhelm Jallad's skeletal constructions. Her voice, and her poetic phrases, dominate the album and glue it together with a sense of mystery and revelation. It might sound like folk, but there's no mistaking its raw blues.
Poetic and politically charged, Mayssa Jallad's debut album examines a five-month battle during Lebanon's civil war, unpacking its contemporary relevance with a sequence of passionate, minimalist, vocal-led experiments. RIYL Jarboe, Grouper, Cocteau Twins.
It's on 'Markaz Azraq (December 6)' that 'Marjaa...' reveals itself most vividly. The track comes at the album's mid-point, decorated by 'Heavy Water'-esque guitar strums and elevated by Jallad's impassioned, cracking voice. It's relatively minimal music, but doesn't demand more than it offers; Fadi Tabbal, who produced the album and adds synth and sound design to many of the tracks, simply plays acoustic guitar here, leaving Jallad's voice to do most of the lifting. She paints a picture of Beirut in the 1970s when it was split by a bloody civil war. The title of the album is a reference to a battle at the beginning of the conflict, which Jallad wrote about in her masters thesis, wondering if architecture itself might have been the main protagonist.
So with her compositions, she tries to rebuild a broken landscape: the opening tracks are a stroll through a confusing city filled with empty buildings and new developments, and the second half is directly focused on the battle itself, shining a light on a historical conflict that's been obscured over time. And she manages to build this world by only hinting at the past directly - the sounds of oud and buzuk hum occasionally into the frame, but don't overwhelm Jallad's skeletal constructions. Her voice, and her poetic phrases, dominate the album and glue it together with a sense of mystery and revelation. It might sound like folk, but there's no mistaking its raw blues.
Limited edition of 300 copies. Black vinyl in gloss sleeve with black paper inner.
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Poetic and politically charged, Mayssa Jallad's debut album examines a five-month battle during Lebanon's civil war, unpacking its contemporary relevance with a sequence of passionate, minimalist, vocal-led experiments. RIYL Jarboe, Grouper, Cocteau Twins.
It's on 'Markaz Azraq (December 6)' that 'Marjaa...' reveals itself most vividly. The track comes at the album's mid-point, decorated by 'Heavy Water'-esque guitar strums and elevated by Jallad's impassioned, cracking voice. It's relatively minimal music, but doesn't demand more than it offers; Fadi Tabbal, who produced the album and adds synth and sound design to many of the tracks, simply plays acoustic guitar here, leaving Jallad's voice to do most of the lifting. She paints a picture of Beirut in the 1970s when it was split by a bloody civil war. The title of the album is a reference to a battle at the beginning of the conflict, which Jallad wrote about in her masters thesis, wondering if architecture itself might have been the main protagonist.
So with her compositions, she tries to rebuild a broken landscape: the opening tracks are a stroll through a confusing city filled with empty buildings and new developments, and the second half is directly focused on the battle itself, shining a light on a historical conflict that's been obscured over time. And she manages to build this world by only hinting at the past directly - the sounds of oud and buzuk hum occasionally into the frame, but don't overwhelm Jallad's skeletal constructions. Her voice, and her poetic phrases, dominate the album and glue it together with a sense of mystery and revelation. It might sound like folk, but there's no mistaking its raw blues.