Lebanon’s guerrilla vinyl guru

In 2010, Ernesto Chahoud dreamt about one thing: old Ethiopian vinyl. But he didn’t have the money nor the contacts to go to Addis Ababa. Instead, he put together a compilation of old Arabic music. It took him years to dig up forgotten records from the flea markets and dusty attics of Beirut and Cairo. But nobody wanted to listen to them.

 

“I contacted all the labels I could think of to get my mix out,” says Chahoud. “Then I moved on to something else.” Five years later, his mix of Disco-Belly dance and Arabic funk was voted among the Guardian’s 2015 best Middle Eastern playlists. The judge had one comment: “Oh my god, this is good.”

 

 

There is only one Communist bar in Beirut. It belongs to Ernesto’s father. To reach it, visitors must wind their way along the frantic main street of Hamra at night all the way to the district of Caracas. They’ll find it on the ground floor of a sinister concrete building.

 

The lights inside are red. It smells like cumin sprinkled with lemons and liquor. All over the walls relics from a recent past stand proud.

 

 

It’s like a family album. Printings of anonymous Lebanese activists, local leaders and Soviet superstars meticulously cover every centimetre of wall paint. However, in this array of portraits, one iconic face stands out: Ernesto Che Guevara.

 

 

 

 

 

Chahoud remembers waking up at 4am to be the first at the local flea market. At the time, LPs were selling for less than a dollar, but usually Chahoud wouldn’t even know what he was buying. Sometimes it was disappointing.

 

“Once I bought a record by Fleetwood Mac. I loved it so much I went back and bought every Fleetwood Mac piece they had. I got to my turntable, played them; I was so excited and then f***! It was s***!” he says, flapping his hand over his head as if it was happening all over again. The thing is, what Chahoud had enjoyed was not Fleetwood Mac, but Peter Green, who left the band in 1970. Mistakes like this made him develop a sharp knowledge and taste for music.

 

Today he owns over 10,000 records, one of the most impressive collections in the region. His house couldn’t it take any more so he took over his grandfather’s shoemakers’ shop where he now sells his doubles and some other pieces.

 

 

The crates are stacked with funk, northern soul and recently Ethiopian music. “Listen, listen - this is a killer record,” he says, pulling out a Muluken Melesse. “You like it huh? You like it?”

 

 

 

In the last few years Arabic music is increasingly being viewed as the new cool thing by Western partygoers, DJs and producers. Jannis Sturtz is the co-founder of Jakarta Records, the German label who put out Chahoud’s Belly Dance mix. 

 

 

 

 

CDs, tapes, fake DVDs and a few records are available. “I won’t give out the vinyls for less than 15 dollars. The real price is much higher!” he says firmly. Some of his records are actually worth less. Extraordinary legends also spice up the business. Rumour has it that people have bought records for a dollar and sold them for thousands on Discogs, the online marketplace for LPs and 45rpms.

 

“Diggin’ is like going to war nowadays. At the flea market, if I pick a record the shopkeeper will ask for at least 25 dollars because they think I’m going to make hundreds out of it,” says Chahoud. For  Sturtz, that is a misunderstanding. “With every mix I put out, I do make it harder for myself to find that music,” says Sturtz, “but in reality there are very few records worth more than a hundred dollars. Most of it won’t sell for more than ten dollars.”

 

 

“There was this hipster a couple of months ago. He kept on calling me and texting me from Europe asking for a list of records. Finally he came to the store and I played for him a very rare Lebanese piece but he said he wasn’t interested. A week later he calls me back asking about a specific record. I told him that’s the one I played for you last time! You didn’t like it but now you figured out it was expensive! F*** him. I didn’t sell.” While cleaning some of his favourites with a twinkling smile, Chahoud has bitter words: “These guys, they do not really listen to the music.” 

 

While some only fall for the hype, connoisseurs are sceptical about the sustainability of this musical revival. “This business is a dead end,” says Chahoud. “There is only like twenty, let’s say fifty, maximum one hundred Arabic music records that are interesting for the dancefloor.”

 

Still, there are things to re-discover. While he was digging for his first compilation, Chahoud stumbled upon surprising Lebanese northern soul, surf and garage recordings from the 1960s. At the time, Beirut’s cultural scene was booming and Lebanese bands, like the Sea-ders, put out very unusual records.

 

For most Western collectors, interest in this music would be counter-intuitive as it doesn’t sound Arabic at all; in fact it’s much closer to the Beatles. But Chahoud likes to go against the flow, and although he acknowledges that “this will never see the light,” he still collected the records and thought about a new playlist.