Abdullah Miniawy is an Egyptian expressionist, a writer, singer, composer, and actor. Over the years, he has shared the stage with acclaimed artists such as Erik Truffaz, Kamilya Jubran, Yom, Médéric Collignon, Aly Talibab, A Filetta, Hvad, Ziur, Simo Cell, and many others. In addition to his music career, Abdullah has also acted in films, including Alaadine Slim’s “Tlamess,” a Tunisian feature film screened during the Directors’ Fortnight at the 2019 Cannes Film Festival. As a composer, Abdullah has created various soundtracks for dance shows, theatre productions, and exhibitions. Ahead of his performance at the upcoming SHAPE+ meetup in Prague, we have caught up with him to discuss poetry, politics, his new book project, and more.
How long have you been in France?
I have lived in Paris for eight years. It’s been a while.
Was it after that momentum described on your album The Act of Falling from the 8th Floor, which was apparently inspired by the anguish that you started to feel in your home country from being followed and surveilled?
Things slowly accumulated to that point. I was in Egypt and the whole political climate was scary at that time. I had this gut feeling that I just needed to move somewhere. Also, theatres and venues were shutting down. So I was like, what’s next? I started to work with Carl Gari. And then I went on to work with my jazz trio in Paris. So I was always between Munich and Paris and I was lucky to be in those two beautiful, but contrasting cities – between nature and industrial life.
Back in Egypt at that time, were you publicly active and visible or more in the underground scene?
The Egyptian authorities at that time were after any sort of community. So that’s why even the underground scene was political – just starting a nice club with people who looked like you was already a challenge. I was also a writer, and electronic music was kind of a medium to share my art and my music in general.
I started writing as a hobby when I was eight, just showing my father some personal writings. When I was 18, I found myself walking in the streets, noticing my texts around me, and people in the street would ask me if I was the one who had written them. Eventually, people started asking me to speak for them, to be their voice, to do it for Syria, Yemen or Tunisia, for what was happening in the region. After a while, I felt like I was not in control of my own expression somehow, and I didn’t like that feeling much. At some point, you have to be firm and say, “ Stop telling me what to do; I’m tired of it”.
It also leads nowhere, it leads people to prison and puts me in danger. I was just so scared. Everything happened so fast, and then my name was out there very quickly. I had connections with the French Institute, the Goethe Institute, and international press coverage. But then I’ve always believed in transformation.
I’m constantly searching for a new sound. I just finished my solo album, which will be released this fall on Hundebiss Records. We got the masters a few days ago and I’m already looking ahead to what’s coming next. I’m always trying to find new ways to look at things.
And when you were eight, what were you writing about?
It’s funny, because my first poem was inspired by the news on TV and it was against a terrorist attack. It was a kind of anti-terrorism piece, childish yet very heroic. And then I went to my father, who was a professor of Arabic, and he said “You didn’t write this. It’s well-written, and you couldn’t have done it.” He often didn’t believe in what I wrote and it actually made me believe in my skills and my tools.
What’s your relationship with your dad in terms of your creative work?
He’s now living inside me because he passed away earlier this year. When my father passed away, I felt two things. Maybe now he lives on inside me as an artist himself. And I also feel the weight of carrying the heritage of the Arabic language, which is not really my medium anymore. And I also felt another transformation. I felt as if I were writing in relation to him, in a kind of competition. It was incredible to witness the talent streaming out of him.
When the language got too complex, I would send him poems and he would correct the grammar, because I care so much about grammar. I know it’s not something that people in the art scene care about nowadays, but I still see it as something like tuning an instrument or playing the drums.
For some people, making music is more physical, emotional, and practical, while writing tends to be viewed as something more analytical and cerebral. How is it for you?
When I was in Egypt, I was naturally influenced by the environment; I was inspired by what was going on around me. But toward the end of 2014 and into 2015, I experienced writer’s block, which made me describe certain new things that I had never touched on in my poetry before. This took my poetry to something more grounded, more accessible. Previously, I hadn’t included anything prosaic in my poetry. I’d always wanted poetry to be something like a mantra from another realm.
I discovered that the best way to break this kind of block is to keep moving, to write about what I’m interacting with every day. And now I have the same problem again in France. In the last few years, I have trained myself to write on the basis of my melodies. My craft as a composer has become very important and central.
For instance, just yesterday, I composed something really good. I was looping it all day. Then the flow of lyrics started coming. So I have to impress myself with music. It’s a kind of seduction game with writing for me now.
And I think the two are connected; humming a melody brings forth text. When facing an occidental audience, you have to learn how to communicate your feelings, and to use your voice as an instrument because most of the people don’t understand the language. So, I have to be able to read people’s hearts and understand how they feel. It’s ultimately about serving others.
You’ve also been involved in both the jazz and electronic scenes. Sometimes it feels like they are two different worlds, operating in very different realms, and their audiences do not mix so often. They are also perceived differently by the cultural establishment. With electronic music, you can download cracked software and make some beats on it, but jazz seems somehow less approachable.
You can access it through training; you have to rehearse and meet musicians and try to create your own lexicon, your own vocabulary.
I‘ve had the opportunity to work with many other musicians, like Erik Truffaz, and I collaborated with A Filetta from Corsica, an ensemble of eight polyphonic singers. I was lucky enough to write music for these groups. In jazz, you need openness, to be able to receive and give back. You have to be listening in the moment. I understand your point that electronic music is accessible, but I think to develop a distinct character in electronic music is actually the challenge. Sometimes I have these institutional engagements, with five star hotels and amazing hospitality.
That’s a jazz thing, not electronic, I guess.
And the next day, I travelled to Norway for an electronic gig, and there were no microphones. I love this contrast. It’s amazing.
It took many years, but now the jazz scene is a safe part of the establishment. Jazz is something OK for a politician to listen to, but you’re not going to be seen at a techno club, probably.
It’s just a generational gap. I feel I’m very young in the jazz scene. I came to it super young and I’m just hanging out with these academic giants, and it’s inspiring. One night, I’m on a dance floor, and the next day, I’m performing in a theatre. Last time I played my solo set I was so proud because I felt that I’d brought everything from the jazz scene to the club. It’s still electronic, but with the attitude, the confidence, improvisation, and composition skills that jazz has given me – it felt amazing.
How is your relationship with yourself and your work? Many people disassociate from their own creations once they are finished; they have a very complex relationship with what they do.
Once the record is released, I tend to leave it in the hands of the people. Of course, I still play it in live shows in different arrangements and forms, and I listen to it. I strongly believe in archiving and external memory. I have a huge archive of ideas. A harmony can come to me and I’d even stop a train to record it.
I try to create music for myself, as a listener. I’m always in a state of research. constantly searching for something new. And that’s why I enjoy this process. Actually, the more you listen to your own music, the more you grow. You recognise what can be improved and what can be left alone. This big library of ideas serves the whole vision of my project, visually and musically. All these elements are crucial.
I have no wall between me and my art. I love my music, I love my shows. Maybe sometimes I get comments saying that I need to improve this or that. If I have musicians on stage and we’re still on tour, the next morning I send an email with all the notes about the previous night’s gig. It’s important to me that we discuss things and are open and freely express ourselves.
Back in Egypt, you mentioned that you, in a way, became a medium for political messages. Now that it’s such a politicised time, a lot of artists are expected to make political statements. How do you feel about this?
It’s very hard to say because this is what happened with the Egyptian revolution and the Arab Spring. When it started, I was just at home, and there was a lot of activism going on around me, and then suddenly I realised that I had to be part of it. I had to say something.
Looking back now, I think I would have done exactly the same. I was just driven, like everyone else. I was not a hero. I was not a leader. My texts are still in some people’s memories and that’s what matters most to me.
I don’t know what comes next. In a way, I’m avoiding problems. We understand what censorship is, and we understand what self-censorship is, and we also understand that we are not free today. That’s very clear. You might think you’re free, but you can be assassinated virtually or arrested. It’s a very open game everywhere.
So, of course, I’m scared. Sometimes I have these intense ideas, but I keep them to myself. For instance, eliminating the car industry by 2040. I actually wrote a paper about ending slaughterhouses by 2030. I’ve written many papers like this. Even on how to deal with mobility during pandemics.
Do you post them or send them somewhere?
No, I keep them for myself. Maybe they’ll come out after I’m gone. I’m always scared to share this kind of stuff. I think I will find support from people, but in the end, you’re up against big business. We’re ruled by companies, not governments.
I released my first book “Extinguishing the city of light” in 2021. It’s a short story collection, which was launched in the Haus Der Kunst in Munich, and I’m currently writing a second one. But I’ve stopped sharing these intense ideas because I no longer want to be any sort of leader figure. I’m tired of it. It requires pure trust in the world. You have no way of turning back and you sell people dreams and fight against bullets, bots and weapons. You don’t have to fight against such a monster. It’s very dangerous, and people have the ability to let you down and turn against you in an instant.
What is your new book about?
It’s a critique of modern society’s obsession with spirituality. Podcasts, wellness apps and so on.
It’s a big business.
Just go to the sea, take two days at the sea.
It has something artistic to it, tied to the art and PR industry, all neatly packaged. I love it when people make money out of nothing; Magicians, athletes, or musicians.
You love it, huh?
I find it fascinating.
It’s true. It’s creative to an extent.
One or two years ago, I was trying to convince myself to get this cello player, that violin player, and head to the studio, spending 1000 or 2000 euros in order to record a score, which was a way to excuse myself for not releasing something spontaneously. But then I thought, why am I doing this? I have to make art out of nothing. That’s it. Not money out of money.
So now I don’t go to studios. I’m always in my home studio, working by myself. Sometimes just a sample of the wind or firecrackers is enough, is more than having two thousand brass and a cellist.
What have you been up to recently and what has the future in store for you?
At the moment, I’m working on my video game, which I’m programming myself. I got into c++ five years ago and I have my own studio to create games, VST plugins and artworks. It will be released alongside my solo album, which comprises 11 tracks, on Hundebiss records, Milan, this fall, 2024, With my new trio, I’ll be releasing a vinyl concept at Mao, Turin, featuring just one song. I’m collecting ideas for my upcoming book and composing for a singer from Napoli. Next season, I’ll be touring with my new trio, as a soloist, and with Maurice Louca. I’m reducing the projects that are in high demand in order to make space for new work as well, and looking to take more risks on stage. In 2025/2026, I’ll be back with a new record with Simo Cell, and we’re currently looking for a label.
Interview Lucia Udvardyova
Photo Shannon Benze Brown