Since Yasmine Hamdan’s last record, 2017’s Al Jamilat, Lebanon has undergone significant changes. There was the 2020 Port of Beirut explosion, where some 2750 tonnes of ammonium nitrate caused a blast that could be felt as far away as Cyprus. This disaster happened in the middle of the COVID pandemic and contributed to an already devastating economic meltdown that has continued in the years since.
Despite this, or more likely because of it, the Lebanese-born, globe-traveling Hamdan decided to ground herself once again in her home country, both literally and metaphorically, on I Remember I Forget. Like her other two solo LPs, as well as her work with the late 1990s-early 2000s duo Soapkills, there’s a connection between Lebanese, Palestinian, and Egyptian musical traditions and electronics. However, the music she makes now feels worlds away from what she recorded 25 years ago.
While she continues to collaborate with Marc Collin, the music here feels less gauzy than her previous work. “Shmaali”, for example, takes its lyrics and melody from Palestinian tarweeda, songs sung by women that have long served as a form of resistance. In a recent interview for the Tarab podcast, she describes the song as a “hymn”. Beginning with a hazy synth pulse and drum machine, she sings, her voice certain and urgent, before the song becomes something of a dance track. She repeats, “I will send a message with the Northern wind,” before giving way to Cedric Le Roux’s buzuq-like electric guitar. It’s arguably a perfect example of how the region’s musical traditions lend themselves so naturally to sonic updates.
The temptation to examine Hamdan’s art as a sonic space where lyrical poetry meets the political feels clichéd. To be a groundbreaking artist, often regarded as the beginning of any sort of “indie scene” in Beirut, is to take on a certain weight. I Remember’s opening track, “Hon” (or “Here” in English) references a “collapse”, “a corpse in my bedroom”, and “a small country with a big wound”. It’s likely to be a direct reference to the 2020 blast, but also an indirect reference to the numerous other historic and current instances of instability.
On “Shadia”, she coos of surrendering to sleep as the cruelty of the world outside becomes too much to bear. This track also serves as the most straightforward pop moment on the album, floating on a billowy synth line, with a groove somewhere near reggae, and vocal flutters reminiscent of Angel Olsen. It’s as if the pop sensibilities are a necessary counterbalance to tragedies that are otherwise difficult to bear.
Without knowledge of either the video or an understanding of Arabic, you’d be forgiven for hearing the album’s title track as nothing more than a tune to light up a club. It begins with an insistent stutter, before keys, guitars, handclaps, strings, and Hamdan’s voice move it into heavier territory. However, with lyrics acknowledging the normalization of despair, murder, manipulation, and intimidation, and a music video depicting a Super Mario brothers-style game, including a goofy version of Hamdam navigating a juxtaposition of destroyed buildings, tanks, armed soldiers, beach parties, children on scooters, barbed wire, and sunsets, there ceases to be any secret to what she’s addressing.
I Remember I Forget can sometimes seem schizophrenic, as solemn dirge poetry erupts into dance (“Vows”); yet elsewhere, the blend of centuries-old Lebanese musical influences with synthpop trimmings feels as natural as a worn pair of boots (“Mor”). While understanding the complex, frustrating politics that form the album’s core is helpful, most of her global audience will likely be drawn to the music and the sound of her voice, which is substantial enough in and of itself to fill theaters, demand attention, and leave listeners entranced.