Words by: Amina and Noor
3D designs: by Hescham
This feature is part of the “Frenquencies” issue
History is written by the victors, and not just in wars, but in culture as well. Electronic music’s vibrant underground scene, built by intersectional communities of POC, women, and LGBTQ+ people, has been steadily sanitized by whitewashed, heteronormative communities for mainstream appeal. While the historical roots of electronic underground scenes are not our focus here, it’s important to acknowledge the ongoing expropriation and reproduction within these spaces, particularly in Egypt’s underground scenes. They were built on the backs of marginalized communities, and emerged organically as a way to form collectives in order to nurture safety and community.
This article serves as a think piece, examining the issue of appropriation and replication within Cairo’s electronic underground music scene. A scene which markets itself to the artistic, alternative, usually queer, youth; but is mostly run by cis-het men who gain cultural and social ‘clout’ for their proximity and supposed progressiveness. How much does their marked liberalism serve an ulterior motive? And who, here, gains the most? Who is the victor?
For this piece, we assess the relationship between two interconnected yet distinct communities: Egypt’s queer circles and Cairo’s underground electronic music scene. We gathered insights from a range of individuals within these spaces—DJs, event organizers, and party-goers—to understand how identity and culture intersect in these vibrant subcultures. Our survey featured 23 questions designed to elicit both quantitative data and qualitative reflections, offering a more nuanced and personal look into the dynamics at play.
Seventeen individuals responded, a diverse mix of people who actively shape and experience the underground scene. 65% of respondents did not identify as part of the queer community, 30% did, and 5% remained unsure. This spectrum of identities highlights the fluid nature of these spaces, where music and community transcend labels.
Our perspective in this piece is shaped by our own deep connection to the scene. As party-goers who are both professionally and socially embedded in this space, we bring a unique vantage point to the conversation. Our involvement allows us to approach this topic with an understanding that goes beyond observation, offering insights grounded in lived experience. Through this lens, we explore how these subcultures coexist, influence each other, and create an evolving sense of belonging in Cairo’s underground world.
Here, we focus on spaces often run by cis-het men of a certain socio-economic class who do not fully consider the needs and desires of the LGBTQ+ and other marginalized communities they serve. This majority seems interested in left-field progressiveness of sound, but tends to disregard their responsibility toward both their audience and the nature of the sound: the queerness.
Experimental sound and intentional (il)legitimacy:
Why is experimental sound queer?
Sound is, according to Ashon Crawley, ‘all about relation’. Queer sound, is therefore music that is relational ‘against normative order and form’. While ambiguous, this definition suggests that queer sound emerges from unusual modes of production, alternative spaces, illegitimate collectivism, and intersectional marginalized communities. These are all cornerstones of the underground electronic music scene in Cairo, where several music collectives and party organizers both aesthetically and socially engage with queerness in a way that is seemingly safe and inviting.
Many of the spaces considered in this article are intentionally “illegitimate,” not for the sake of queer people who frequent them or their safety, but for monetary and legal reasons: the subcultures encompassed in this type of nightlife are neither socially nor constitutionally acceptable in most of the Arabic-speaking region. The “unacceptable” ranges from aesthetics (clothes, makeup, tattoos, body jewelry) to the substances associated with this kind of nightlife.
These spaces walk a tightrope between openness and exclusivity. They’re accessible to their following (think: lower entry fees), but exclusive in their promotion via word-of-mouth, artist connections, and a natural drawing of specific demographics (LGBTQ+, specific age groups, or economic backgrounds). In other words, these are glorified house parties, without the security of someone’s home to host. Pricing is not necessarily a conscious “class-engaged” choice, but a commercial one to set these parties apart from their mainstream counterparts both in the ticket-price and in the venues, bar service, sound system, decor, etc. And, they may not consider ways to care for people in these parties; there’s an unspoken “every-man-for-himself” understanding – if you choose to participate in the “illegitimacy” of these events, you must protect yourself.
Disconnections, gatekeeping & exclusivity
In Cairo, there is a major disconnect between the music and the queer community in the underground electronic scene, in part because of the power dynamic between DJs and the audience.
From conversations with artists as well as what appears to be the general sentiment of the ‘crowd’, some artists see themselves as entitled to experiment and play what they choose, regardless of whether it’s accessible or up for criticism from the audience. We surveyed party-goers about their feelings towards the music, and while many of them enjoy the experimentation, they feel the music is often too dark, too repetitive, too disconnected from them. The average response was that they are satisfied by the music about half of the time. When asked When these parties don’t meet your expectations, what is usually lacking?, one respondent stated,“ Music usually makes or breaks the party and people’s behavior: if it starts to feel like a frat party, I get uncomfortable.” The music, and not being connected to or engaged with the artistic movement sounded at these parties, causes this larger disconnect.
This power dynamic is also evidenced in how DJ collectives form. While it’s great for friends to experiment together, there’s a problem when they detach from the broader audience that extends beyond their inner circle. This dynamic and resulting insularity – perpetuated by some cis-het DJs – leads to a scene where music is produced to impress other DJs on the roster, alienating many of the attendees. This is furthered by the idea that catering to the audience is simply “selling out.”
This is particularly ironic when the same people state that a crucial role of these parties is to provide unofficial, non-commercial havens for queer and alternative expression in Cairo.
This insularity becomes characteristic with the gatekeeping mentality around these events. It manifests not only in the music, but also in the broader social interactions with “the scene.” Venues often feel uninviting to those who are not in the inner circle; while it’s understandable that DJs and musicians might form tight-knit groups, attendees can find themselves at the periphery, particularly if they are queer and/or marginalized in other ways. This dynamic breeds a sense of exclusion that undermines the potential for these spaces to be genuine havens for queer community; instead, they are echo chambers for the privileged few.
Moreover, these dominant collectives rarely support parallel or alternative spaces that could offer more inclusive environments. Rather than fostering a diverse ecosystem of queer electronic music scenes, they maintain a monopoly on the culture. This lack of support stifles the emergence of other spaces that might better serve the broader community’s needs. The absence of solidarity among different groups within the scene further exacerbates the exclusivity problem, limiting options for those seeking refuge and expression.
This lack of solidarity signals another disconnect, one of unchecked problematic attitudes and behaviors. The organizers and collectives in question appear to lack genuine connections with queer individuals – they simply do not have queer friends. While they engage with queer culture on their own terms, they often neglect to include it authentically in their lives. Whether consciously or unconsciously, there seems to be discomfort surrounding queerness; they appreciate its presence but keep it at arm’s length, likely out of fear of backlash from the more homophobic members of their community.
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Where is the true allyship in this scenario? Who do they really respect? These harmful, or at least not harmless, systems created by these so-called progressives offer little in the way of real support, presenting a façade of liberalism that appropriates queer culture for their own gain. Instead of fostering genuine inclusion, they provide subpar experiences – poor sound systems, fairy lights, and the chance to get alcohol poisoning – all for the low price of 500-1000 EGP. This approach raises serious questions about the sincerity of their engagement with the queer community. We wonder, what would any of them do if their child was queer? We wonder if they’d let them go to these parties.
Much of the literature about queer electronic music spaces argues for the importance of these spaces and communities for the wellbeing of the self and the collective. They express queer joy, queer collectivism and queer freedom. These (usually) warehouses and underground scenes create a sense of freedom for local queer communities, freedom of self-expression, and community building. What we have witnessed in Cairo over the past months is a turn away from the radical self-expression at these parties: attendees have been turned away at the door for dressing ‘too queer’, and some organizers have even explicitly expressed this on invitations for their parties for ‘safety reasons’. To see the femme gender queers dressed in t-shirts and baseball caps, for instance, is the sign of an unsafe space. Regardless of the organizers, why are the venues being chosen explicitly demanding its community to hide?
Beyond the musical disconnect, the issue of substance abuse casts a further shadow on these parties. Many in the survey mention their discomfort with the levels of substance use at these parties, especially by young people. In place of ecstatic connections, community, and queer joy aided by substances, there is a sense of queer lostness — a potential coping mechanism for navigating a limited social scene and the pressures of navigating their identities.
While these spaces sometimes offer a rare outlet for connection, the lack of diverse musical experiences and the lack of overall safety might contribute to risky behavior. There seems to be an air of harassment that hangs over these spaces, where nothing explicit happens, but there are groups of cis-het men who make people uncomfortable. There have been cases of people, usually young women, getting drugged and party organizers ignoring the complaints. A more inclusive and welcoming environment, with a wider range of musical options, could foster a safer and more positive space for queer joy.
The divergence in purpose between these collectives and the audience is stark. While queer electronic music spaces should ideally provide safety, joy, and community for queer individuals, the current dynamics serve the egos and ambitions of the DJs. The original intent of creating a safe, celebratory space for the queer community gets overshadowed by the desire for artistic experimentation and insular validation. This misalignment of priorities results in spaces that no longer serve their intended purpose of fostering queer collectivism and freedom.
It’s not enough to say, if you don’t like it, don’t go. Unlike typical club scenes where you can simply avoid music you dislike, Cairo’s LGBTQ+ community has limited options. These parties are often vital safe spaces for connection and expression. However, the scarcity of options creates a monotonous soundscape that alienates most attendees.
Representation and community support
Representation is critical in these spaces. The community must be appreciated and supported, not exploited for temporary gains. For many cis-het male DJs, the queer scene might be a stepping stone or a convenient niche, but for queer individuals, it is often one of the few places where they can express themselves freely. When these spaces become unwelcoming due to gatekeeping and exclusivity, they fail the very community they purport to support. This behavior not only harms the local scene but also diminishes the reputation and potential of Cairo’s underground queer spaces internationally.
Interestingly, the power to invite or exclude extends beyond the organizers to the audience itself. When audiences feel alienated, they hold the power to revoke their participation. This self-exclusion can serve as a form of protest against the problematic behaviors of DJs and organizers. However, due to the illegitimate and often clandestine nature of these parties, mobilizing the community to enact such change is challenging. The scattered and underground nature of the scene makes it difficult to collectively call out and address these behaviors effectively.
Finally, the economic motives behind these events cannot be ignored. Despite the exclusionary practices, the ultimate goal for many organizers is financial gain. Unless there is a significant drop in attendance – a move that would require substantial coordination and collective action – these DJs and collectives have little incentive to reassess their positions. The community’s resilience lies in its ability to recognize and respond to these dynamics, even within the constraints of illegitimacy and underground status.
Alternatively, do these spaces face the familiar trajectory of being pushed from the margins into the mainstream, subsequently forfeiting their reputation as safe and accepting havens? The issue with the organizers not being engaged with the community is that when the opportunity comes to grow these parties and push them to the mainstream, it makes them less hospitable for queers, which is only acceptable because they know that there will not be a pushback. One respondent answered regarding unsafety in these spaces “Again, cis-het men, or the possibility of a police ‘control’ or the local population seeing visibly queer people going in and deciding on attacking,” which reiterated the dichotomy of the danger. There is a risk both within and outside, and party-goers as well as organizers always have to take these risks, however the question still holds, which one of them holds the bigger risk?
These collectives over the past few years have shown both an insular and intertwined nature, where we see them direct their music, progression, and development towards each other rather than towards their audience. An even weirder phenomenon is that the more the collective’s sound is left-field and experimental, the less queer the spaces and their members are.
Intersectionality of safety and resistance
The safety of these queer and intersectional spaces extends beyond queerness. When world-renowned Palestinian artists Shabjdeed and Al Nather were “canceled” by the Egyptian Musicians’ Syndicate after their concert with Egyptian rapper Marwan Pablo, they were consequently banned from all mainstream “legal” spaces for any other performances. Interestingly, the only venues left for them to perform were these illegitimate underground spaces in Cairo, highlighting the pull towards the “outcast” nature of these spaces. This environment is inherently queer in the literal sense, as it exists outside the norms of mainstream culture. These underground venues, unknown to Egyptian institutions and already carrying a high risk factor, naturally became the refuge for these artists. Many of their hardcore fans were already part of these spaces, creating an organic acceptance and support.
Shabjdeed and Al Nather are not just artists; they are emblematic voices of Palestinian youth in Historical Palestine living under the Zionist occupation. Their music and lyrics have always aimed to represent the day-to-day life of Palestinian youth that is conditioned by 76 years of occupation, which inherently encompasses and expresses survival, resistance, and also adaptation, and the mundane issues that any young person in the Arab world faces. Their connection to the Egyptian music scene dates back years due to the shared rap scene in the Arab world. Although rap is more mainstream, Al Nather, as a producer and DJ, played left-field experimental sets at these parties, showcasing the multilayered aspects of Palestinian identity. The importance of Palestinian liberation is a significant and integral aspect of these underground electronic spaces in Egypt, reinforcing the idea that these venues are not just about music, but about resistance and identity.
A way forward, a way toward
While it is evident that there is a complex nature within these spaces in Cairo, there is work to do beyond criticizing it and how it is organized. We see the potential in these spaces becoming true to their initial and ‘raw’ goal, which is to foster a safe space for people, and especially for marginalized groups. There is a call for organization and community aid. There is a need for volunteer-based organizations that safeguard the marginalized communities that inhabit these spaces. Party guardians could equip themselves with resources like first-aid kits and hydration supplies, while also being trained to identify signs of intoxication or discomfort. They may act as friendly, approachable figures who can intervene in potentially risky situations or simply offer a listening ear to someone feeling overwhelmed. Ultimately, they strive to ensure everyone has a chance to let loose and enjoy themselves, fostering a sense of community and shared responsibility for a positive party experience.
A very successful example is the Good Night Out Campaign, a UK-based NGO that works to create “safer and more accountable music, arts and cultural spaces” through offering trainings and toolkits for organizers to help them better understand, respond to, and prevent not only sexual violence, but other situations of danger that could arise. While we understand that something like this may present issues, and would also need further attunement toward queer spaces in openly homophobic societies, we believe that a community-based organization should be established within these limited spaces, to hold them accountable and create a better environment for all parties at stake. Because, at the end of the day, the survival of these spaces will only ever depend on the survival of their members, and it is time to organize as members of these communities for safer and more inclusive spaces.