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ik vraag em dan altijd af hoe ze aan het materiaal komen en waar ze oefenen?

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Tot de eerste golfoorlog was Irak heel welvarend.

Als ik het mag geloven was het helemaal niet zo rijk, alleen voor de clique van Saddam ja.

Maar het was inderdaad niet het armste land in het midden oosten, zijn ijgenljk allemaal rijke landen maar de rijkdom is er heel raar verdeeld!

En wij hier maar zeiken over koopkracht LOL!

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Op 23 juni 2003 17:17 schreef enforcer het volgende:
Als ik het mag geloven was het helemaal niet zo rijk, alleen voor de clique van Saddam ja.

Maar het was inderdaad niet het armste land in het midden oosten, zijn ijgenljk allemaal rijke landen maar de rijkdom is er heel raar verdeeld!

En wij hier maar zeiken over koopkracht LOL!

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Tsja, het is maar waar je aan gewend bent hé.

Flikker toch op man

Iraq attacq

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Op 23 juni 2003 9:52 schreef enforcer het volgende:

ik vraag em dan altijd af hoe ze aan het materiaal komen en waar ze oefenen?

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Een 'My First Sony' doet wonderen

Is metal uit Irak nu geen US-metal?

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Op 23 juni 2003 23:13 schreef Mithrandir het volgende:
Is metal uit Irak nu geen US-metal?

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zolang er olie zit wel, ja.

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Op 23 juni 2003 23:32 schreef webblaster wim het volgende:
zolang er olie zit wel, ja.

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HAHAH, misschien ga ik een collectie beginnen met exotische metal!

De raarste landen kopmen metalbands vandaan!

Op zich tof dat het zo wereldwijd is, zelfs in Indionesie is metal populair en de neiuwe SODOM live plaat is in Bangkok opgenomen en een vrij grote club!

Gaaf!

Misschien eens leuk om een lijstje samen te stellen van multi culti metal bandjes?

The Angry Tutsis - dead(th) metaluit Rwanda
Hutu Fury - black metal uit Rwanda
Thieving Bastards - de befaamde hardcore band uit Marokko

en natuurlijk niet te vergeten:

The Elders Of Zion - shock rockers uit Palestina

Bagdeath!

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Op 27 juni 2003 18:45 schreef Chelman het volgende:
Misschien eens leuk om een lijstje samen te stellen van multi culti metal bandjes?

The Angry Tutsis - dead(th) metaluit Rwanda
Hutu Fury - black metal uit Rwanda
Thieving Bastards - de befaamde hardcore band uit Marokko

...

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Ze geven het zelf toe!

The wacko wahabities - saoudi-arabië
The bastard berbers - Tunesië
aborted aboriginal - Arnhemland
ultimate nile - egypte

Rock uit Libanon!

Local rock ‘n roll band is playing all the right ‘Kordz’
Group is making all their own luck in quest for fame

Kleo Mitsis
Special to The Daily Star
For many young musicians, the long road to stardom can seem daunting. Although stories of overnight success are rare ­ a band being discovered by a talent agent at a high school concert or garage jam session ­ their allure is strong.
For rock bands in the Middle East, and Lebanon in particular, the odds are even greater. With the music industry in the Arab world still in the early stages of development, there are fewer scouts, promoters, producers and industry people to find, develop and nurture young talent.
Success, then, is often a matter of persistence as much as skill or luck. And while some regional bands have indeed broken out to find an audience and limited success, for most, the challenges are almost insurmountable.
The five members of Beirut-based The Kordz, however, are too busy making their own luck to worry about the odds. Rather than waiting around to be discovered, they are taking a different approach. With the help of a few good connections and plenty of dedication, they are active rather than passive, and plan to bring their music to the audience ­ recording, promoting and distributing their own CD without the benefit of a multi-million dollar marketing campaign from a major label.
Formed in 1992 by friends Samer Ibrahim, Mazen Siblini and Moe Hamzeh, then students at the American University of Beirut, the band went through a number of early staff changes. The current lineup ­ Hamzeh as lead singer (and unofficial spokesman), Emile Boustany on drums, Ibrahim on bass, Nadim Sioufi on guitar and Siblini on keyboards ­ has been stable for almost six years, and while the band plays mainstream rock, their sound is tough to pin down beyond that.
“I don’t like to label us,” says Hamzeh. One of their recent concerts, for example, included songs by Coldplay, Bon Jovi, Puddle of Mudd, Pink Floyd, The Troggs, Oasis, Bob Marley, Lenny Kravitz, Alanis Morissette and Radiohead ­ as well as several of their own songs.
Like many bands, The Kordz initially struggled for places to play. Debuting at the 1992 SuperStroumpf beer festival, they have since built a long list of gigs.
“We took anything,” says Hamzeh. “We didn’t miss an opportunity to play.”
That included playing at AUB, Tripoli, and Sidon ­ even at a UN compound in the South during the Israeli occupation. They also played for several years at pubs in Jounieh, before landing a four-year regular gig on Saturday nights at what is now known as the Kalinka in Verdun. Another change took them to Nova in Sin al-Fil, where they’ve been rocking the house since November.
But there were problems, too ­ ones common to many bands in Lebanon. Chief among them was how to find space to rehearse. The Kordz are all accomplished musicians, but they still need sessions together, be it to work on a new song, or simply polish their cohesion.
Finding a suitable location is tough, says Hamzeh.
“We practice rarely now,” usually just on Saturday afternoons at Nova, before each performance. Otherwise, they sometimes get together at Boustany’s house outside Beirut, where there are fewer neighbors. As Hamzeh is quick to point out: In Beirut, there’s “not a lot of garages or studios to use.”
There was also the matter of military service. Although Hamzeh, Boustany and Ibrahim are old enough not to have faced the prospect of a losing a year to the Lebanese Army, Sioufi and Siblini weren’t so lucky. While they were away, the others had to accommodate the absent pair, even stopping the band from time to time, or else finding temporary replacements. Sometimes they would play without keyboard or a guitar, or alter the repertoire ­ i.e. more reggae, less rock, or vice versa ­ to accommodate their absence.
The biggest hurdle, though, is simply the lack of a music industry infrastructure in Lebanon. As Hamzeh explains, for English musicians, and rock bands in particular, the level of industry support is near zero. There is almost no system to recognize artists and help them reach their audience.
So, rather than rely on a nonexistent infrastructure to make them famous ­ akin to standing in the desert and screaming for someone to bring water ­ The Kordz have taken the opposite tack: Play everywhere, build a loyal following, get known in Lebanon and then pay to produce their own single.
In this case, it’s a five-track maxi-CD featuring two of the band’s own songs, Last Call and The Garden, as well as various remixes of the former.
Hamzeh, who in addition to working as music division manager at the Virgin Megastore in Beirut is also a producer ­ he has his own label ­ has just returned from Paris, where he mixed and mastered the CD’s final tracks. The plan is for his label, Mass Records, to launch the CD across the Arab world, hopefully by July 15. It’s an ambitious move, made possible in part because of his contacts in the music industry ­ before working at Virgin, Hamzeh worked at Warner Music Licensee-Music Master.
While hopes are high, the band is practical, looking at the new CD as more of a test than anything else. But, if sales are good, it could lead to several possibilities: They could generate enough interest that a major label will sign them, then pay for the new album to be recorded. Failing that, they hope to attract enough attention to get partial funding and produce the full album themselves.
Asked why he’d rather do it independently, Hamzeh says it boils down to convenience: timing, scheduling, picking the musicians you want, and artistic control.
However, playing rock music also carries its own special set of problems, particularly in Lebanon, where the specter of devil worship has been linked to heavy metal ­ and where bands such as Nirvana, Guns N’ Roses, and Metallica have been partially or totally banned.
Earlier this year, The Kordz received an official summons to Beirut’s Office of Anti-Terrorism and Important Crimes. It was “just general questioning,” Hamzeh says of the four-and-a-half hour session. “They wanted to know about our activities, songs we play, fans, places we play.”
For example: “Do you play hard rock, like Metallica?”
“No.” A smile, shake of the head, and Hamzeh rolls his eyes. “Pop rock.”
“Do your fans worship the devil?” Another no.
In the end, the band was forced to sign a statement declaring: “We do not now, nor have we, nor will we ever play for the devil ­ even if someone asks us to.”
So what does the future hold? No one knows, but the band is under no illusions about what it takes to make it big ­ hard work, hard work and more hard work.
Nonetheless, Hamzeh, whose goal is also to grow and develop a local rock culture, has a few suggestions that could make life easier for other bands. Here in the Arab world, he says, things are not yet mature, there isn’t a real rock “scene.” The infrastructure is still too small, too underdeveloped to really be called an “industry.” More bands are needed, as well as more bars to accommodate them. The industry also needs legislation: laws, lawyers and managers.
He points out that, unlike the United States and Europe, for example, there are few experienced people here, be it promoters, producers, managers, sound engineers, A&R people (artists and repertoire) or scouts. There are also fewer financial experts, or people to handle things like royalties and copyrights.
That’s why new bands in the US have an easier time breaking out, despite the greater numbers and competition.
“You need a rock ‘n roll culture, and the United States is all about rock ‘n roll. It’s equivalent to that,” says Hamzeh.
Growing a rock culture here starts early, he adds, “in schools.” Rock ‘n roll reflects a rebellion, a need to change culture, lifestyle, ideas. “This music is a good way to express these things. People can identify with it.”
Hamzeh sees his band playing a small part, and he’s optimistic about the future, both in Lebanon and the Arab world.
“Hopefully, we’ll be a catalyst for all this, this reaction.”
Ultimately, it’s all about change, he says.
“We need change, that’s what I believe in. It’s good, always. And,” he stresses again, “I see a future.”

Nog zo'n mooi verhaal, blijkbaar toch nog wat metal fans daar!

Cooperative Iraqis fear they are targets


By Ellen Barry, Globe Staff and Rebecca Bou Chebel, Globe Correspondent, 7/6/2003

AGHDAD - The warnings were there, in plain view, painted on walls near the A'adhamiya police station. Whispered threats were nothing new, either, but no one expected this: On Wednesday night, a 27-year-old Iraqi interpreter for American soldiers stepped out of the station for his dinner break and headed for the Al Tazaj restaurant. He ate a cheeseburger, and after leaving, he was shot to death.



Three days later, the Iraqi policeman investigating the death of Omid Lua'i said he was certain the shooting had nothing to do with the young man's job.

But Lua'i's friends and family say he had received a series of threats because he worked for Americans. Word of the shooting has spread quickly among the young Iraqis who lined up by the thousands after the fall of Baghdad for the opportunity to translate for US troops, usually for $10 per day.

The thrill of the new jobs has given way to anxiety, said translators interviewed across the capital.

Many say they have received indirect warnings and have begun to keep their jobs a secret from all but their immediate family, some traveling long distances to work in neighborhoods where no one knows them.

Others are hoping to get work translating for humanitarian organizations or journalists, who draw less anger from militants opposed to the occupation.

''I warned him, you speak good English. You don't have to work with Americans in uniform,'' said Waleed Rabia'a, 19. ''He was a friend. That means half of my friends are in danger.''

With the bombing of an Iraqi police graduation ceremony in Ramadi yesterday, which killed seven Iraqis, opposition groups made a grim pronouncement that death threats now extend to ordinary Iraqis who cooperate with Americans.

In Baghdad, two attacks last month targeted high-ranking, Iraqi electric-utility officials working with coalition authorities. But the threats against translators appear to be a focused attempt to intimidate a broad and critical pro-American group: the young, energetic Iraqis who have the most contact with the troops patrolling Baghdad.

Some translators said that despite increasing fear, their loyalty keeps them at the job.

The morning she heard about the killing in A'adhamiya, 29-year-old Maysa Khalil showed up for work at a civil-affairs office determined to quit, as her parents urged her to do. But one conversation with the station's American commanding officer, whom she has grown to like and respect, shook her resolve.

''When I saw his reaction - really, I don't leave these persons,'' said Khalil, a tiny woman with round, metal-framed glasses. ''When we like somebody, we forget so many things. We like them.''

For Lua'i, a student of fine arts whose consuming passion was heavy metal music, working for Americans was one of the proudest acts of his life, his parents said. His bedroom is a shrine to the music he loved: Plastered from corner to corner are posters for Megadeth, Motorhead, Slayer, and Vixen. In magic marker on the door to his room is penned, in spiky lettering, ''OZZFEST.'' A photograph of one of the American soldiers he befriended is carefully secured in a drawer.

Downstairs, in a room full of relatives, two men howled in each other's arms. Lua'i's father, a 62-year-old Kurdish lawyer, had heavy pouches below his eyes, as if gravity was pulling at him with special force.

''I will do my own investigation'' to find the killer, said Lua'i Abdel Hamid, ''and I will ask him a question: `Why did you kill him? If you want to send a warning, shoot him in his leg, or arm, or his tummy. '''

His son had stepped out from his job Wednesday night and headed to the restaurant several blocks away. He was a recognizable young man, wearing his hair in a long black ponytail in the style of his heavy-metal heroes. Shortly after leaving the restaurant, an assailant approached him, spoke to him, and then killed him with one shot between the eyes, said Captain Juma Khalaf, the Iraqi police officer investigating the crime.

Khalaf said he believes Lua'i was killed by a man who had quarreled with him at the Academy of Fine Arts, and he ruled out the possibility that Lua'i was targeted because of his job. But others working at the station disagreed.

In the stifling heat of midday, warrant officer Ali Hashim Khalaf, 30, and Lieutenant Ahmed Mohammed, 26, sat in the sparse shade of a eucalyptus tree and said there was little doubt in their minds.

''He didn't have enemies,'' Mohammed said. ''It's just that everyone's trying to kill anyone working with the Americans. They write it on the walls: Shame on the Iraqi Police who work with the Americans.''

Major Scott Slayten, a spokesman for the Army's First Armored Division, said it is too early to assume the attack targeted Lua'i because he worked as a translator. In previous attacks on translators in Iraq and the Balkans, the simple answer - that they had been targeted for working with Americans - often ended up giving way to more complex and personal motivation, he said.

Still, the United States plans a separate investigation of the murder, said Sergeant Patrick Compton, a US military spokesman.

Lua'i's father, like other friends and family, said Lua'i had received threats from other Iraqis since beginning his work as a translator.

Earlier in the summer, he acted as a go-between for soldiers who wanted to carry out a search in the Abu Hanifa mosque in Baghdad. During angry negotiations, a man threatened his life so seriously that Lua'i was temporarily transferred to the more protected terrain of Coalition Provisional Authority headquarters, his mother said.

A fellow student at the Academy of Fine Arts, Arkan Abdul Al Salaam, said last week a man from a ''religious group'' confronted Lua'i on campus, berating him for working with Americans.

A police officer, First Lieutenant Fathiel Ali, recalled hearing about the argument, in which a conservative member of the Hawza, a powerful Shia organization, chastised him for ''behaving like an American.''

Lua'i Abdel Hamid said he was shocked that there was no follow-up from the American troops his son looked up to.

''My son has no enemies, because he is not a politician. It must have to do with his job,'' he said. ''[The Americans] are responsible. This is not suitable for a great nation like the United States.''

Several of Lua'i's friends said they had already quit their jobs translating for US soldiers since hearing about his murder. Nassir Jameel, a 44-year-old engineer, gave himself two days to decide whether to stay on at the police station after Lua'i's death.

''We are working here only to translate the language from Arabic into English and English to Arabic. What collaboration is it?'' asked Jameel, who makes $5 a day.

The next day he announced his decision: If they raised it to $10, he would risk staying.

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