Issue 2: MuVo

Dearest reader,

It was around 2004. I was in fourth or fifth grade. I was sitting on the carpeted floor of my bedroom with a yellow notepad and blue ballpoint pen. I was deeply focused, driven by some urge far beyond anything I could have been conscious of at the time. The pinkish-orange, late-afternoon Dhahran sunlight was creeping in through my dust-lined bedroom windows. On the ground beside the notepad, I had two of my most coveted belongings: a black, cloth CD case, which contained a carefully-organized set of discs collected over the prior years, and a Sony CD walkman which served as my private, portable capsule into the worlds contained within each.

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Linkin Park’s Reanimation; Metallica’s Black Album. These were a couple of albums I most vividly remember being in that binder. They were interwoven between an assortment of homemade Memorex mixtapes with handwritten sharpie titles by my Uncle “DJ Freddy” Farid, who—when he wasn’t selling Persian rugs and handmade, antique furniture at Desert Designs—ran what must’ve been the first Khobar-based bootleg mixtape operation. Respect. I remember how one such mix began with a lush, cinematic AR Rahman arrangement and then seamlessly transitioned into 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop” as though the two songs were long-lost siblings awaiting fateful reunification.

On this yellow notepad, I was engaged in a careful optimization problem. My parents had agreed to buy me my first mp3 player. It was a green 256-megabyte Creative MuVo—effectively a USB stick with an audio jack—and I wanted to be extra extra sure the songs I selected to transfer onto the device were undoubtedly worthy of occupying such precious real estate.

I would load each CD from the binder into the Sony walkman and listen to its tracks, sequentially one by one, and then scribble down the songs I considered indispensable. Upon completing this process, I was equipped with a list that would be used to guide the process of ripping CDs into iTunes and then forwarding the “chosen” songs from iTunes into the little green capsule.

Thus began my journey of collecting songs that spoke to something inside of me. A journey that has continued from that afternoon in 2004 all the way to the present moment—life scars and all.

My experience of discovering music as a kid was a mostly private and solitary affair. I think this may have mostly been driven by certain logistical difficulties one faces when they attempt to experience the work of an artist in the context of a significantly moralistic culture. It was complicated to secure the work of an artist and form a personal connection with it before having already been handed bundles of commentary regarding whether the piece or the artist who made the piece was, effectively, “good” or “evil”.

One of the first artists I remember being introduced to as “a good one” was Yusuf Islam, who I later learned also went by the name Cat Stevens. This was an example of a righteous musician—someone who chose to use their artistic gifts for the greater good of humanity. Another notable artist I remember being introduced to from this category was Will Smith. He was a rapper who didn’t swear—the holy grail for any parents looking to steer their children clear of the satanic influence of Eminem, 50 Cent, and their likes. Will Smith made halal rap.

For better or for worse, in the face of the hundreds of warnings I must already have accrued by the tender age of ten, I seem to have consistently meandered down the dark corridors of the shaiṭān. I liked haram rap. I’m not sure how to explain it. To me, it was just more interesting over there.

One of the first songs these corridors led me to was one I’m sure you’re all familiar with. Each weekend, when my family visited my grandmother in her Khobar apartment, I would become overtaken by excitement when the vinyl-crackled piano intro to “Lose Yourself” would come on and raw, handheld video footage of the Detroit skyline would come into view. I got a taste of something, and I was in desperate search of more.

Thank you for reading. ❤️

Love,
Reef

Out of Place is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.