Bakir - Bastard trance for a new dawn

As an adoptive Genoese, I've always had a soft spot for port cities, branch offices of one single great nation without borders. The first time I went to Marseille, I couldn't help but feel at home, given the undeniable similarities with the Ligurian capital. If there's one band that perfectly captures the spirit of the city, it's BAKIR, with their exhilarating blend of Maghrebi rhythms, electronic pulses and incendiary lyrics. I had a chat with them about their city, their multi-ethnic background and the mission of the Baklawa Music Label, their "migrant music collective."

I'd like to start with your home base, Marseille: the migrant port par excellence, where struggle and cultural mixing can be felt on every street. How much does this context shape your artistic outlook?

Alex: Marseille is more than a city for us: it's a way of experiencing music. Here you constantly feel the flow of people, the stories of departures, exile, survival, but also celebration and solidarity. This energy naturally seeps into our work. On the street, in the cafés, in neighbourhoods like around the port, you hear different languages, different rhythms, different memories. Our music tries to tell this reality without folklore: something alive, contradictory, sometimes harsh, but deeply collective. Marseille has taught us that identity is never pure. It's a city that transforms everything it touches. Musically, this pushes us to mix electronic machines, traditional percussion, distorted guitars or folk songs without any hierarchy. We're not trying to represent an "authentic" tradition, but rather to tell contemporary stories.

Hicham: I was born and raised in Casablanca until I was 26, then I lived five years in Genoa, and since 2017 I've been in Marseille. All these cities, in different ways and with more or less visible impact, are marked by sharp social inequalities. These forms of violence undoubtedly shape how I see the world, and therefore my lyrics. In Marseille, as in many other major French cities, the supposed cultural and ethnic métissage, which is the flip side of racial discrimination, conceals the violence of the colonial past.

Yoco: I came to Marseille from Paris in 2016. I found a cosmopolitan city, marked by cultural mixing, with a way of life completely different from the capital's. During my first months in Marseille, I felt like I was in a foreign country, the culture was so different. It's the only major city in France where the centre has remained working-class. BAKIR is, in a sense, a reflection of this city, a fusion of different horizons and different cultures that gives us music "made in Marseille."

The other frame of reference is Morocco, with the rich gnawa tradition as a creative source and the legendary Nass El Ghiwane elevated to guiding spirits. What's your relationship with this country and its immense musical heritage?

Alex: Morocco is part of our intimate, family and musical history. Gnawa music struck us immediately with its spiritual, hypnotic power. It's trance music, but also music of resistance and memory. As for Nass El Ghiwane, they proved you could speak to the people with immense poetic and political freedom. Their influence goes well beyond Morocco: they opened a path in which popular music becomes a space of collective consciousness. We try to engage in dialogue with this legacy without copying it. This heritage is alive and shouldn't be frozen in time. What interests us is how these musics can still resonate today in urban, electronic and international contexts.

Yoco: I've travelled to Morocco several times, and these trips have transformed how I see life. There I discovered a rich culture, a very generous people, a relationship with money completely different from the Western one. I was captivated by this country.

It's a difficult time for Rabat, marked by Gen Z protests and the long-running dispute over Western Sahara. What's your take on this crisis in a country considered relatively stable?

Alex: We prefer to remain cautious on this topic, since it concerns complex realities we don't claim to fully understand. What can be said is that the social and political tensions many countries are experiencing today often reflect the same aspiration: that of a youth seeking more justice, freedom and prospects. Music doesn't solve these crises, but it can sometimes create spaces for listening and dialogue.

Hicham: My impression is that this isn't a crisis, but a revelation. Let me explain: moments of rebellion in Morocco are quite frequent. From the Bread Riots of 1981 to the 2011 Arab Spring up to Generation Z, the one that's gotten the most media coverage abroad, there have been many other movements: in 2015 the Candle Revolt in Tangier against rising utility bills, between 2016 and 2017 the Hirak movement in the Rif triggered by an event similar to the one that sparked the Tunisian Revolution, in 2018 the popular boycott campaign caused by rising prices on many consumer goods, as well as protests against the demolition of many informal neighbourhoods ahead of the recent Africa Cup of Nations and the upcoming World Cup to be held in Morocco. This Generation Z movement seems to have arrived in an unexpected way: this generation tends to be seen as uninterested in political issues, but the same was said about young people in 2011. The difference now is that the traditional political and social organisations that were still present in the squares in 2011 (unions, parties, associations) have disappeared from these latest protests, whose assemblies were held on the Discord platform.

The fusion of Maghrebi folklore and dance-floor electronica has become something of a codified language by now: think of Ammar 808 in Tunisia or Islam Chipsy in Egypt. Do you think we can talk about a new way of understanding trance music, if not an actual international scene?

Alex: Yes, without a doubt. It feels like there's a whole constellation of artists today reinventing the popular music of the Maghreb and the Middle East using contemporary electronic tools. But what's interesting is that this scene isn't a homogeneous movement: everyone arrives with their own local history, their own instruments, their own spiritual references. The common thread is perhaps this idea of trance as a collective experience. Traditional Maghrebi music has always had this physical, repetitive dimension. Electronics allow you to extend this energy and carry it into other spaces: clubs, festivals, hybrid concerts… We're witnessing the birth of a shared international scene that's still very much in flux, one that rejects overly rigid boundaries.

Yoco: I agree: these musical genres were bound to meet. There's an enormous correlation between them, whether it's the repetitive basslines or those recurring rhythms that carry us into a trance state. Then there's technological evolution, with the arrival of new instruments and recording equipment (synthesisers, drum machines, MPCs, home studios…) accessible to the general public, which allow music to be created and played in a completely different way.

Your sound is marked by an epic quality, in the studio but above all live: a "bastard" epic that pushes back against institutional narratives by giving voice to the margins and the borderlands. And it seems this energy is given back to you by the audience every time you play…

Alex: I really like the word “bastarda” (bastard/mongrel). I have seven nationalities among my eight great-grandparents. That strong word underlines something we're proud of: mixing, impurity, multiple identities. We all come from different paths, and our music reflects that. On stage, we're going for something very physical, almost ceremonial. We want the show to be a moment of collective transcendence, not just a performance to watch. And in fact, that energy often comes back to us from the audience in a really powerful way. You can feel that a lot of people recognise themselves in this idea of being “between several worlds”, between several languages or cultures. The live show then becomes a space where those boundaries dissolve a little.

Hicham: I think being on stage and being able to address an audience is a huge privilege. Starting from that, I think it's our duty to tackle subjects that can draw attention to the margins, to struggles, even impossible ones. Music should be the sounding board of reality, and in a “bastard” way, that's our own small fight. Without forgetting, as Emma Goldman once said, “if I can't dance, it's not my revolution”. That's why we want our audience to think and dance, dance and think!

Yoco: When we created BAKIR, our goal was to get people dancing. We were coming out of several months of lockdowns and curfews because of Covid. We felt people needed to go out, dance, have fun and let out a certain frustration. Dance doesn't lie: if the audience is dancing, it's because they love the music, and that's the best reward we could ask for. We give everything on stage so the audience gives it back to us, and more often than not we do get that response, which gives us even more energy.

In France you had the chance to open for Médine, a figure as fascinating as he is controversial. What was it like coming face to face with someone who's now so central to the national scene?

Alex: Being the opening act for Médine was an unforgettable experience. He's an artist who has always stood behind a strong, sometimes controversial message, but also a genuine artistic and intellectual need. The show went really well, the audience was extremely receptive. We were struck by seeing how committed music can still spark debate today, in a cultural landscape that's often very standardised.

Hicham: Unfortunately, in France it's very easy to end up being seen as controversial, especially if you touch on hot topics with racial undertones. It even happened to us once, being "deprogrammed" from an event for being "too marked". Bienvenu en France, pays de l’égalité!

You're part of the Baklawa Music Label, which describes itself as a “collectif de musiques migrant”: the name already says it all, but tell us a bit more…

Alex: The collective brings together artists from very different backgrounds, united by a single desire: to spread music tied to migration, diasporas and cultural crossings. The term “migrant music” matters a lot to us, because it describes music in motion, crossing borders and constantly transforming. Baklawa is as much an artistic space as a human one, where collaborations arise naturally between DJs, producers and traditional musicians. The association is also committed to outreach work with audiences who don't have access to culture, or who don't feel at ease in spaces dedicated to art. In Marseille's northern districts, outlying and often forgotten, we run music workshops for young people.

Your first EP is called “All’alba” ("At dawn"): an evocative title suggesting hope. Do you believe a rebirth is possible in such a troubled time?

Alex: Dawn is a moment suspended between night and day. We're living through an era marked by a lot of violence, exhaustion and fragmentation, but also by a strong desire to reinvent collective bonds. We're not expecting some miraculous rebirth, that would be naive. But we believe in small lights, in spaces where people keep creating, dancing, sharing despite everything. If our music can contribute to that sense of momentum or hope, even just modestly, then that's already a lot.

Yoco: It's a world on the edge of apocalypse, full of conflicts, wars, marked by inequality, yet we're full of hope for the future. We believe everything can change. That's why we made this album: it's a cry from the heart meant to wake up consciences. As artists, we're lucky enough to be able to get on stage and speak in front of an audience. So it's important for us to spread our message to as many people as possible.

Ride the wave of great music

Add OndaRock to your favorite sources on Google Discover. Don't miss our reviews, milestones and latest news straight in your feed.

Follow on Google