- The signs on the road to El Gouna, Egypt's upmarket Red Sea resort, exhorted us to remember God, but there was little evidence at Sandbox Festival that such pieties had been taken to heart. A relatively new addition to the country's dance music scene, Sandbox mixes Egyptian and European DJs for an intimate long-weekend blowout. Populated by pretty young things, as fluent in English as Arabic, this is a festival organized and attended by those who have been clubbing in Berlin, New York and London, and wanted to bring some of the party home.
One of the Nacelle crew, who as well as Sandbox run Cairo's weekly Funk N Pop night, estimated the pool of potential clubbers in Egypt to be around 5,000. Given that there were 2,500 ravers at El Gouna, they had managed to attract half of their possible audience. It turned out to be a magic number: small enough to recognize many faces by the second day, but large enough to give that authentic festival feeling of wandering around in circles trying to pick out your friends from the crowd.
Although the site was the size of a large paddock, it was well provided for with serviceable food options for the hungry, beanbags for the lazy and dark spots on the waterfront for the frisky. During the day, kite-surfers melted into the air, watched by languid sunbathers on lilos. At night, all extraneous activities were forgotten, as everyone huddled around the single stage, flanked by the best soundsystem I've ever heard in Egypt. Some of the festival's finer details, however, could have done with some tweaking. It would be generous to describe the electronic wristband system, which was used for all food and bar payments, as in beta-testing stage. Even more annoyingly, the bar charged double the prices listed on the menu, which is the point at which incompetence and larceny blur.
But it was easy to put such irritations aside. Each afternoon, Egypt's top DJs brought their best, warming up for the largely German lineup in the evening. It seemed a pity that none of the Egyptian acts were given a later spot, particularly when live performances from Hassan Abou Alam and The Meteors Project were as accomplished as anything that the European acts had to offer.
Thursday's performers got the festival off to a good start. Aly B launched with a lively foray through progressive house that demonstrated why he has such a loyal following in Cairo. Marcus Wolff followed with some relaxed, chirpy house. Dixon, the night's headliner, began his set with a sample of West African religious griots, before neatly moving through tracks with a light industrial tinge. From start to finish, he had the crowd in a fervour.
Friday was funkier. Gab Rhome threw down some fruity, minimal house, preparing the sun-kissed crowd for a second day of revels. Chile's Dinky was absorbed in her art, serving up seamless mixes with touches of humour—Bronski Beat's "Smalltown Boy" went down particularly well with the resolutely metropolitan crowd—which contrasted well with some of the other acts' ham-fisted attempts to add an oriental twist to their sets. European DJs playing the Middle East would do well to learn that it isn't compulsory to sample Sufi zar music, a ram's horn, the call to prayer, or an oud. It was refreshing, then, to find two different acts busting out clarinets. Crosstown Rebels chief Damian Lazarus's barnstorming three-hour set transcended genre and mood. The crowd didn't seem to be dancing so much as participating in a collective exorcism—most people hadn't just failed to remember God, but probably would have been hard-pressed to remember their own names.
Saturday evening brought out the big guns for the final salute. Stavroz offered a pared-down live set, using trumpet, keys, guitar, bass and clarinet to create a glitch-scape for the digital age. By this point, many had been dancing without proper rest for three days. The exuberant dance moves of previous evenings were replaced by a gentle swaying, cooled down by a light sea breeze. Madmotormiquel, always a light touch on the decks, brought the festival to a resounding conclusion, weaving together dreamy house in a way that felt simultaneously peaceful and climactic. But even after all that, appetites weren't sated. As we all wafted out into the balmy evening in search of an afterparty somewhere, you couldn't help but feel sorry for employers in Cairo, who would be receiving even sorrier excuses in a few hours.
Photo credits /
Taimour Othman
Friday was funkier. Gab Rhome threw down some fruity, minimal house, preparing the sun-kissed crowd for a second day of revels. Chile's Dinky was absorbed in her art, serving up seamless mixes with touches of humour—Bronski Beat's "Smalltown Boy" went down particularly well with the resolutely metropolitan crowd—which contrasted well with some of the other acts' ham-fisted attempts to add an oriental twist to their sets. European DJs playing the Middle East would do well to learn that it isn't compulsory to sample Sufi zar music, a ram's horn, the call to prayer, or an oud. It was refreshing, then, to find two different acts busting out clarinets. Crosstown Rebels chief Damian Lazarus's barnstorming three-hour set transcended genre and mood. The crowd didn't seem to be dancing so much as participating in a collective exorcism—most people hadn't just failed to remember God, but probably would have been hard-pressed to remember their own names. Saturday evening brought out the big guns for the final salute. Stavroz offered a pared-down live set, using trumpet, keys, guitar, bass and clarinet to create a glitch-scape for the digital age. By this point, many had been dancing without proper rest for three days. The exuberant dance moves of previous evenings were replaced by a gentle swaying, cooled down by a light sea breeze. Madmotormiquel, always a light touch on the decks, brought the festival to a resounding conclusion, weaving together dreamy house in a way that felt simultaneously peaceful and climactic. But even after all that, appetites weren't sated. As we all wafted out into the balmy evening in search of an afterparty somewhere, you couldn't help but feel sorry for employers in Cairo, who would be receiving even sorrier excuses in a few hours.
Photo credits / Taimour Othman