"rock band" "Cairo" "cigarettes"
I’m 13 years old, scouring the depths of the internet looking for music none of my friends have heard before. I had just bought my first pair of skinny jeans, taught myself to soft-code Xanga layouts, and this was my first foray into indie music. I come across a music blog that features a list of new underground rock bands. I am taken by the thought of discovering something "underground." One band stands out to me. Their page is sepia-toned and they have only a handful of tracks and a short bio. They are four guys from Cairo. I visit this page all the time (there is no way to download their music) to listen to these songs over and over again in my room. I especially love the one called "Cigarettes." It’s 2006 in Ann Arbor and they are my favorite band for the rest of the year. I then start high school, carry music around on my iPod nano, spend hours on YouTube watching videos of Def Poetry Jam, and this band, with no way to possess it, slowly trickles out of my memory.
Ten years later, I’m living in Brooklyn with three roommates and a degree in literature. I'm reminded one day that I used to listen obsessively to this band. I can conjure what they sounded like, what their website looked like, but I can’t remember what they were called. I only knew they were a rock band from Cairo with a track called "Cigarettes." I start there. I Google various combinations of those search terms. Nothing turns up, and I let it go. Another half year goes by and I'm struck again by an urge to look for them. Since then, every half year or whenever the mood would strike, I went on an online pilgrimage looking for this elusive band I used to love as a young teen. Sometimes it was a mindless scroll out of habit, other times a focused search that always came up empty. This band became my white whale.
One day in October, the year is 2024, I receive distressing news from someone close to me. I am frightened and inexplicably furious and ridden with guilt at the same time. That night, I go for a long walk around my neighborhood in Seoul, talking on the phone with a friend and then with my parents, who say to me: There is a reason you're supposed to put on your own oxygen mask first. At home, trying to comfort myself, I fall into a familiar digital routine, searching "Egypt" "rock band" "2006" "cigarettes" on my phone. A few taps in, something happens: I have a new lead.
I come across a different group that was active in Cairo around the same time. I search them on Spotify. I use the "song radio" feature on one of their songs to generate a playlist, then jump off another song to create a new one. On the next try, at the very bottom of an algorithm-generated list, I see it: Free Your Mind by Digla.
It was cinematic, like a scene in slow motion, locking eyes with someone across a crowded room. An intense feeling of relief washes over me. I play the song. The repeating lyrics make me cry: “life’s too short / you’ve got no time / reconcile / and free your mind.” I had found my band.
Now that I know what they're called, I finally find more information about Digla. They aren't active anymore and haven't made music in a long time, and I'm only able to find the name of one band member. I take a chance and DM who I think might be the drummer on Instagram. It felt like an extra sign that I had picked up learning drums that spring. "Hey!" I write. "Were you in a band called Digla back in the day?" He writes back the next day: "Hi! Yes that is correct! :)"
I start from the beginning. Omar, who was indeed the drummer, thanks me for sharing my story (“Your story made my day and is inspiring for me to keep making music so thank you!”). He shares it with the rest of the band and sends me a screenshot of their reactions. It turns out that I came across their page in 2006 right after they recorded their album and uploaded it to the internet, three years before it was officially released on iTunes.
In a decade of looking for Digla, I traded countries, grew my hair long, performed my own poetry, knew love. Finding them feels like spotting my bag on the turning carousel, like coming home from a long journey, everything exactly where I left it.
