What was your driving force pushing you into music?
I felt a deep connection to the arts from a young age. At two, I was sketching Disney scenes, and over the years, I explored painting, sculpting, photography, and theater. But music was always a secret passion. I wrote songs, made demos on GarageBand, and even re-edited pop music videos I watched online. It wasn’t until a visceral urge to create my own music took hold that I finally recorded in a friend’s home studio. Standing in front of a mic for the first time was transformative—it felt like I’d uncovered a part of myself. Coming from a Moroccan immigrant family in Canada, pursuing the arts wasn’t easy, and I fought hard to get to where I am today.
Who are some of the early influences that helped shape your sound?
As a child, I’ve been immersed in Moroccan, Amazigh, and Arabic music, listening to iconic artists like Samira Said, Najat Aatabou, Nass El Ghiwane, Amr Diab, Cheb Mami, Mohammed Rouicha, Rachid Taha, Nancy Ajram, and Haifa Wehbe. Alongside this, I’ve always had a thing for pop music, particularly female pop artists like Shakira, the Pussycat Dolls, Lady Gaga, Kylie Minogue, and later Lana Del Rey, Banks, Doja Cat, and Melanie Martinez.
You have some new music with EL KASS HLOU coming out. Can you tell us the story behind this one?
“EL KASS HLOU” is a tribute to Houcine Slaoui’s song, but also one to my culture. Growing up, I knew Haja El Hamdaouia’s rendition, which portrays the song as an ode to Moroccan tea. Only years later I discovered that in Houcine’s, the “sweet glass” is a metaphor for alcohol—which is haram. This shift in narrative struck me as both unsettling and deeply intriguing. It reflected a form of cultural censorship. Reinterpreting this classic became a way for me to honor the original story Houcine Slaoui wanted to convey, but also on a deeper level reappropriate our own narratives.
