Based in Beirut, the six-piece band moves through distortion, repetition, and melody with a fierce sense of presence. Traditional vocal lines and local song forms meet psych guitars, percussion, and electronic layers without blending into a single strain. Instead, SANAM work through friction — letting contrasting elements lean into each other, collide, or fall apart. Voices cut through the haze, at times resolute, at times lost in echo. Instruments loop and decay, shifting between rhythm and texture, order and collapse.

Their music holds a physical weight. Recorded live, it carries the charge of the room, the air, the moment. It feels built from lived conditions — not polished, but pressured into shape. There’s urgency, but also space. Songs stretch, crack, reassemble. Even in stillness, the sound vibrates.

Live, SANAM push further into this space of tension and release. Their sets don’t unfold so much as erupt — then retreat, then return. What remains is a feeling hard to name: somewhere between mourning and movement, resistance and ritual.