A Beirut Record Store Owner On Life During Wartime
A conversation with Diran Mardirian, owner of Beirut’s Chico Records and one of the best sources for Arabic music on the internet
Chico Records is nestled inconspicuously in Beirut’s bustling Hamra district, set back from the busiest part of the neighborhood but close enough to be discovered by coincidence. Its sign speaks of its rich history, proudly announcing that it has been running since 1964. I first walked in one day in September 2022, after traveling from my home in Casablanca, Morocco for a conference and falling in love with Beirut, often sacrificing sleep to wander alone until the sun rose. Hamra’s streets are lined with great old trees, and its cafes open one by one in the morning as the sun pierces the leaves to land on the old gray concrete.
Diran Mardirian curates his shop with pride and joy, stocking gems from Tom Waits and Steely Dan alongside his extensive collection of music from the Arab world. He’s a born collector: He curated and sold movies for over a decade—records for even longer—and he buys up books for his personal shelves like a madman. We had a conversation about old music that lasted as long as my visit to his shop.
Beirut was in bad shape at the time, still suffering from the aftermath of the 2020 port explosion, when an ill-kept store of ammonium nitrate detonated, killing 218 people and destroying the area. Today the capital is in an even worse state, as Israel’s bombing has wiped out entire neighborhoods. But Diran still shows up every day to sell records. I spoke with him recently about what it’s like to run Chico Records during wartime.
How are things, Diran?
It was a loud, brutal night but we’re hanging in there. You know, my late father established Chico Records in October 1964, and this month was supposed to be our 60th anniversary. I had plans to commemorate the occasion but now October’s almost over. It started last October in Gaza and it’s all been downhill ever since, but this is not the first time that the shop has had to operate during challenging times, so “been there, done that” as they say.
Before we get into it all, why don’t we talk a little bit about the shop’s beginnings?
My father had to leave school at 15. His father got sick so he had to work odd jobs at barbers and grocery stores and stuff like that—until he stumbled upon a shop in Ras Beirut, here in the area right next to the American University. It was a record store by this guy named Munir Salibi, and my father got a job there taking care of the shop and at the same time DJing at parties in the area. It was, and still is, very cosmopolitan, with three major universities and a bunch of other schools in a very tight geographical location. He worked there for three years, and in October 1964, he got some money so he could rent a shop and start selling his own records. He was part of a small circle of friends who were all big music fans, so it took off. Beirut was living in its golden era. Pretty soon, my father became a tastemaker.
Fast forward to the ’70s, and Ziad Rahbani, son of the iconic Lebanese singer Fairuz, came to the shop because it was recommended to him as a place where he could broaden his musical horizons. He wanted to get into soul, Brazilian music, jazz, and samba. He was intrigued by that sound, so my dad used to make him mixtapes. They ended up starting a label together, ZIDA, and through it, they released Abu Ali, arguably the finest piece of oriental jazz ever.
We move into the ’80s. My father and Ziad had a falling out, and then the Israeli invasion came in ’82. The shop was closed for a couple of months, and since that was the heyday of home videos, my dad did a complete change of career and turned the place into a video shop. That’s when I came into the picture and started helping out.
How did you get into the business initially?
I used to work there after school. I’d go home and have lunch—my paternal grandmother used to make my brother and I these delicious Armenian dishes while my mom was at work—then I would do my homework and go down to the shop and help my dad. I finished school and went to university, had a brief sojourn of two years in Germany while the war was winding down, and when it ended I came back and finished my degree in business administration. I took over the shop full-time, built a DVD collection in the late ’90s, replacing the VHS tapes, and ended up with a collection of 15,000 DVDs curated by me. At the same time, I was getting into DJing since I still had a collection of several hundred records that I had kept through the dark ’80s. I DJed a little with CDs, then with a laptop. Come 2010, the DVD business started to recede due to the rise of internet streaming, and I was looking for something more palpable and gratifying to do.
So, I started going around Beirut looking for records, but the selection was extremely limited. I began importing records from Germany. I was buying large personal collections for very cheap. I did some research and found out that some of this stuff is pretty valuable, selling for three or four figures on eBay. What I also discovered is that the vast majority of Arabic records did not have any online representation, so I spent a lot of time documenting my Arabic repertoire and made a name for myself online. I told my wife about my idea to reopen the shop and that if anyone can pull it off, it’s me. And alhamdulillah, it kicked off and I soon became the go-to guy when it came to Lebanese or Middle Eastern records.
That’s one hell of a journey, and the shop is still alive and kicking. I noticed, however, that when you talk about the difficult eras the shop has been through, you focus mostly on the Israeli invasion, but you don’t seem to mention the Lebanese Civil War, which lasted from 1975 to 1990, too much. Was that an easier time to navigate through?
No, it wasn’t easier, but civil wars are very different from international conflicts. The Civil War was our war, OK? It’s an internal strife, a family affair, and it was also a double-edged sword. Sure, it was difficult, but business was still very good. We had a reputation of providing quality home videos.
How do the previous difficult times compare to what is going on right now?
There’s a big difference between renting home videos from a store and going to a record shop and spending a couple hundred dollars on vinyl. Sales have more or less dropped to the ground. It’s difficult now for me, but we’re prepared. This is nothing new for us.
Do you think that customers who come to your shop these days still get the nice serene experience of being in a record store, despite the circumstances?
Oh absolutely. And a sense of normalcy. Sanity too. The war right now is very cynical, very ugly, very brutal, and I think being in the store gives them a sense of normalcy, if only very briefly.
What does your everyday look like right now during the war?
Well, we just started sending the kids back to school yesterday. My wife drops the kids at school then we have coffee on the balcony, watching the smoldering Beirut after a night of bombardment from the safety of my home in the hills above the city. Very unsettling. Then I come to the shop, sit around, give interviews to guys like you, do some record cleaning, archiving, et cetera. Afterwards I have lunch with my mom, who lives not so far away from the shop.
In the evening, my kids and I play some board games after they’re done with their homework. We are very big fans of Settlers of Catan. Then they prepare their stuff for the next day and try to sleep early. Luckily, the sound that reaches where we live sounds more or less like a thunderstorm, so fortunately—or unfortunately, if you will—the kids have integrated that into their psyche. They and their mom slept through last night’s barrage.
I read a lot, I have a big library of almost 2,000 books. I fix myself a drink, usually a whiskey sour, sit on the balcony and watch the whole hell-on-earth scenario.
Do you ever think about moving the shop to a different location?
Never. Roots, man. They’re important. And it’s a very special neighborhood.
I definitely agree. I was staying very close to your shop and it all feels magical.
Yeah, those are the contradictions of our city and country. Right now, I still have the semblance of a normal life. I still run the store, my kids still go to school, and meanwhile there are entire families living in schools. It leaves you with a very sticky feeling of guilt. May God protect the people, that’s all I can say.
