One of the most innovative bands in alternative rock right now performs in Arabic, is fully independent, and has a lead singer who teaches English as a Second Language at a high school outside of Richmond, Virginia. That might seem like an unlikely combination for global success. Yet for those who have been following closely, the band Nabeel has been a breath of fresh air into both Arabic-language music and shoegaze with their thoughtful production and honest approach to creating music.
Led by Iraqi American musician Yasir Razak, Nabeel have put out two EPs and a debut album, ghayoom (Arabic for “clouds”), since forming three years ago. And while they have a natural audience among Arabic language speakers and others living in the Middle East and North Africa, it’s the success of the band beyond those confines that have made the band one to watch.
Their sound harkens back to the grunge and shoegaze movements of the Nineties with raw, distorted electric guitar and Razak’s haunting voice weaving through the chord progressions, evoking both Pearl Jam and Duster. The lyrics explore themes of immigration, homeland, masculinity, and family, and the performances are strong enough to connect even if you don’t speak Arabic. (Luckily, Nabeel uploads translations of all of their songs on their Bandcamp page.) They’ve begun to gain a foothold with performances across Europe, and the band was named as part of Spotify’s 2025 Best of Fresh Finds Rock, the streaming platform’s flagship playlist for up-and-coming rock bands — a rare achievement for a band that does not perform in English.
Each release by Nabeel features cover art and music videos that depict Razak’s family, a nod to his lineage and his familial history of forced displacement from Iraq. The band is named after Razak’s father.
“In our culture, your lineage is represented in your name,” the singer explains, speaking from his home in Virginia. “Re-establishing the connection of self to lineage, especially in diaspora communities, just felt super important. A lot of what the project is doing is grasping at that weakness in connection and trying to reconstitute it in some way. And so the name feels fitting in that sense, where it’s the chain link that connects me back to my father, that connects me back to the land, and to all my ancestors.”
That connection remains pivotal for Razak and the spirit of Nabeel. Razak himself was born in Baghdad during the first Gulf War, living at the time with his mother, brother, and sister while his father was already in the United States trying to bring the rest of the family to the country.
After settling in Virginia, Razak grew up under the dark cloud of September 11 and the constant threat of surveillance, racism, and erasure simply for being Arab American. That’s one reason why Razak insists on performing in Arabic, despite it not being his strongest language.
“Language as proof of existence and proof of humanity in some way is really important,” he says. “I think in the face of erasure, it’s important to use your voice in a way that honors where you come from. The preservation of the language, the preservation of culture, even in its mutating forms — which is me as a diaspora person, I’m a variant of this culture in some way. I just think it’s important to represent that, especially for the people who are a part of that group as well.”
There is a synergy, too, between Nabeel and the students Razak teaches. His students are mostly new arrivals to the United States, much like Razak and his family were at one point. Many of them, as is the case with many Arab communities, are rooted in communal living, often piecemealing some semblance of a family with other diaspora communities.
Razak believes that this is the crux of Nabeel. “There’s this loss of a really old way of living which used to require us to lean on each other more, have communities of people that know each other, intergenerational homes,” he says. “It’s a massive loss, and I see that reality kind of sink in for my students really heavily at times.”
Over the two years since the release of their breakout single “lazim alshams” (with more than 1 million Spotify plays), Nabeel have gone on to gain a cult-like following in the global shoegaze and alternative rock community.
“I instantly recognized the music he was making as unprecedented, important, and vital,” says Sama’an Ashrawi, a songwriter and producer (and Rolling Stone contributor) who worked with Nabeel on their song “samaa’ baitha”. “It’s just very rare when you get that feeling from music, especially new music. They have such a bright future as a band, and [Razak] has such a bright future as a songwriter. I think that they are capable of going to heights that we are not even imagining right now.”
The appeal of the band lies in its ability to communicate raw vulnerability in a way that listeners can feel, even if they don’t know the words.
“It makes me feel like it’s not necessarily about the words you’re saying, but more about the feelings that you’re putting into it and the charge that you’re putting into music,” Razak reflects. “And ultimately, too, I like writing catchy music. I like music that feels earworm-y, and I always want to make something that I feel like gives me that rush up my neck when I’m listening to it.”
Nabeel has gained this quick attention all while being fully independent. That’s a core tenet for the band, and for Razak to be able to fully execute his vision — though it does have some challenges, as Razak recalls the stressful DIY nature of releasing their debut album.
“I was in Paris during the release, and I was so anxious because I was about to upload it through DistroKid on my phone in Paris on public wi-fi,” he remembers, chuckling in hindsight. “I was like, ‘This is fucking horrifying.’ … But yeah, once I put all the songs together for the album, it really felt cohesive and it felt like a journey. I’m just so proud of it.”
For Razak, music provides a cathartic look at what it means to understand who you are and hold onto your family and its culture. That’s a mission that nearly anyone, Iraqi or not, can relate to.
“Nothing feels better than sitting down and writing a song that you feel somehow captured something, something real about yourself in it,” he says. “You’re almost in disbelief of the fact that you did it.”
