Hatim H-Kayne on Building Moroccan Rap and Managing the Next Generation
An exclusive conversation with Hatim of H-Kayne on the group’s 1996 beginnings, the cassette-era grind, L’Boulevard’s breakthrough, the impact of “Issawa Style”, and how Morap became a name for a sound Morocco can claim.
If Moroccan rap has a recognizable pulse, H-Kayne helped set its rhythm. Formed in Meknes in 1996 by friends who beatboxed and some of them b-boyed before they ever stepped into professional studios, H-Kayne bridged street slang and festival stages, cassette culture and international distribution, French flows and Darija punchlines, local instruments and global hip-hop form.
In this conversation, Hatim of H-kayne traces that arc: from a one-day, all-or-nothing cassette session in 1999 to the group’s L’Boulevard victory in 2003, the platinum-label leap, and “Issawa Style,” which he flatly calls “the soundtrack of Moroccan rap.”
Along the way, he unpacks the evolution of Morap, why “baldi” (too rustic) was once a stigma, and how diaspora distance sometimes amplifies pride in local sounds. He also opens up about his parallel career in artist relations and management and why he’s betting on a new phenom, Najm. For listeners who know the hooks and for researchers mapping the lineage of Moroccan hip-hop, this is both an oral history and a field guide to a sound that’s now being named: Morap.
History: H-Kayne’s ‘Issawa Style’ is the oldest known Moroccan rap music video on YouTube, uploaded on February 27, 2006.
Friends Before Fame: Beatbox, Breakdance, and the Dogs Cassette
Long before the group, there was the friendship. These friends were Adel Benchekroun (Sif Lssane), Hatim Bensalha (HB2), Azzessine Bouhout (Ter 7or), Othman Benhami, and DJ Khalid. “H-Kayne, we were friends before we were a rap group,” Hatim says, a detail that matters when you’re stitching an identity in a culture that didn’t yet have a clear playbook for rap. Their first practices were more body and breath than studio takes: beatboxing sessions, b-boy circles, the raw muscle memory that later shaped stagecraft and cadence.
By 1999, they decided to press their first project to cassette as Dogs; a title as rough-edged as the recording process. “We called it ’15–3 MKS’… it was a decent album: 8 singles, 4 face A, 4 face B, recorded in one day,” Hatim recalls, highlighting the immense pressure of the analog era. “The struggle was real because if you miss your turn, we have to do the song from the start again. We were built different; we had the lungs, the rage, and passion to do this and think it’s just normal.” That early discipline shows up in their breath control and live stamina on stage up till this day.
Rebranding as H-Kayne and Winning L’Boulevard
By 2003, the crew reintroduced themselves under a name that sounded like the streets they were from. “We changed our name to H-Kayne in 2003,” Hatim recalls, pulling the identity straight from a Sif Lssane verse “[hash kayne/ach kayne],” a Darija double entendre that can read as “what’s up?” and, with a grin, “there’s hash.” Their first studio album, 1 Son 2 Bled’Art, carried the sound that would become their calling card: buoyant on the surface, coded underneath.
They submitted it to Casablanca’s L’Boulevard des Jeunes Musiciens, won first prize, and watched doors swing open. The victory didn’t just validate their craft; it helped legitimize rap in a cultural landscape where the genre was still fighting for oxygen. Their first music video, simply titled “H-Kayne,” doubled as a statement of arrival, a pivot from the underground Dogs era to a professional identity that Moroccan audiences, and labels, could rally behind.
Global recognition came fast once the gates opened. The group toured France, hitting major festivals like Garorock and performing in Toulouse in April 2007. In Hatim’s telling, they were “the first Moroccans to rap in Darija” on those big European stages, a milestone for a language often sidelined in formal contexts yet electric in rap’s mouthfeel.
Watch this feature-length documentary that chronicles the creation of Morocco’s first-ever hip-hop festival, from its initial concept to its final execution on stage. The film delves into the lives of artists navigating the complexities of culture and ambition, including: DJ Key, a self-taught turntable prodigy torn between his love for hip-hop and his devotion to Islam; H-Kayne, a pioneering rap group on the cusp of mainstream success; and the musical journey of iconic names like Don Bigg and Fnaire. Documentary Credits: Creators: Joshua Asen & Jennifer Needleman; Production Company: IZM Productions; Release Date: 2008 (United States); Country of Origin: United States / Morocco
Rap as Local Code: Subliminals, Darija, and Meknes Street Lore
H-Kayne’s bars are built to bounce in public and bruise in private. “On the surface, it sounds bouncy and simple,” Hatim says, “but below the surface, we criticize, diss, and preserve local idioms.” The crew’s Meknes roots are more than a hometown shout; they’re an archive of alleyway expressions, rhythms of speech, and cultural references.
In an era when rap wasn’t widely accepted, they were strategic about replay value; hooks and cadences that could live in taxis and weddings, while threading in critique and wordplay that could only come from Darija’s elastic slang. That blend positioned them to make an argument that would define their career: hip-hop’s form is global, but its soul is local.
Album HK-1426: “Issawa Style” and a Sound Morocco Could Claim
Recorded in Casablanca in a single month, their second studio album, HK 1426, pushed them further into a sound that would carry beyond Morocco’s borders, with distribution via FNAC in France. The last track recorded, “Issawa Style,” produced by Dj Khalid, became the lead single, and a thesis. They opened it with “Konna Mgharba” (“We are Moroccans”) for reasons both practical and symbolic.
Hatim explains that some listeners were confused: “Some thought we were Algerian, others thought I was French because I rapped mostly in French,” and some accused the crew of imitating American rap. “We had to prove and show the people that we are MOROCCANS,” he says, capitalization audible. The solution wasn’t a flag-waving cliché but a production decision: bring the Issawa ghaita, a piercing double-reed horn native to their city’s spiritual brotherhood, into hip-hop form without tipping into “baldi,” a term critics used to mean “too rustic” or “folkloric.”
Watch H-Kayne – Jil Jdid (Officiel Music Video HD)
Moroccan Rap: Avoiding the “Baldi” Trap and the Producer Gap
For years, Moroccan rappers faced a false binary: embrace local timbres and risk losing “street credit,” or chase Western mimicry and abandon your roots. That dilemma was compounded by a production deficit. “From the start, we knew that Moroccans need to improve their producing skills and incorporating local sounds,” Hatim says.
The crew partnered with DJ Van, “an iconic producer who deserves more respect” on three Morap-leaning tracks: “Tfe Dow” (2014), “Ana Kanbghik Ana” (2015), and “Naker L’Hssan” (2016). The work emphasized arrangement choices that foregrounded Moroccan rhythmic cells without turning the mix into a pastiche. The message: you don’t have to make Morap every release to be a truly Moroccan rapper; just don’t sever the cord to your cultural instrumentarium. The balance was delicate: innovate with heritage, stay modern in arrangement, and still bang in a club.
The Anthem Argument: Is “Issawa Style” Morocco’s Defining Rap Hit?
Hatim doesn’t hedge: “No bragging but realistically, ‘Issawa Style’ aka ‘Konna Mgharba’ is the Moroccan rap hit, the soundtrack of Moroccan rap. If anyone disagrees, name a more known rap track that kids and grandpas know.” Whether you agree or put other contenders forward, the track’s ubiquity is hard to dispute.
It’s functionally a civic anthem that snuck in through rap’s back door, embedding Issawa textures into mainstream memory. That resonance is why, after the song dropped, “international sound engineers” called the group asking, “What is this sound? What did you use in this beat?” It was familiar enough to groove, foreign enough to intrigue.
Tamghrabeat, Ta9lidi Rap, and the Case for Morap
Naming a movement can crystallize an ecosystem. In their era, H-Kayne jokingly called the approach Tamghrabeat, a play on ‘tamghrabit’ (Moroccan-ness) plus beat. Fnaire leaned into “Ta9lidi Rap” (traditional rap). Today, Hatim likes the economy of Morap and credits the push for the genre’s distinct identity, noting that the modern term is “short and dope” and perfectly encapsulates the movement, saying “for a long time, the movement needed a good name and a clear vision, and it seems like now it’s going well.”
The term has since been used to describe a subgenre of hip-hop that centers Moroccan instruments (bendir, ghaita, loutar, gimbri, rebab, qraqeb, tbilat), vocal ornaments (mawwāl, tamawayt, tzaghrit/tizrrarin), and a language mix led by Darija and Amazigh, with French, Spanish, and English as needed.
Hatim sees a bright future for the genre, highlighting artists who are successfully bridging the gap between tradition and modernity. He praises artists like Shaw, whom he describes as a “good example of a modern, creative rapper” for his ability to rap and sing on local rhythms with a youthful energy.
He also points to Youss45’s track “Kbi Atay” as a pivotal moment, a sign that Moroccan rappers were beginning to fully embrace their own sound. The message is clear: being a true Moroccan rapper doesn’t mean you have to make “Morap songs your whole career,” but it does mean you shouldn’t “turn a blind eye to your culture and music.” To skeptics who say “this is not real rap,” Hatim shrugs: “American rappers sample their local sounds, we sample ours. Nothing crazy or abnormal.”
Watch Hatim – A la marocaine Feat Sif Lssane H-Kayne & Ridfabuleux (Official HD)
Misconceptions and the Post-World Cup Shift
Another misconception Hatim points to is thematic: early attempts at “Moroccan rap” sometimes overcorrected into touristic slogans: “I love my country,” “Sahra dyalna” (“The Sahara is ours”), “Atay zwin” (“Tea is nice”). In his view, Morap should use Moroccan sounds to tell actual stories, not just inventory national symbols.
The 2022 FIFA World Cup, he notes, was a cultural hinge: “After the World Cup, Moroccans became more proud of their roots,” which helps explain a surge of Morap pride and experimentation. Interestingly, he observes that diaspora artists often embrace local motifs more readily than homegrown rappers. Distance sharpens the silhouette: when you’re away, a ghaita note or a zarbiya (carpet) pattern can feel like home.
Invited by Zamdane to France’s ‘Planète Rap,’ accompanied by his manager Hatim, Najm shared an exclusive glimpse of ‘Bout U’ from his then-upcoming EP ‘U.’ The video of the performance was released on May 28, 2025.
Mc and Manager: Building the NAJM Brand
Hatim’s vantage point is wider than most MCs. With formal training in marketing and years in artist relations at Hit Radio, he’s navigated both sides of the studio glass. “At Hit Radio, my duty was artist relations, you know, managing and connecting,” he says, a crucible where he learned to “work with different artists from different mindsets and styles.”
Those soft skills, listening, translating, triaging, became the foundation for his current role managing the rising artist Najm. He’s pragmatic about the division of credit: “I help Najm with saving time,” Hatim explains that he helps Najm with the logistical side of his career, freeing him up to focus on his craft. “But to keep it real, it’s Najm who is talented. I could do the same work with another artist and it might not work,” he adds.
He calls management a kind of applied psychology. “As a manager, you have to be a psychologist, you need to analyze, study and have compassion.” The partnership is collaborative: “We discuss and communicate about everything,” he says, adding that he doesn’t impose seniority. “Just because I have 25+ years of experience doesn’t mean all my ideas are better, sometimes his are.”
Hatim notes, “Najm is a complete artist… skilled, intelligent, mature, and of great character even though he hasn’t turned 20 yet.” He designs, tweaks sounds, thinks promo, “we work hand in hand to serve the brand NAJM.” Down the line, Hatim envisions an agency to support multiple acts; for now, he’s “exclusively working with Najm.”
Conclusion: What H-Kayne Proved, and What Comes Next
H-Kayne’s story is not just a discography; it’s an argument proven at scale. They showed you can smuggle Meknes alley wisdom into festival choruses, that Darija can headline in Paris, that a ghaita can ride a boom-bap without apology, and that identity can be produced, not just proclaimed. Hatim’s pride in “Issawa Style” as a national rap anthem is less a boast than a thesis: Moroccan rap earns universality when it sounds like home.
Today, as Morap gains a name and a growing canon, the next generation, artists like Shaw and Najm, inherit a blueprint that never mistakes trend for root. The invitation isn’t to freeze tradition, but to use it, sample it, bend it, modernize it until it becomes yours again. Or as Hatim puts it, “hip hop doesn’t belong to America anymore, it’s the world’s to reinvent.” In Morocco, that reinvention has a horn, a cadence, and a name.
