Across a discography that ranges from politically charged works such as Palestine Is Always War and In the Life of a Palestinian Prisoner to the nostalgic reimagining of Arabic popular song found on Orientalism, Bouncyduck has consistently refused to be defined by a single mood or aesthetic. His music moves freely between social commentary, cultural memory, humour and personal reflection. It’s Either Me or My Auntie perhaps brings these different strands together most successfully, transforming a beloved Egyptian comedy into a surprisingly moving and deeply life-affirming electronic album.
Built from fragments of the film starring Mohamed Henedi, the record turns familiar dialogue into hypnotic techno constructions where humour, memory and repetition become inseparable. Film samples recur like half-remembered conversations, simultaneously comic and unsettling, while Bouncyduck’s finely crafted electronic productions move between house-inflected warmth and increasingly immersive techno rhythms. The result is an album that feels deeply personal without becoming confessional, finding meaning in cultural memory rather than grand statements.
Yet beneath its playful surface lie darker undercurrents. Tracks such as “Trauma” carry a palpable sense of anxiety and emotional strain, reflecting the pressures and routines that shaped the album’s creation. The closing “Homeless” is particularly affecting: inspired by the sight of a homeless man searching through rubbish during a winter rainstorm, it channels empathy rather than despair, transforming a moment of social reality into one of the record’s most powerful pieces. Its melodic, Arabic-inflected techno suggests not hopelessness but a heightened awareness of the fragility and value of ordinary life.
Given the geopolitical context one might expect a ponderous album. Instead It’s Either Me or My Auntie refuses to separate humour from seriousness. For Bouncyduck, comedy is not an escape from reality but a means of navigating it. The absurdity of the film mirrors the absurdity of lived experience, while repetition becomes a mechanism for endurance rather than entrapment. Even at its most melancholic, the album remains animated by affection and gratitude.
In the end, this is a record about survival through culture, memory and laughter. Beneath the loops, and dance rhythms lies an artist finding ways to remain open to the world. For all its darker shadows, It’s Either Me or My Auntie ultimately feels warm and generous.
To find out more we reached out to Bouncyduck for an interview conducted over vocal messages on Instagram. But before we get to hear from him directly here’s a mix Bouncyduck has created for Svitlo Radio.
Bouncyduck – The Life Of A Survivor
Hi Osama, thank you for joining us. Your new album It’s Either Me or My Auntie takes a well-known Egyptian comedy and transforms it into something hypnotic, obsessive, and at times unsettling. What first attracted you to this film, and what made you feel it could serve as the foundation for a techno-oriented experimental record?
It’s Either Me or My Auntie has been a part of my life since childhood. I’ve probably watched it sixty times. Every time my grandmother came to visit, I would put on the DVD and watch the film again. It became one of those things that simply stayed with me and became part of who I am.
One day, while I was on a bus heading to work, I thought: why not combine techno—the genre I’ve always wanted to make—with the experimental ideas I was interested in, and blend them with my favourite movie? I used to listen to some Japanese experimental records that incorporated advertisements and fragments of found media into the music. I don’t even know what genre you’d call it, but I loved the approach. So I thought, why not do something similar with this film?
As for whether I felt the film could serve as the foundation for a techno-oriented experimental record—I honestly never thought about it in those terms. I just did it because it felt right.
photo by Bouncyduck
Across the album, snippets of dialogue function almost like recurring thoughts rather than narrative elements. The liner notes describe them as “intrusive thoughts” embedded within repetitive structures. How did you approach sampling and manipulating the film’s audio, and at what point did humour begin to mutate into something darker or more haunting?
I actually made the entire album musically first and only added the dialogue afterwards.
The way I work is that I name every track very deliberately. Every title has a story behind it. The music follows the title, not the other way around. I usually start with a name and then create the music around it.
Once the music was finished, I went through the film and selected lines that fit the story or feeling of each track. I chose dialogue that reinforced the intention behind the music.
As for the darker humour, I think that’s just part of my personality. I’ve always had a dark sense of humour and probably always will. So if the comedy turns into something more unsettling, it wasn’t necessarily intentional. I simply chose the lines that felt right and helped tell the story I wanted each track to convey.
You write that the album was made during a period when everything felt “stretched—mentally, emotionally, politically.” How do tracks such as “Trauma,” “No Means No,” and “Homeless” reflect that state of mind? Were these pieces tied to specific experiences, or are they more abstract emotional landscapes?
At the time I was working in a supermarket while learning Hebrew because I wanted to improve my language skills and eventually get into university.
I had a very strict routine. Every day I had a list of things I needed to accomplish: work, make music, learn how to draw, study the language, and keep improving myself. My life was extremely structured. I hardly went out at all.
Ironically, my mind was actually very clear during that period. I even stopped smoking for nine months because I wanted that sense of clarity and focus while making the album.
Every song on the record was intentional. Even a track like “Homeless” came from a specific experience. It was winter, and I was on a bus heading home from work while it was raining heavily. I saw a homeless man searching through a garbage bin for food. It suddenly hit me that I had a home, food, and basic security, while this man had none of those things.
That moment stayed with me. So no, these tracks aren’t abstract emotional landscapes. They always come from something concrete and meaningful.
photo by Bouncyduck
One of the most interesting ideas in the album is that the Palestinian reality is present without being directly stated. Rather than slogans or explicit references, it emerges through repetition, tension, and a feeling of being trapped in cycles. How conscious was this approach, and do you think music can sometimes communicate political realities more effectively through atmosphere than through direct representation?
You’re right, and I’m glad you noticed that.
I actually dislike stating things directly. I’m also a filmmaker and animator, and one of the first things you’re taught is: don’t tell—show.
I don’t want to give listeners facts or explain everything. I want to create an experience and let them arrive at their own understanding. I have the tools to make people feel something, and for me that’s much more powerful than simply telling them what to think.
When someone explains a situation to you, you might understand it intellectually. But when you experience even a small fragment of that feeling yourself, it stays with you. You don’t forget it.
That’s why I prefer atmosphere, emotion, and suggestion. It’s my way of communicating through music.
Looking across your recent work—from Palestine Is Always War and In the Life of a Palestinian Prisoner to Blue Is the Only Color I See, Hello World Bye World, and now It’s Either Me or My Auntie—there seems to be a shift from overtly documentary and political themes toward more psychological and internal forms of expression. Do you see this latest album as a continuation of those earlier concerns, or does it represent a new chapter in your artistic practice?
Actually, It’s Either Me or My Auntie was made before Blue Is the Only Color I See and Hello World Bye World, although it came after Palestine Is Always War.
So I don’t really think of it as a shift. It’s more a reflection of the state of mind I was in while making the album.
I never approach my work thinking, “Now I’m moving from political themes to psychological themes.” I simply make whatever feels honest at that particular moment.
Every record contains a part of me that people don’t normally get to see. That’s really the only constant. I don’t think in terms of artistic chapters. I just create whatever represents me at that point in time.
Humour plays a surprisingly important role on this record. The source material is comedic, yet the album often feels anxious, claustrophobic, and emotionally charged. In a context where everyday life can be marked by uncertainty and pressure, what role do absurdity, comedy, and laughter play for you personally? Can humour itself become a form of resistance or survival?
Humour plays a huge role in my life. It’s how I communicate difficult truths. I’ve always used comedy as a way of talking about serious things.
Life feels absurd to me. I’ve spent years reading Albert Camus and other absurdist and existentialist writers, and they’ve shaped the way I think. Questions about why we live, how we find meaning, and how we deal with suffering have always been important to me.
Because of that, I often use humour as a vehicle for difficult emotions and uncomfortable realities. If you approach someone directly with heavy subjects, they might listen, but the impact is different. Humour creates another way in. It makes ideas memorable. It allows people to engage with difficult truths without immediately rejecting them.
My music is very personal, and I always try to be honest. I never lie. Sometimes the truth isn’t delivered directly—it comes wrapped in jokes, laughter, or absurdity.
People often think I’m just being funny, but the people who know me best understand that my jokes aren’t really jokes. They’re simply another way of telling the truth.
(Gianmarco Del Re)
