When Redouane Aouameur is asked what “Algerian metal” looks like in 2025, he reaches for character: “Raw passion, resilience, perseverance, old school spirit, and a community built in the shadows that refuses to fade.”
Aouameur has lived that sentence. Active since the 1990s, he is best known today as the frontman of Lelahell, a death metal band formed in 2010 in Algiers, the country’s capital, and the city where his story began. His journey was also documented in Highway to Lelahell, a 52 minute film that traces his career alongside the wider story of metal in Algeria, directed by Samir Abchiche and Fouad Bestandji.
The black tape, the glass shattering scream, and the first spark
Redouane grew up in Algiers, and as he tells AFRICA.ROCKS, he remembers himself as the kind of kid who needed something stronger than the usual answers: “I was a curious, stubborn kid, always searching for intensity, art, and a sense of belonging. I was also a rebel and anti conformist, never afraid to challenge rules or think differently.” Metal found him early, through objects you could hold, rewind, and wear out: “The first two records that deeply influenced me as a kid were my brother’s Motörhead tape No Sleep ’til Hammersmith, which I used to call ‘the black tape’, and Scorpions’ Blackout on vinyl, mainly for that final scream where the singer smashes a glass.”
Later came the first record he bought: “As a teenager, one of the first albums I bought with my own money was AC/DC’s The Razors Edge,” he says. “From there, my taste kept evolving, from Iron Maiden to Metallica to Slayer and beyond. Each band pulled me deeper into the intensity of metal.”
In 1990s Algeria, there was no algorithm to do the work for you, and no scene handed to you on a plate. You built it by hand, he says, “through tape trading, small circles of friends, word of mouth, and the rare imported records we could hunt down.” And at home, the reaction was the one many metalheads will recognise: “They didn’t fully understand it, but they saw it mattered to me. Concern mixed with curiosity, like most families back then.”
The Black Decade, the curfew, and the night everything got shut down
The 1990s in Algeria were not a backdrop. The civil war that ran from 1992 to 2002 is widely remembered as the “Black Decade”, a time when violence and fear seeped into ordinary life. For Aouameur, metal stopped being a taste and became a way to speak back to what was happening around him. “A form of expression, to protest against what was happening,” he says. And when asked whether it was escape, resistance, or both, he does not hesitate: “Both. Escape for the soul, resistance in the heart.”
“The gendarmes came up on stage with dogs to stop the concert, because they thought things were about to get out of control.”
Then he shares one moment that says it all: the tension in the room, the misunderstanding, and how quickly a gig could turn into a problem: “I remember our last concert with Neanderthalia (one of Algeria’s earliest metal bands, formed in Algiers in 1993) in 1996, during the curfew. We played at a tourist complex in Sidi Fredj, and we were being watched by gendarmes (Algeria’s paramilitary police force). When we started playing and the crowd began to slam and mosh, the gendarmes didn’t understand what it meant. They came up on stage with dogs to stop the concert, because they thought things were about to get out of control, and that everything would erupt. And just like that, they shut it all down.”
Roots, discipline, chaos, purpose
Redouane knew it was becoming a real scene when it stopped being just his circle and started coming back at him from the outside. Suddenly there were more bands, and people he had never met already knew who they were. Ask him about “pioneer” status and he does not posture. He maps the work, project by project, like a craftsman explaining what each phase taught him: “Neanderthalia taught me roots. Litham taught me discipline. Carnavage taught me that chaos can be art. Lelahell taught me purpose.”
That “purpose” is not vague. He can define Lelahell in one line: “A story of Algerian identity told through brutal, melodic metal,” and he is equally clear about what is not negotiable: “Authenticity, drive, and musical precision.”
At the centre of Lelahell’s concept is Abderrahmane, a figure that carries personal and symbolic weight. “He is my bloodline, past and future. A symbol chosen to carry a story bigger than myself,” he tells AFRICA.ROCKS. The name belongs to both his father and his son, so the concept becomes about memory and inheritance, not just his own story: “It transforms the concept into a circle of life, memory, and inheritance rather than just personal expression.”
The hard parts now, and the work it takes to be heard
Redouane Aouameur does not pretend the struggle ended when the 90s did. The obstacles today are simply more structural and more chronic, as he explains: “Access to infrastructure, limited venues, funding challenges, and constantly fighting stereotypes.” And when it comes to reaching listeners outside Algeria, he describes it as labour, not luck: “Relentless networking, self releasing music, building an online presence, collaborations, and proving our sound could stand on a global stage.”
“We are more connected with Europe than Africa.”
The bigger African picture is complicated too. He starts with what feels true, then corrects it with what is real: “Shared struggle, shared rhythm, shared fire. But honestly, we are not very connected with bands from Africa. I had some connections with bands from Tunisia and Morocco, but no real connection with bands from other countries. We are more connected with Europe than Africa. The underground spirit is still similar, but the practical connections are mostly overseas.”
Legacy, gratitude, and a message to the next kid in Algiers
With Highway to Lelahell already framing his path as part of Algeria’s metal history, Aouameur measures legacy in the only way that really counts in scenes like this: endurance. “Being with the firsts, not simply being first, but lasting. Inspiring others and proving Algerian metal is real history, not a footnote.” He is specific about who deserves credit, because scenes do not survive on lone heroes. “First, my family, for their support and patience. Then the fans, the early bands, the tape traders, the promoters, my bandmates, and everyone who kept the flame alive when things were at their hardest.”
“The scene belongs to those who stay true.”
And to the sixteen year old metal kid in Algiers, the advice is blunt, practical, and earned: “Metal is a craft, not a phase. Have your own message, create your concept through your identity, sharpen your mind, your voice, and your skills. Create your own path and write Algeria’s next chapter. The scene belongs to those who stay true.”
