The road to success is stacked with hurdles. Expected or not, most obstacles will always come unannounced, halting the progress of any artist regardless of their talent or popularity. And only one step separates those who manage to push through it all and find purpose again from those who disappear – ego. Often playing a pivotal role in keeping artists trapped in comfort, or worse delusion, while the world moves on, ego can cloud the mirror, making it impossible to see the truth staring back. Proving to not be immune either to the inevitable slowdown that comes with a rising career, Moroccan singer and songwriter Tawsen was forced to confront a sobering truth: momentum fades, even when you’ve done everything right.
In the early 2020s, the Brussels-based artist was touted as one of Europe’s next big names. For reasons beyond his control though, the noise around him started to quiet. And so did his voice, hard to hear now to those who not long ago praised him loudly. After years of struggle just to get to where he was, Tawsen suddenly found himself back at square one — or at least that’s how it felt. An experience that we can only assume to be daunting, for the 27-year-old, it was through this harsh reset that he saw an opportunity to revive what the industry had nearly buried: hunger.
“I kept a low profile for about two years. Unfortunately, it wasn’t by choice. It wasn’t something I planned. So I had to make up for lost time. I was on a good run, but I got cut off mid-flight,” he told MILLE during an improvised meet-up by the Great Mosque of Casablanca. “And to be completely honest, I think I suffered from it a little, even if I managed to not drown. Still, coming back has been tough. But it’s okay. Because once you’re back, you just think— alright, now it’s all in,” he added, explaining how “L” stands for “Lesson” not “Loss” in his books. Away from the spotlight, he began to rebuild with a new mantra in mind, obsessed to cater, or should we say give back, to those who never stopped listening to him despite the string of ups and downs.
“So it was like, ‘oh, you don’t want me to win? Fine. Watch me do it on my own. Even better than before.’ The idea was, now we’re going to try doing this independently. Everyone kept saying, ‘We’re waiting to see. We’ll wait and see,’ because they felt something had been cut off, and they didn’t believe anymore. You want to wait and see? Cool. Now watch,” he shared in between laughs.
“The first single in Arabic came out [DAWINI] and I was already back on the charts in Morocco. And honestly, that’s the moment when I told myself, ‘Okay, I’m locking in.’ We’re going full Arabic, because it’s something I’d always done in small doses [in my music], and it always worked. But this time, I was face-to-face with a reality. Accept that they’re the ones giving you strength— the ones who are still here. Even after those two years, they stuck around. So now, I’m going to be there for them. I’m done chasing an audience that doesn’t care about me, or a market that never really did or might not after the smallest dip.”
Back to where he believes he deserves and belongs, his return comes at a moment when the lines between local and diaspora artists are being publicly dissected. Why? Because of a sentiment accusing diaspora artists, who once stayed distant from their roots, are now leaning into them because it’s aesthetically in and not out of genuine care or curiosity. Tawsen, who was born in Italy, raised in Belgium, but Moroccan to the core, could’ve easily been caught in that crossfire. But he shrugs it off— not out of defiance, but because according to him, he doesn’t feel concerned.
“The approach isn’t new. It’s always been there, from my very first project, it’s just taking up more space now. The team I was working with before was a bit all over the place, everyone pulling in different directions. I was signed in France, so of course there was this push to break into the French-speaking market. But at the same time, it was the Moroccan audience— and more broadly speaking, the Maghrebi region and diaspora—that was pushing behind me. Too many people were talking, giving input. That’s when I told everyone ‘actually, I’m on my own now. I’m the one calling the shots,’” sarcastically adding that he can’t appropriate a culture he belongs to himself.
“Some people are going to say ‘cultural appropriation,’ But, it’s my culture too,” he reflected. “I understand that some people might start side-eyeing. You’ve got people saying stuff like, ‘Oh, now you’re suddenly repping this culture?’ Like you’re jumping on a trend. I’m not bothered by that kind of talk. It’s not a choice for me to show where I’m from and I’ve also made sure to surround myself with people who know what I might miss,” he continued.
“I’m not a European artist working with other Europeans trying to appeal to North Africans. I’m a North African who grew up in Europe, working here with people from here. It’s such a shame, we could all be building together.”
Pictures courtesy of @tonio__art
At risk of coming across as cocky or arrogant, the only thing in Tawsen’s line of sight is the top. When he speaks about his return, there’s no chip on his shoulder, no need to prove anything. This time, it’s about taking what’s his, and more. To him, the current state of the region’s soundscape is rich but scattered. “We’ve got stars, even superstars,” he says, “but we don’t have an icon. Not in the way other regions do.” Some do come close, he admits, but he wants to be the one who actually gets there.
“Take a Bad Bunny, a Burna Boy, a Rosalia; these are artists who took their sound, their language, and brought it to the world. Their faces are everywhere.” The region, he notes, has produced legends in the past but no one to stake that claim today. He name-checks Dystinct, Manal, Balti, Mohamed Ramadan, and Elyanna amongst a few others that could reach that status in the future. “But right now? There’s no one who’s the face of this side of the world. Not in that same global way. And I say it humbly: We’re not there yet.”
But that’s the mission he’s appointed himself, explaining his goal to “put our identity, our sound, our visuals, our language— our whole culture— on a pedestal, so that even people outside of it can see it, feel it, appreciate it.” “Some artists make music for their country, their circle. Others make music to carry that culture out into the world,” he shared. “I want to carry the flag. I want to be that voice. But that doesn’t mean I’m boxing myself in.”
And it’s not just talk. “I might go to Egypt and say, ‘I love this Mahraganat vibe — let’s do something with it. Let’s throw some raï on top. I’ll sing in Darija, you sing in Egyptian,’” Which is exactly what he was seen doing recently, culminating with the release of a feature with Egyptian crooner Bayou dubbed KAYANI.
As the conversation went deeper, Tawsen’s thoughts began to pour out before letting everything slip. An album is on the way, scheduled for release in the second half of 2025. The first single, Den Den, dropped earlier this month and has already clocked over 2 million views. A second is on the way, with more teasers queued up behind it. With what’s shaping up to be his most defining chapter since his comeback, we asked how he’s feeling about the project and its place in his bigger plan.
“All I really want is for people to understand the message. That’s it. That’s what I’m trying to defend — this aesthetic, this theme, this energy. It’ll hopefully all come out in the music, in the lyrics, in the album. For me, this is more like a new calling card, a new introduction. Everything before? That was play. That was us figuring it out, working with the wrong people sometimes.
“We’ll see what happens. Maybe people are ready for it. Maybe not. I want to put it all out there. The sound, the visuals, the identity and say: this is who I am. I hope it lands,” he concluded.
