For a short while the show becomes a gig, which might otherwise feel like a halt to the action with a less capable artist at the helm. The musical section of the work is actually quite compelling. It’s also brilliantly executed, with Khalil Prince’s skills on the guitar matching Turnbull’s musical abilities. They’d make a great band. The smokey riffs and Levantine melodies are bewitching, you get cast into a sort of trance, entering into the sonic world of their making. I couldn’t help but notice the delicious irony in seeing Khalil Prince pluck his guitar while tapping at a loop pedal, keffiyeh beside him—this is quite possibly Ed Sheeran’s worst nightmare.

Khalil Prince rises again and approaches the floor with purpose. The dancing is now more visceral. Torsion of the limbs and more complex footwork. The style is still undoubtedly rooted in Lebanese folk movement but there’s a sort of moshing defiance: Dabke jumps to the floor that grow in risk, loud stamps and whoops from Khalil Prince, hands whipping and slapping the space around him as he playfully sways his hips. The reactivity and joy even in extremis is profoundly impactful. Dance and music as a retort to military might. As the music stops and the lights go out he keeps dancing. Long after the world may move on from the headlines from Lebanon, Khalil Prince, and his people, will keep dancing.