In 2011, the lead singer of the rock band, Cairokee, navigated through Egypt’s Tahrir Square and sang one of the most iconic songs of the Uprising: “Sut al-Hurriyya” [“The Sound of Freedom”]. Amir Eid navigated the Square’s congested streets as demonstrators mouthed the lyrics of his hopeful song and held handwritten posters up high. It was a moment ripe with promise and dreams. Five years later, after what many have deemed a failed revolution, scholars points to the State’s authoritative crackdown on outspoken artists, bloggers, and activists, as well as the pervasive pressures for many to self-censor. As a guest on Abo Hafiza’s prominent Internet comedy, Amir Eid sang a new interpretation of his song. This time, he sat on a couch in his sweatpants while a camera paned anomalous images of empty Cairo streets. As he sighed and sank into his seat, demonstrators in his living room held up handwritten posters. With stoic and almost comedic seriousness, each protester sang into the camera: “The Revolution did not happen in my country.” In this paper, I investigate the hidden transcripts of Cairokee’s reconfigured songs. Initially an anthem for the Egyptian uprising, this new song is a stinging critique of Egypt’s centralized State media and its selective memory of the Uprising. Drawing on James Scott’s notion of hidden transcripts (1990) and the complicit role of media in Jean Baudrillard’s The Gulf War Did Not Happen (1991), I investigate the Band’s political shift. And, following ethnographic research and interviews between January and July of 2011 and in the cyber realm thereafter, I ask: How does Cairokee continue to embed their political critiques in their self-censored rock songs? And, in their use of rouse, humor, even overt disenchantment, how do their songs operate as new forms of musical activism?