Sunday April 22, 2007
A bitterly cold night in Tehran. Weeks have passed since the Shia mourning rites of Ashura, but the smog-stained blocks of the city centre are still festooned with triangular black flags commemorating the martyrdom of the Imam Hussein, the prophet Mohammed's grandson. Traffic eight lanes wide grinds past giant murals of martyrs from the Iran-Iraq war and animated billboards advertising mobile phones and MP3 players. As night rolls in, the air is thick with exhaust fumes and flurries of late spring snow.
The suburb of Ekbatan is a maze of concrete and roads circling back on themselves. In the shadows behind the last block of flats, steps lead down to the soundproof bunker where a band called 127 are rehearsing. Under a tattered Jethro Tull poster, they tear through a set of what you might call world punk: clattering drums, Persian folk, ska-inflected trombone and lilting piano. The songs are mostly in English, delivered with a nervy intensity by Sohrab Mohebbi, a wiry 26-year-old. There's nothing overtly political, but the lyrics are suffused with frustration and dark absurdity. One hand jammed in the pocket of his jeans, Mohebbi leans in to the microphone: 'I watch the news, I'm a masochist/ I got to lose to raise my self-esteem/ I got a head, a mix of high ordeals/ A lack of bread, I avoid ideals.'
Not so long ago, this would have been unthinkable. In the wake of Iran's 1979 revolution, pop music was prohibited. The religious zealots who rose to power saw it as a decadent art form. Those who breached the ban risked beatings, arrest or even jail. The restrictions have been eased, but never lifted: concerts are sometimes allowed, but dancing remains illegal. Women can sing in public, but only on backing vocals. And music remains under the strict supervision of a body with the Orwellian title of the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance.
Before a band can release its tunes commercially or even play a live concert, it must apply to the ministry, where music and lyrics are picked over by a series of committees. Because rock is not an approved genre, however, only a handful of guitar bands have ever received authorisation. Halfway through the evening, 127 take a break, and over a cup of sweet black chay, Mohebbi describes the process: 'You spend three years going up and down the stairs at the ministry, but in the end they always say no, because it's 'Western' music.'
Instead, 127 post songs on the internet, and they have played a few gigs abroad - last year, they became the first Iranian band at the South by South West festival in Austin, Texas. But this isn't what the group had in mind when they started playing together. 'We're a band: we should be doing shows. We've got more than 50 songs, and we don't get to play them,' Mohebbi says with a deep sigh. 'We don't exist outside the web. We don't gig, and we don't release records. We're virtual creatures.'
The events of 1979 were as much a cultural revolution as a political uprising - a reassertion of Persian culture after the Shah's efforts to modernise the country forcibly. In the early days of the revolution, poets and singers banned by the ancien regime played massive open-air concerts in Tehran. But as the supporters of Ayatollah Khomeini sought to purge the country of 'Westoxification', many musicians fled to Europe, or to the US where a small but vibrant Persian pop scene grew up in Los Angeles. Others, unable or unwilling to leave, were driven underground. Film composer and jazz pianist Ramin Behna, 37, credits the Tehran police for making him decide to become a professional musician. 'I was a 15-year-old Deep Purple fan, and was arrested on the way to band practice. Before that, I hadn't really taken music seriously, but while they were holding me at the station I realised that what I wanted to do in life was play music.' Behna was lucky: he was released after a few hours. But with no hope of getting permission to play in public, his space-rock band Tatar Two distributed samizdat recordings on cassette and organised clandestine concerts in subterranean car parks. 'In those days it was so dangerous we would play with amps turned down to three - we sounded like background music in a coffee shop,' he recalls.
Pop music started to emerge from the underground during the mid-1990s as Iran began to recover from the trauma of the 1980-88 war with Iraq. Some believe the decision to rehabilitate pop was taken at the highest level of government, with the mullahs permitting homegrown pop in order to counter the influence of exiles, whose music was still widely available on the black market.
'And it worked! People started to listen to music made inside Iran, rather than Los Angeles,' one musician told me. 'The government won face for Iran: they could say that we have freedom of speech, we have music and concerts - and all inside the framework of our Islamic regulations.'
The biggest star of the first generation was Alireza Assar, who one evening invited me for chay at his smart apartment home in central Tehran. A heavy-set man of 37, Assar has piercing, hooded eyes, a thick black beard and hair tied back in a ponytail. Trained as a classical pianist, Assar had planned to leave Iran to become an orchestral conductor until the cultural thaw ushered in by the reformist President Khatami. Now his CDs regularly sell more than a million copies, and he recorded his latest album at Abbey Road accompanied by the London Symphony Orchestra.
On the flat-screen television that dominates the room, Assar shows me a DVD of one his concerts: over an epic slush of strings, he recites the lyrics in a stern, declamatory style. Although he writes most of the music, the words are all taken from Persian poetry. 'This is the main difference between our pop and Western pop - in Iran the lyrics are more important than the music,' he says.
Perhaps more striking for a Westerner is the number of songs with religious themes: Assar's first big hit, 'Angels of Heaven', was an upbeat number in praise of the Shia Imam Ali. ('He is my hero and role model,' says Assar.) But it was a single in 1999 that confirmed his status as a star: 'Homeless People' was the first pop song in post-revolutionary Iran to deal with social issues, and, coinciding with the emergence of the reform movement, the record was heard by many as a veiled attack on the political establishment- an idea that Assar is at pains to deny.
'It wasn't about our government, it was about people who pretend to be religious, and act like they care but don't do anything to help,' he says. 'When the song came out, everybody was in shock about how they let me sing that song. I still don't understand how they let me do it.'
Throughout my stay in Iran, I often hear about the 'red lines' circumscribing artistic expression. Certain subjects - sex, of course - are clearly off-limits, as are any others deemed to offend Islamic sensibilities. But it becomes clear that nobody can ever be sure exactly where the boundaries lie. 'The problem is that there is no written law that tells you what you can write. Sometimes you're sure that something you've written will get permission but it is rejected,' says Ninef Amirkhas, the keyboardist of Arian Band, the first pop group after the revolution to receive official approval.
I find Amirkas and lead singer Ali Pahlavan at a rehearsal studio in north Tehran, where they play me their latest CD, Till Eternity. Musically, the sound is straightforward enough - a polished mix of plastic dance beats and folk flourishes - but, as Pahlavan explains, their lyrics are a shifting code of meaning. 'We can't use direct words. We have to let people think about what we mean,' he says. 'One of our first songs was about a flower looking at the sun. Sometimes dark clouds hide its face and the sun is hidden, but the final verse says, "I am the sunflower you are the sun." It's about a boy and girl, but we couldn't say that,' he explains.
This oblique approach to expression is not simply a reaction to censorship, says record producer Ramin Sadighi, the director of Hermes Records, a label specialising in classical and experimental music. Persian culture, especially poetry, has always deployed indirect language to deal with sensitive subjects, he says. 'Most Persian literature has two levels of meanings; it's a way to avoid crossing the red lines. So if you write about extreme love, you say you are talking about extreme love for God and nobody can take offence.'
Once a band's lyrics have been passed by the censors, they need another permit for each live appearance. Dancing is forbidden, and security guards are on hand to ensure the audience stays seated. 'The fans just sing along and clap a little. Perhaps they move a little in their seats, but they're not allowed to get up,' says Pahlavan. 'Sometimes we have to stop singing and ask the audience to sit down - otherwise we'd have to stop the concert.'
Even the musicians must not give the appearance of dancing, says Amirkhas. 'Sometimes I move too much behind my keyboard, and our manager has to come on stage to tell me to calm down.'
Arian Band were Iran's first group to include both sexes. Even before 1979, the idea of men and women playing alongside each other was considered far too racy. Women are still not allowed to sing solo - conservatives argue that it turns them into 'tools for male satisfaction' - and even in an ensemble they cannot sing loud enough for individual voices to be distinguished. But Arian Band guitarist Sharareh Farnejad, 32, and backing singer Sanaz Kashmari, 24, insist that they are equal members of the band. 'All our opinions count: about the music, about the lyrics. It's a complete democracy,' Farnejad says.
Do they ever wish they could take over lead vocals? 'Of course we would love to, if the conditions were right,' says Kashmari. 'We can sing solo already,' corrects Farnejad. 'But only for an audience of women, and with an all-women band - and in Iran we don't have enough good women musicians to do that yet.'
We head up to the roof to take some pictures. It's the first sunny day for a week, and the terrace offers a clear view across the sprawling city to the snow-capped Alborz mountains. It also affords another perspective on the hardliners' efforts to control pop culture: sprouting from rooftops and balconies are clusters of satellite dishes. Technically, they are all illegal, but the ban is only sporadically enforced, and viewers can tune in to hundreds of foreign channels, including a dozen or so run by exiles in California. Similarly, although the government has banned high-speed internet connections and regularly blocks access to contentious or 'un-Islamic' websites, most net-savvy teenagers know how to negotiate their way around the filters. And while most Western pop music is officially banned, it doesn't take too much effort to find it on the black market.
The place to look is somewhere like Hossein's DVD shop in north Tehran. The shelves are lined with Iranian melodramas and Hollywood blockbusters. All of them are pirate copies - as is the software on sale a few doors down the street - but as Iran is not a signatory to the major international copyright treaties, selling bootleg DVDs is not a crime. What is illegal is the hard-drive under the counter full of MP3 files - for a few pounds, Hossein can rip and burn a dozen albums in just a few minutes. He flips open a ring-binder listing his latest downloads - everything from Akon to Xtina by way of Bryan Ferry and KT Tunstall. 'You can't have much choice in a country where music is illegal - you listen to whatever makes you happy,' he says. 'The most popular are Britney Spears, Jennifer Lopez, Tupac and Pink Floyd.'
The people who keep Hossein in business are the children of the revolution: 70 per cent of the population is under 30, a generation with no recollection of the fall of the Shah, and only the vaguest memory of the dark war years. They are the ones you can see cruising the neon-lit halls of north Tehran's fashionable shopping centres, compulsively checking their mobiles, the boys with pierced lips and gelled hair, the girls with nose-jobs and artfully arranged headscarves.
I first meet Shirin, a 21-year-old English student, at a coffee shop decorated with pictures of Kurt Cobain, Leonard Cohen and Syd Barrett. On her head she wears a black wimple and over her clothes, a long black manteau, the buttoned tunic worn instead of the full-length chador. Two days later, we meet again at her friend Zhila's flat. This time, her hair is loose, she is wearing jeans with a studded belt and she is thrashing away at an electric guitar while Zhila, 22, kicks out the 'Funky Drummer' break on a battered drum kit. It's a bedroom band, like one you could find anywhere from Sheffield to Chicago - but one with little chance of ever playing any gigs.
It is a commonplace for visiting Westerners to contrast the austerity of Iranian public life with the openness and downright normality of private life. Likewise, foreign journalists seem obliged to note with surprise that Iranians in general are charming and humorous - not dour religious maniacs prone to shouting 'Death to America' at the slightest provocation. For the record, it's quite true. Despite the history of troubled relations between Britain and Iran - my visit takes place just weeks before the capture of the 15 Royal Navy personnel -there is no sign of animosity for a visitor from the 'Little Satan'. But after a few days in Tehran it is hard to ignore a growing sense of dissonance between the strict regulations governing the Islamic Republic and the lives that ordinary Iranians actually live.
Which is the real face of Iran, I wonder. 'They both are,' says Zhila. 'There is an outer layer and an inner layer to everybody's life. When I go out I have to conform to the norm, and the norm is that you have to wear the veil, but when I get home or somewhere I feel safe I can be myself.'
Western music may be banned, but from windows of passing cars I've heard a stream of familiar sounds: Anastacia, Evanescence - even Julio Iglesias. 'You can listen to any music and play anything - just not in public,' says Zhila.
For a musician, however, never playing in public, never releasing your music is the worst kind of torment. Homayoon Majdzadeh is the guitarist in a heavy metal band called Kahtmayan. He has recorded six albums. Not one has been released. . 'When you start, you think it will be beautiful for people to hear your music - but then you realise no one will ever hear it,' he says. 'We are living under water here - we feel suffocated.'
Every application for permission to record has been rebuffed on the grounds that metal is American music - an accusation Majdzadeh finds hurtful: he is inspired by the pre-Islamic roots of Persian culture, blending portentous guitar riffing with dervish rhythms and jarring folk melodies. 'I'm an Iranian guy playing Iranian music,' he says.
It's after midnight when I meet Majdzadeh and the band's bass player Ardavan Anzabipour at the recording studio with their new vocalist, Khoda.
Before we enter the studio, Anzabipour warns me: 'Our singer is not a regular guy,' and once inside, it turns that Khoda has refused to meet me - or even to emerge from the room where he is sitting in the dark, meditating in preparation for the take. 'He closes the door, and we wait,' says Anzabipour. 'After some minutes the screaming starts, and we record.'
When Khoda is finally ready, the voice which emerges from the darkened studio is not a scream, but a rich Bowie-like baritone. The lyrics are based on a 10th-century epic poem, recounting the death of prince Siavash. As the tape rolls, the guitarist and bassist sit, hands clasped on the mixing desk, solemnly banging their heads to the galloping guitars.
It's a good take, and the mood in the studio lifts, but by the time I leave, Ardavan has slumped back into despondency. 'You know rock'n'roll is always hard,' he says. 'But in Iran it is slavery.'
It's not just underground rock bands who are finding it hard to get their records out. Mohsen Rajabpour, 35, is the Simon Fuller of Iranian pop, the mastermind behind Arian Band, and a dozen other artists, including Benjamin, the young star whose bearded features loom from billboards all around town, and whose honeyed, effects-laden voice seems to croon from every taxi radio.
Ninef from Arian Band is there to translate when I meet Rajabpour at his company headquarters. He tells me that in the decade after 1995, around 750 albums were released each year. But since the 2005 election of President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, that figure has fallen below 100.
Ahmadinejad ordered state broadcasters to stop playing Western music in favour of traditional melodies. I ask Mohsen if there is any contradiction between pop and the ideals of the Islamic Republic. The question triggers an intense five-minute debate before Rajabpour and Ninef reach what seems to be a carefully worded conclusion. 'In Iran there are different ideas of religion, behaviour and lifestyle, some very strict, some less strict. The government allows them all,' says Ninef. 'In the Middle Ages, Europe had all sorts of problems until it became stable and you had the Renaissance. Right now, Iran is going through exactly the same thing - the crisis of growing up.'
As we finish talking, a young man with sideburns comes into the office. Milad Beyk, 22, has brought his demo CD and he sits nervously as Rajabpour fast-forwards through the disc, scribbling occasional notes on a sheet of paper.
The sound is clearly modelled on Benjamin - all techno beats and vocoder-enhanced vocals and after a few minutes Rajabpour turns off the stereo and tells Beyk to come back in a couple of months. 'It sounds like your songs aren't finished yet, and I'll need to look through your lyrics to see what would be allowed and what won't,' he says.
At the doorway, they shake hands and Rajabpour gives the aspiring star a primer in Iranian pop. 'Don't count on making a living from pop - most musicians need another job to survive,' he says. 'If you want to do this, we can help, but not straightaway. Now is not a good time to be releasing new songs in Iran.'
A few days after I return to the UK I receive an email from Sohrab Mohebbi of 127. Their first EP will be released later this year. In Sweden. Phisteria, a small indie label based near Kristianstad, signed up the band after they were featured on Swedish TV. There is more news: the band are hoping to arrange a tour of Europe this summer - although the drummer and the pianist are due to report for military service. But Mohebbi sounds optimistic. 'We're not asking for much,' he writes. 'If we could just put out a record and maybe go on tour - that would be enough. That would be pretty good for a rock'n'roll band from Iran.'
From Persian lutes to songs celebrating trams
Music has always enjoyed an ambiguous status in Iran. Classical music was closely associated with the poetry - seen as the highest expression of Persian culture - and many classical works were set to the words of the medieval mystic poets such as Rumi and Hafiz. But some Shia clerics argued that music was forbidden by the Koran, and it has been sporadically banned over the centuries. Classical Persian music - usually performed by vocalists accompanied by the reed flute or lute - is based on improvisation within a complex system of scales and conventions. Musicians spend years learning a repertoire of hundreds of musical fragments as a starting point for spontaneous composition.
Western-inspired pop music started to appear in the early twentieth century, with big-band sounds and vocalists inspired by French chanson. Early hits included songs about the extension of the Tehran tramway system, and the advent of chewing gum. Rock'n'roll arrived in the Fifties with the British and American roughnecks working on oilfields near the Iraqi border. Folk singer Farhad Mehrad started his career playing at the Iranian Oil Company Club, but went on to record protest songs for which he was imprisoned by the Shah - and then banned by the Islamic government.
Pop emerged in the 1960s with a repertoire of sentimental love songs drawing on both traditional and western styles. Its biggest star was Googoosh, the 'Queen of Persian Pop', who remains Iran's biggest-selling star despite the post-revolutionary ban on female singers.
Popular music started to reappear in the late 1990s under the relatively liberal Khatami presidency. Unable to release records at home, more and more rappers and rock bands are using the internet to promote their music.
--------------------------My Opinion : I liked this article ... More or less it is true. It's very difficult to get a certificate and publish the music albums in Iran. It really depends on who is giving the permission. It can be so hard sometimes.
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