…I can say that my friends have introduced me to other forms of music

ZirZamin: Will you give us an outline of your artistic career?

Mohsen Namjoo: Before meeting with my musician friend Abdi and establishing the band Maad, I focused on avaz or Iranian classical singing. I can say that my friends have introduced me to other forms of music, for example Abdi was the one to whom I owe my introduction to rock music. I worked on Persian singing on my own. I then entered the college of music of the University of Tehran. I was in the fifth or sixth term when I left university. I had many reasons for not finishing with school, but one of them was the rigid and backward atmosphere that pervaded music in academia. For some with musical ambitions at the age of 22 this was not discouraging. After that, I was active in the music scene for a couple of years, on and off, for example, I made music for several films. Then, I was drafted to the army and that's where I met Abdi.

ZZ: How did that meeting take place?

MN:I met him at a friend's house and we played together. It is not enough to say that we "liked each other," we were instantly intrigued. Without setting an appointment I went to his house several days later and he easily accepted me. It was in these jam sessions that the idea of forming a band emerged, although Abdi had already thought this out and spoken to several musicians. We ultimately called this band "Maad."

ZZ: Did Maad have live performances?

MN: We had a concert in 2002 in the city of Mashhad. It was a success. The next concert was in 2003 in the same city. At the time I was living in Tehran and band members in Mashhad organized the concert. I just showed up in time for it. The second concert was better received than the first and the band showed great depth in its musicianship. But the authorities shut down the concert after the first night.
To me, had the group been allowed to continue with its performances, it would have made a dent, whether economically or in terms of improving the quality of its music. However, its cancellation was a blow to individual band members.

ZZ: How was that?

MN: We came to the conclusion that it was useless to continue with what we were doing, since at the end of the day we could expect the same treatment from the authorities. So, I lost contact with the rest of the members for a while, although Abdi continued working with them before moving to Tehran.

ZZ: Did the band help with your own projects?

MN: Well, when a producer offer to publish one of my albums, called Toranj, I asked the producer to accept Maad as the band behind the songs, and fortunately this happened and two tracks of the album are Maad compositions. In a way, this is the band's first published work.

ZZ: With all these problems, how do you find the will to continue with a career in music?

MN: We have been able to get a foothold. We can record our works without a problem. Maad members are still in contact. Not one but four producers have offered to underwrite and support my future works. But I have no illusions. The Ministry of Culture (Ershad) is the authority that decides what does or doesn't get permission for release, and they tend more to refuse than to grant permissions. We are used to this state of affairs. In fact, we have become more dogged in our ways.

ZZ: You mean that these pressures and limitations do not cause frustrations and despair?

MN: To me, limitations can goad creativity, whether internally, which may result in new discoveries in musical or lyrical compositions, or externally, by studying the social implications of these limitations. Sometimes, these limitations and misunderstandings by the authorities are a source of entertainment and joy, as you realize that your work is different and you get encouraged to continue doing what you were doing.

 ZZ: How do you think the West is seeing these limitations?

MN: I have talked to more than a few foreign reporters. We are very much aware of how foreign reporters are looking at our music. They are playing with us. They treat us as if we were primitive, single-cell beings who play their primitive instruments, although they may be aware of rock music too. This is especially true of their attitude with regard to the Iranian society, which is branded as both Islamist and Terrorist. But I can tell you now that there is absolutely no difference between a music lover who listens to music in Iran and the one sitting in Zurich. This I mean in terms of musical appreciation. We live in an era where channels of communication have undergone radical transformations. We can listen to all kinds of music at any time, anywhere. The impression that the Western journalist has of Iranian musicians is distorted. To them we live in a tyrannical society, and they think this deserves studying and writing about, but to us the situation is much simpler, because we live with music and we are constantly making and listening to music. Western journalists see us as a bunch of Third World losers who are interesting because they play rock music and listen to Pink Floyd. We have nothing to do with this picture.

ZZ: In other word, you feel like people in the West have no advantage over us?

MN:Look, because of developments in telecommunications, the distances between post-industrial and Third World societies have to a large extent diminished, at least with regards to music. In fact, Third World musicians may come up with more creative ideas. It may be true that American musicians have conquered the rock music scene, but I can know that their entire musical edifice is based on a 2/4 rhythm. Ninety-five percent of rock music, from the time of Elvis Presley to that of Radiohead, is based on the 2/4 rhythm. Exceptions are few. The main characteristic of this music is it desire for equilibrium. But to Iranian, Indian, and Arab musicians what's important is disequilibrium. That's why we have quartertones and other rhythms unfamiliar to Western ears. Iranian music is full of diverse rhythms, each one of which could have gone to produce a rock album.

I should also point out that Iran is unique in the world in terms of diversity of music. For example, the music of the province of Khorasan [in northeast Iran] is very different from that of the province of Mazadaran [its neighboring province]. It is enough to listen to these two approaches to music for any ordinary person to realize their differences. The main instrument in Mazandaran, for example, is qomsheh or sorna while the Khorasani mainly plays the dotar. Further south, is the province of Zahedan, with instruments that are radically different. In the Persian Gulf city of Bandar Abbas, rhythms change. One of our great music scholars, under whom I have had the honor to work, Mr. Mohammad-Reza Darvishi, started collecting pictures of all the musical instruments used in the Iranian plateau. Mr Darvishi started this task 15 years ago and so far he has published six volumes on the collection. None of us -- city musicians -- see this as a national wealth and we are ignorant of it. While we are submerged in the middle of this ocean of rhythms and melodies, each of which bear precious pearls, we are not very good swimmers. But I intend to dive for these pearls.

ZZ: I want to return to your artistic past. The first time I heard your voice was in a Maad song called "Vagh Vagh-e Sag" (The Yelping of the Dog). At the time no one paid much attention to this song, but it deeply effected me. What was the story behind this song?

MN: Abdi and I wrote this song together. The lyrics belonged to a late friend of ours, Mostafa. In other words, what you heard was a joint venture. This song compares human’s existence to that of dogs, "We are dutiful like dogs / Treated by passersby as a dog." Now, the Ministry of Culture objected to this song, arguing that the singing is done in the Persian musical modes of Chargah and Daramad, that is, it belonged to our classical repertoire, but that the mention of the name "dog" sullied the tradition. This is the same objection that they had to my [the just released] Toranj. The atmosphere that such lyrics create, according to Ministry people, belongs to rock and pop music and not to dignified classical Iranian music. As such, they seldom issue permission for the release of songs like "Vagh Vagh…" because they feel people may react to it negatively.

ZZ: So, what needs to be done?

MN: The path that we have chosen is what you hear in our music; in other word, we chose to dissociate ourselves from any style of music, refusing to call it Rock or Traditional. I personally don't consider my music "traditional." The way I see it, there is a road called Western Music. As a small band called Maad, in a relatively unimportant country like Iran, if we try to step on this road, we are very much behind. I don't see the necessity to see ourselves as musicians who are in-step with western music, simply because there are enough bands on this road to create a big traffic jam. We are at the beginning of this road and others are miles ahead. But what we can do is to pave our own road and branch off the main road. We just do what we know best. Now, it is possible that some signposts on our road point to a similar direction as western music, or it is possible that western music may use some elements of our music. But our road has a different name altogether and we are not the ones to label it something or other. This is the job of critics, as they have come up with labels such as Alternative or Fusion or World Music.

ZZ: What is the label that you are comfortable with?

MN: Abdi and I have discussed this extensively and we have reached the conclusion that it is not the place of musicians to label their music, but that of the critic. Our job is to give body to our emotions, and the truth is that when you compose music, you don't think that you are creating a work for all the times. You just need to give it body. Now, it may sit well with listeners or critics and it may be called a good work. This is out of our hands.

ZZ: Where does alternative music Iran lead?

MN: Well, we are still paving this road. We are at the beginning of it, and we know that there is no one 25 miles ahead. We are the forerunners, and by that I am not suggesting that I know all the people who are on this road. If there are those with original ideas, then they must be praised. But as far as I know, the next 25 miles remains unpaved. What I am suggesting is that we don't know and can't tell what is in store for the future, because we are still paving this road. The future is connected to the present, it is not a separate book for us to open and see what's inside. Every single word in that book is written in the present but points to a future. We make that future by writing, playing and composing songs, by recording and performing them in public.

We arrive at a proposition that philosophers have also talked about regarding the world we live in today. Wittgenstein has said in this regard that the age of several things are over, one is alchemy and another is obsession with styles and isms. For example, last night I was playing a piece with Abdi, him being on guitar. After we were done, we discussed what style this piece was closest to. Could we call it rock? No. Could it be called pop? Still no. Traditional? Again no. Yet again, it had the characteristics of all three.

ZZ: Finally, this quality that we find in your work, which defies boundaries and styles, has also been called post-modern. You can hear it in the piece "Toranj" more clearly.

MN: "Toranj" is a piece based on the 7/8 rhythm. The lyrics belong to Iranian classical poet Khajoo Kermani. The bass guitar is by Maad member Navid, who has done a very good job -- in fact the whole song was composed for bass guitar. Abdi plays some melodies on his guitar, which has a distortion effect similar to rock music. As its singer, I sometimes shout in a way that reminds the listeners of rock, but at times I break with rock and follow the principles of traditional Iranian music. The rhythm (7/8) is Iranian but in places it is more subdued and hints at pop music.
What I mean is that we hear all these styles in this piece and it is impossible to foreground one as the dominant style. It is simply music.

Another example is "Mard Jaan Be Lab Resideh" (The Man at His Rope's End). The origin of this piece is Kurdish, in other word, this is a modern song based on a melodic suggestion that is at least 300 years old. But when we listen to it, we hear blues.

ZZ: How did you arrive at this fusion?

MN: Before establishing Maad, Abdi and I had an interesting experience while jamming. We never suggested anything to each other, nor would we decide on a particular melody. The only thing we did was that I would attach a small microphone to my setar, which didn't have the range that Abdi's guitar had, and amplified the sound. In effect, my setar would also become electric. We tuned our instruments and would then jam. We wouldn't even look at each other. He would play his instrument and I would mine. At times I would lead and Abdi would follow or visa versa. In these jamming sessions, something took place that brought us great joy. It was interesting that after hours of playing our distinct instruments, Abdi would play the Khorasani (a regional style) on his guitar and I would play blues on my setar. This experience made us realize that there was essentially no set path or boundary. Musical instruments are but tools.

ZZ: What can you conclude from this?

MN: There is a unified field of music -- a melodic kernel could be called "Gusheh-ye Sarmak Shur" in Iran and "blues" or "pentatonic" in the US. The two are identical twins. This idea was wondrous, because my instrument has nothing to do with Abdi's guitar. The pentatonic scale didn't know of the Shur mode in Persian music. But the two are similar. This similarity amazed us.

ZZ: Are you suggesting that the roots of our music and that of the West are the same?

MN: Our music is multifaceted and so is that of the West. For example, let's take Mohammad-Reza Shajarian, who is one of the masters of city music of Iran, and compare him to Chris de Burgh. There is a great distance separating the two, whether in terms of style or national culture. But the distance between a regional musician like Hajj Gorban Soleimani, who plays music in the village of Ali Abad near the city of Quchan, and the Mississippian John Lee Hooker is not that much. In other words, the music of village people, who may not even be literate, has an authenticity that can be compared to the heart-felt music of the West, not only in terms of general feelings but also musically. Even their scales are similar. The same thing cannot be said about the art of Shajarian compared to that of de Burgh. Again, what binds our music to that of the West are to be found in these more primitive registers, because blues also belongs to a tradition that is closer to people's hearts. John Lee Hooker released his first album at the age of forty. He was not considered a successful musician and lived in poverty. His sufferings are very much reflected in how the parched hands of Hajj Gorban play dotar in the village of Aliabad. There are many like him in Iran, but they are scattered all over the country.