When I finally meet the sixty-eight-year-old Shajarian, who led the Persian classical music renaissance that began in earnest after the revolution and who was awarded the unesco Mozart Medal in 2006, he speaks frankly about the Iranian government.
I begin by saying that many people in the West may have the skewed idea that Iran’s society is almost talibani in its restrictions rather than a place of music, poetry, and culture, to which he replies, “Actually, if you compared the regime to the Taliban, you wouldn’t be far off. They are only allowing a certain degree of musical expression mainly on national radio and television, to lure listeners and viewers into hearing their own propaganda.”
Shajarian speaks as the son of a religious father opposed to secular music; he began his musical training singing Koranic verses. When he left his hometown in the northeast to study music in Tehran, he says, he felt liberated. He is famous for singing the lyrics not only of traditional poets like Rumi and Hafez, but more contemporary ones like Mehdi Akhavan Sales, who wrote “Scream,” which contains such politically charged lines as “My house is burning , my soul is on fire, I scream from the depths of my soul.”
The past, however, is alive and well in the hearts and minds of Vancouver’s Persian community, where prerevolutionary Iran remains almost fetishized. Even Shajarian, who still maintains an apartment in Vancouver, seems nostalgic when he speaks of the music scene before and after 1979. “You see, even the pop music before, it was played on Persian instruments. Now it’s synthesizers, drum machines, and vapid lyrics.” The outright ban on pop music for its “Western” influence after the revolution, he explains, resulted in a mini-renaissance of the classical tradition.
But, as ever, the loaded double meanings of traditional Persian sung poetry and the music’s sheer power mean that the Iranian authorities keep a close eye on both classical and pop music. Vancouver, with its mild climate and freedom from the watchful eye of the regime, increasingly offers a kind of musical refuge for Iranian artists, as well as a hospitable environment for East-West musical collaboration. While one would expect Shajarian to be a purist, he says of the growing Persian Canadian fusion fostered by Vancouver’s already established world music scene, “It’s important to mix music provided you do it in the right way because it brings people together.”
When Amir Koushkani first arrived in Vancouver in 1990, he never dreamt he would one day be performing with the city’s symphony orchestra. “Vancouver provided me with a great opportunity to nurture my talent,” says the forty-year-old tar player, who in 2004 composed perhaps the first ever concerto for tar and orchestra, for the Vancouver Symphony. “Canada is a multicultural country where there’s an appreciation for other cultures and a willingness to learn about them. In many ways, classical Persian music is less valued in Iran. People just don’t care about it.”
When I ask him about the brief honeymoon with Persian classical music in the immediate aftermath of the revolution, he says, “Revolution can bring people together or create a sense of temporary unity but its fake. There was a renewed sense of nationalism for a while that led to an interest in classical traditions, but it dissipated five or six years after the revolution.”
In Vancouver, Koushkani, who studied under Master Darioush Peerniakhan, found a supportive musical community as well as patronage from local Iranian notables like the Khosrowshahis (of Future Shop fame). It was also where he first studied Western classical music composition, at Simon Fraser University, with Owen Underhill. He is currently doing his masters in music at York University in Toronto, under David Mott.
Koushkani cites the openness of the local musical scene as a key factor in his development as a composer, noting that the VSO approached him about writing a concerto when he was still in university. His concerto for tar and orchestra features one tar, a full orchestra, and a complicated 5/16 rhythm; the challenge, he says, is in “getting the balance right.” He advises, “For anyone who wants to write East-West compositions, you must pay attention to dynamics. When you play an instrument that comes from Iranian culture, it’s not loud like a modern orchestra, which has a huge sound.” The difference in dynamics, he says, reflects a difference between musical cultures.
“In some ways, classical music has always been underground in Iran,” he says. “It was played in small ensembles, with the emphasis on solo musicians and private performance. It’s only been in the past 100 years that there’s been a concert tradition. While we were playing this music for intimate groups, at the same time in Europe people were making grand concertos for large audiences. Persian classical music was mainly court music, played for a wealthy elite.” There were exceptions, like the Nimatullahi Sufi order, which venerated music and sung poetry, says Koushkani. But it wasn’t until the end of the Qajar Dynasty (1794–1925) that cost-cutting measures aimed at appeasing public perception of a spendthrift court made musicians leave the palace walls and begin to seek students outside.
