Head to Head with Abdi Behravanfar, Khorasan Blues Pioneer…
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Q&A | Head to Head with Abdi Behravanfar, Khorasan Blues Pioneer by FATEMEH SHAMS and ESKANDAR SADEGHI-BOROUJERDI in London 12 Jan 2012 On the importance of always changing, and never backing down. [ interview ] Abdi Behravanfar was born in 1975 in Mashhad, Khorasan, in northeastern Iran. By most standards, he began pursuing a career as a musician rather late in the day, but he quickly acquired an avid following among Iranian youth with a sound that melds popular Western styles -- rock, country, and blues -- with the rich heritage of Iranian folk music. His audience is a generation hungry for music that breaks with the past, understands the common frustrations of the time, and eschews the gaudy frivolity of the Tehrangeles pop scene. This interview provides insight into Behravanfar's development as a musician, including his years of collaborative work with singer Mohsen Namjoo; it also charts the trials and tribulations of Iranian musicians and the underground music scene. Struggling under hostile conditions in an environment rife with censorship, such artists continue to undertake daring and potentially subversive work, even while striving to make ends meet. The following is an edited translation of an interview originally conducted in Persian. *** When and where did you first get seriously interested in music? I was 23 years old when I bought a guitar. The reason I bought it was the result of a number of bitter events that had occurred in my personal life. I was after something that would save me from the tragic state of affairs in which I found myself. All those bitter and traumatic events that I wished to [push to] the background occurred during my years as a university student, and led to my giving up my degree in industrial engineering at Azad University in Tehran. Financial hardship and my emotional well- being at the time caused me to return to my hometown of Mashhad. It was during those dark days that I became acquainted with a man by the name of Mr. Farhadi, an encounter that changed the course of my life. He was a professor at the Polytechnic Institute of New York University and had a profound familiarity with Western music. After a short time we became very close and spoke a great deal about music. One day, during just such a conversation, Mr. Farhadi in complete seriousness said to me, "Abdi! Instead of studying engineering, you must buy a guitar!" So before this encounter you hadn't considered playing the guitar or becoming a musician? Well, I had. From my childhood, I wanted to play guitar but my mother in particular had a problem with this instrument and was never prepared to buy one for me. She didn't have an issue with the keyboard or other musical instruments, but she didn't like the guitar. In any case, after meeting Mr. Farhadi and his insisting I buy one, I gathered together some 50 or 60,000 tomans and bought a second-hand, rickety guitar. So after buying the guitar you immediately started to work and practice? In truth, no. The guitar gathered dust for a year and I would only look at it. I was preoccupied with my own personal afflictions, which compelled me to put my studies to one side. During my time as a student in Tehran, I got to know a man by the name of Fleming Khoshghadami, who was a professor of music. Khoshghadami would play three instruments simultaneously: guitar, harmonica, and the tambourine strapped to his leg. Before the Revolution, he would play street music... In a video posted online, you appear to be playing one of your famous songs, "Sar beh Sar," in the street. Was this due to the influence of Khoshghadami? Yes, we played that song under Esteghlal Bridge in Mashhad. When I got to know Fleming he made children's music, but his real interest lay with country blues. At that time I still didn't know the difference between the acoustic and classic guitar. I told Fleming I wanted to learn the blues and soon began learning from him and we became good friends. You said that because of the personal problems you underwent, you were unable to finish you studies and you returned to Mashhad. Upon your return, how did you pursue your music career? After I abandoned my studies, I returned to Mashhad and brought my guitar with me. Those were difficult days. I had no financial security and had to somehow hang on. I was alone in a large, empty house, without a penny to my name and a broken guitar. During this time it occurred to me to start copying my massive CD archive. My archive included everything from 1923 to 2000 -- rock, metal, blues, et cetera -- and I would copy and sell CDs for those people in Mashhad who were serious about music. In the conservative and religious environment of Mashhad, this couldn't have been an easy task. Were there sufficient customers for your CDs? You might find it hard to believe, but I always had customers in Mashhad who were serious about music. There was a whole underground distribution network for CDs. It was also in this way that I came to know most of the musicians based in Mashhad. I would also find customers for myself. For instance, if there was someone who was a fan of Marc Anthony who purchased CDs from me, I would then go on to introduce and sell them the various other different types of music I kept in my archive. You mentioned that by means of this underground distribution CD network, you first got to know musicians in Mashhad. Did these acquaintances result in any group or shared ventures? Many of the musicians in Mashhad regarded my house as their hangout. There virtually wasn't a musician in Mashhad who didn't know that house. I fought and was harassed a lot because of that house and faced a lot of hardship to keep it alive as a hangout. What kinds of problems did you face? Did you have issues with your fellow musicians or with the closed atmosphere of Mashhad? No, I had serious problems with the police and the neighbors. Our neighbors had no understanding of our difficulties and the limitations we faced, and because of the noise would report us to the police. Imagine, in the middle of practice, the police would ring the door and storm the house. One of our neighbors was intelligence, and upon returning home from work reported on our house. The police, under the impression that we had established a subversive political cell, raided us. It took a while until I finally found a way to avoid the attention of the police. They were normally after two things: alcohol and the mixing of boys and girls. They never found what they were after and so didn't have an excuse to arrest us. I remember during one of these skirmishes the policeman said, "Pack up your stuff, let's go!" I replied, "Let's go, mister." He then looked around and said he didn't have any evidence a crime had been committed. It came to nothing and they left. I didn't have any money with which to bribe the police and they themselves realized after a while that there was nothing going on and nothing to be found in the house. Because of this, they eventually left us alone and entirely to our own devices... That house after a while was no longer my home, but my domain and turf. I had fought for that turf and even fought people with a shovel and pickax to hold on to that house. Many called me psychotic for holding on to that house. Later on, one of the names of a piece of music I coauthored with Namjoo was called "Chronic Psychosis." To continue to hold on to that house I was forced to argue with a hundred different people and as a result was often in a hysterical state. I had to play my music, make money, and fight with people. After a while, my music archive was stolen, which was another major disaster. But despite all these difficulties, bitterness, and limitations, I continued to play my music and refused to give up. When we jammed was the only time we felt liberated from all the difficulties and restrictions around us. Sometimes we wouldn't eat for two days, and we were hungry all the time; we would just jam and forget our hungry stomachs. For my friends who came to the house and me, playing guitar was a way of distancing ourselves from the wretched surroundings in which we were struggling. It seems from this candid portrayal of your bitterness that in a certain respect there weren't any obstacles or restrictions preventing you from speaking through your music when needed. Look, I can't escape from my being an Iranian with a Muslim identity. My name is Abdollah. Wherever I go in the world, whatever deal I wish to make, till I mention my name, I'm unconsciously tied to an identity, a heritage, and geography that I didn't have a choice in deciding myself. In opposition to this force of fate in which I'm caught, I certainly can't remain silent. Insofar as the president is an ordinary person of the country, I can address him in my work, in a way that isn't political maneuvering. [Behravanfar has written a song, "Love," in which he addresses President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.] I never considered myself a political person and I don't want to be political.