It is March 2020, during the Covid spring. In a remote town in the western province of Kermanshah, Iran, surrounded by towering peaks, there is a mausoleum situated at the foot of a mountain. A spring breeze blows gently as people gather silently, tying small pieces of cloth to a tree at this holy site. Moving towards the mausoleum, I can hear men singing and playing instruments, their tones both familiar and strange to my ears. They are playing the tanbur, a lute-like string instrument with a long neck and a pear-shaped resonance box. The usual breathtaking silence of the mountains is now broken by the sound of this instrument. The musicians play as a group, all performing the same melody while singing along. Kurdish and Persian mystical poems form the lyrical basis of this music. It is hard not to see the attraction of mysticism in this setting, especially for someone like me who has lived in the city of Kermanshah, an hour’s drive away. This is the home of the Kurdish tanbur, where the majority of these instruments are designed and built. Experiencing this instrument in its ritualistic setting creates an aura that lingers long after the performance, or at least that is how I experienced it.
The tanbur, this sacred instrument of the ahl-e haqs in the western and north-west of the country, has never truly found its place in Iranian classical music. It is not the type of instrument one would want to include in an ensemble that requires clarity, homophonic texture, or balance across different registers. Unlike most Iranian instruments, it lacks quarter-toned frets and therefore cannot play most of the Iranian modes; its sonic range is quite limited – having only three strings, two of which are tuned and played together as a couple – and its sonority is rather ambiguous, nasal, and very rarely played on a single string. In fact, if it loses any of these characteristics, it ceases to be a tanbur and might instead be called a version of setar. However, even if one can play the tar or setar – traditional Iranian classical instruments – like I can, it does not mean one can play tanbur music. What defines a tanbur player is not their technical skill, but their knowledge of repertoire and maqams, or associated modes. Moreover, what makes the tanbur a perfect instrument for a secretive mysticism is precisely this limited range and ambiguous, nasal sonority. Some of its maqams, claimed by some to be centuries old, overlap with those of Iranian classical music, but there are also maqams that completely contradict the norms of classical traditions. For example, some maqams feature three consecutive semitones played within a single mode – something not found in Iranian classical modes.
Despite these limitations, the tanbur has managed to accrue a broad repertoire. Its stands somewhere between folkloric and classical genres. It attracts a professional body of musicians with performers spread across Iran. The instrument makes us engage with questions of progress and contemporaneity – similar to other classical genres. On the other hand, its association with certain mystical and religious beliefs lends it a specific function; it is strongly tied to a particular geographical region, the instrument has remained quite restrained, and the skill is still taught orally. There are large ensembles of tanbur players, lesser-known old masters, efforts to “fuse” the tanbur with Western styles, and commercialised versions of tanbur music. There are also pretentious “technical” performances designed to frame it as an instrument capable of pseudo-mystical avant-gardism. In some cases, such as with Shahram Nazeri’s Voice Of Endearment in 1983, it even assumes political roles to provoke national sentiments.
With this background in mind, the anxieties of young tanbur player Mohammad Mostafa Heydarian, over whether he is truly a “master”, expressed in the sleeve notes for his album Noor-e Vojud [The Light of Existence] is entirely understandable. The history of the instrument he has chosen to play is full of ambiguities and has always been intertwined with myths and unreliable exaggerations, echoes of which can also be seen in the brochure of this album in describing this music as “sacred… a heritage steeped in one thousand years”. In a musical tradition where religion, myth, mysticism, and the influence of elder masters play important roles, claiming mastery in your 20s is no easy task. Nonetheless, this young musician, Mohammad Mostafa Heydarian, is remarkable. His debut album was released in 2021 with the assistance of French musician Valentin Portron, who travelled all the way to Iran to learn the tanbur. Heydarian’s debut, just like his recent one, was consisted of a number of pieces, not just for tanbur, but also percussion. (The daf is played on the debut by Behzâd Varâshte and the dohool here by Morteza Rezâei.) Three years later, the follow up sounds more independent and personal in relation to other narratives of maqam music, yet does not cut its ties with them.
Amid current trends in tanbur music, Heydarian’s approach in his second album is quite respectable. He makes no bold statements; and avoids falling into the trap of pseudo mysticism and over technicality. His music is subtle, mature, humble, and simple, yet worth exploring. He incorporates some of the established maqams of tanbur music – such as bayeh bayeh and barieh – with a personal touch while also creating original pieces that adhere to the grammar of this music. A hallmark of his compositions is the balance he establishes between hypnotic repetition of melody and rhythm and the gradual, gentle introduction of new ideas. The techniques he employs are incorporated to help his narrative, not as a show of virtuosity. This is particularly evident in the last couple of minutes of the piece Dar tamanaye eshgh (In Desire for Love), where he uses the signature tanbur plucking technique known as shor, which involves the sequential movement of all fingers on the right hand.
Heydarian’s work, if he maintains his integrity and consistency, should soon move beyond its own expressive limits, flowing gently and freely, like a spring breeze on the mountains of Kermanshah.
Noor-e Vojood is out this week via Radio Khiyaban and Cardinal Fuzz
