The Music of Ostad Elahi

This conference was presented at the symposium, “Spirituality: Plurality and Unity,” by Jean During, Director of the Department of Ethnomusicology at the CNRS (State Research Center), and was subsequently published in “Cahiers d’Anthropologie Religieuse,” No.5; Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne, Paris, 1996.

I would like to begin with a beautiful phrase that Professor James Morris quoted to conclude his lecture on Ostad Elahi’s thought: “I have spoken to everyone within the limits of their understanding, but I have not yet told anyone what lies in my heart.” Perhaps that which he could not say with words lies in his music.

If Nour Ali Elahi was called “Ostad,” it is because he was truly a master in the highest sense of the term, as we have witnessed throughout the course of this symposium. This title is all the more justified since it also refers to the level he had reached in the art of music. My aim is to present some aspects of his contribution to eastern music and to expose his musical genius, particularly in playing the sacred lute, tanbour. I will also allude to the importance he attributed to music in his personal mystical approach. Indeed, although his passion for music was one of the major aspects of his life and practice, Ostad Elahi’s art can not be dissociated from his spiritual dimension. Music became for him a language of the soul; a means to communicate with the suprasensible and, in particular, a way to share his experiences, to express that which he could not state. Numerous witnesses can attest to the exceptional impact his music had on listeners during the memorable gatherings he regularly held in his home for those who were close to him. Yesterday we heard several excerpts of these accounts from Maurice Béjart and Yehudi Menuhin. Hearing such accounts raises the following question: how could such a brilliant and charismatic musical genius have passed through this century so discretely?

Indeed, the eastern cultural context favored the confidential practice of music and cultivated a suspicion of all forms of publicized or demagogical musical expression. However, in this case, I believe the underlying reason can be found in Ostad’s ethics, which banned all forms of pride and egotism, resulting in his virtual anonymity.

It wasn’t until the 60s that his artistic reputation began to spread, in particular among musicians and music-lovers, following the publication of an article by Musa Marufi, a well respected master of traditional music, who wrote in a Tehran musical review: “I met with a man of great spirituality who had achieved perfection in the art of tanbour. His music so overwhelmed me that I felt as though I no longer belonged to this world. Strangely enough, his music had intoxicated me such that for several days I would not pay any attention to my surroundings. When I finally recovered from this state, I asked myself: ‘How strange! If this is music, then what are the sounds that we usually hear’?”

From that moment on, Ostad Elahi’s music captured the attention of musicians to such an extent that Ruhollâh Khaleqi – Director of the National Academy of Music of Iran, as well as a musicologist and music historian – mentions him in his famous book on contemporary Persian music. To respect the discreetness of the master, however, he does not cite him by name, referring to him simply as a “judge.”

Afraid that this music would disappear with its guardian, Khaleqi attempted to transcribe the repertoire of what he himself called “the sacred melodies of ancient Iran that have very little resemblance to our contemporary music,” by which he was referring to classical Persian music. After several unsuccessful attempts, he understood that the fineness and subtleties of the master’s playing were not at all adapted to transcription and thus abandoned the project. I, too, would arrive at the same disappointing result.

By chance, however, a small part of Ostad Elahi’s repertoire and compositions have been recorded and are now preserved as two CDs edited for the occasion of this symposium. Ostad also passed on his repertoire to one of his sons, Dr. Shahrokh Elahi.

The publication of the CDs is not merely a nostalgic homage to the music of Ostad Elahi, but rather a contribution to humanity’s artistic heritage. Contrary to what has been thought in the past, this music was not destined to remain confined within the limits of the ritual it had sprung from. Indeed, because of its spiritual origin, it knows nothing of cultural divisions. It is, then, neither of the past nor of the present. Rather, as all masterpieces, it is above time or, perhaps more appropriately, beyond time, in the sense that it tears us away from our familiar space. In addition, although Ostad’s artistic approach was as exceptional and original as his spiritual path, his ideas about the profound meaning and ultimate purpose of music are also quite general in scope. Hence they are not limited by the musical forms that they privilege. Finally, his conception of music is in no way the result of thought or speculation, but is built entirely on experience, practice, creativity, effect, and the feedback of his listeners.

An entire book could be dedicated to these aspects, and I hope it will not be too long before it will be written. I will limit myself, then, to an overview of certain musical particularities of Ostad Elahi’s work, after first giving a brief account of his biography that will shed light on specific aspects of his method.

By now you may already know that Ostad Elahi grew up in a surrounding where for centuries spiritual and pious people organized ceremonies dedicated entirely to the practice of sacred music, invocations, chants, dances, and rhythms that were always accompanied by the tanbour.

This venerable instrument dates back thousands of years, though the instrument in its current form is estimated to be approximately two thousand years old. Its consecration, however, dates back to the 11th century. Consecration is the most appropriate word here, since the great charismatic saint Shah Khoshin, who lived in Lorestan, adopted it for the first time to accompany the hymns at prayer gatherings. From that date forward, the tanbour has remained in Kurdistan and Lorestan and in the tradition of the “Devotees of Truth.” A sacred instrument, it is played only with the intention of devotion, whether in a ritualized context or not.

Over the ages, mystics, known and unknown, have elaborated a specific repertoire of songs and instrumental pieces of which Ostad eventually became the guardian. How did this come about? He was born into a family that practiced music, and his father – who himself played the tanbour – immediately noticed the precocious talents of young Nour Ali and did everything to develop this gift. This was relatively simple, since his father’s charisma and reputation had spread far and had attracted numerous visitors, including musicians and tanbour players. As Ostad had an extraordinary memory, he immediately grasped the melodies: he would simply have to hear them once to memorize them.

By the age of six, which is truly very young, particularly for this sort of instrument, he played very well, and by the age of nine he was considered a master of music before whom the other masters, in accordance with custom, would refrain from playing as a sign of their deference.

But all this was nothing but the beginning of an astounding artistic trajectory that would bring him to transcend this music and access inspiration itself.

One of the decisive factors was probably the twelve-year cycle of asceticism that he began under the direction of his father. It was during this time that he found himself in a profoundly religious environment, far from the rumors and attractions of the world, where his sole confidant and friend was the tanbour. In the evening, when everyone else went to sleep, he closed the doors to his room, switched off the lights, and played until dawn.

Many years later he would say: “In my youth, I practiced a number of forms of asceticism and devotion belonging to all sorts of mystical paths, but to no avail. Then I abandoned all that, took my instrument, and the veils parted and Truth came to light.”

From an aesthetic and philosophical point of view, this sort of testimony is very precious in the sense that it affirms the cognitive character of art and music that serves as a vehicle for knowledge and forms of thought, and not merely as decor.

This exceptional period ended around the age of twenty-four, shortly after the death of his father, when he decided to leave the privileged environment where fate had placed him in order to become involved in the lives of men. He found himself in Tehran, in the tumult of the capital, where he met the renowned mystics and musicians of the time. He then had the opportunity to work with, among others, Abol-Hasan Sabâ. These renowned musicians considered him to be their master as far as the charisma and degree of impact of his music was concerned. Later, he learned to play the Persian musical instruments as well.

This approach to traditional Persian music contributed to the enrichment of his repertoire and the broadening of his musical vision. It was at this time that he had an instrument made for him, one that at first glance appeared quite simple. It was a big tanbour with five strings instead of three (actually three rows of strings), the frets of which were arranged differently, no longer in chromatic order as on a European guitar, but in such fashion as to produce the three-quarter tones of eastern scales. He played it in a manner that synthesized its initial tradition and Persian music, but unfortunately no one other than himself could play it.

Later, as a judge he was assigned to various towns in Iran, where he would seek out the best musicians and learn their repertoires. Thus, in addition to the tanbour, he played the ney (flute), the kamânche (string instrument), the zamare (double flute), the daf (tambourine), the violin, as well as other instruments.

From the point of view of an ethnomusicologist, I would first like to understand what really happened: how was this child able to surpass this tradition, amplify it, transcend it, and transform and transfigure it? I will skip the element of hereditary gift and inborn genius. Around the age of 11, a profound internal transformation occurred after a mysterious event. From then on, we have the impression that he had access to another dimension, one where the inexhaustible source of melodies and harmonies probably lies and all great traditions have evoked in various ways.

To return to earth, music is made with the hands and the body, and we should note that he was ambidextrous. His morphology was well constituted for the instrument and his hands were strong and powerful. I also believe – this is, of course, merely an assumption – that his very keen sense of justice and equity brought him to use the five fingers of each hand to play an instrument that had customarily been played with two fingers of the left hand and two of the right. It is also possible that having begun the tanbour at a very young age, he naturally used all his fingers in order to have a broader range of motion on the neck of the instrument. In any case, he subsequently developed a technique for the fingers of each hand, a technique that has practically no equal in an instrument of this sort.

Another detail concerning his sense of justice lies in the fact that Ostad would strike certain notes with the left hand, deeming it insufficient that this hand should content itself with merely placing the fingers in the spaces to modify tones. He thus increased the instrument’s technical field. I personally believe that a continuity exists between gesture and ornamentation, between ornamentation and style, between style and aesthetics, between aesthetics and intention, between intention, inspiration, and the mystical dimension. Here, the body likewise has its place and say.

I would also like to remind you that Ostad Elahi came from a substantially textual musical tradition. In this tradition, certain individuals know the sacred texts by heart, sing them and, to remember these psalmodies, would use this instrument (which originally had two strings, to which the master added a third string that doubled the first) as a memory aid. This music, then, was originally destined for prayer and meditation, but never surpassed on an aesthetic level that of routine music that could be learned through simple imitation. Thus, the fact that it has remained secret is due not only to its ritual status, but also to the fact that it was not of sufficient artistic interest for demanding music-lovers. I have often heard and recorded music of this origin, and I can say that it is far from extraordinary. It’s basis, nevertheless, is not banal. It is probably a remnant of a very ancient culture that has been sheltered from exterior influences due to the closed character of the environment in which it was played. It is music related to pre-Islamic Persian culture that presents unique traits which I will evoke very briefly for the musicians. One of these traits that I have not found anywhere else in the East, (that is to say, from Turkey to China) is a scale composed of alternating tones and half-tones. Another particularity, perhaps even more surprising and of which I have proof that it is an archaic scale belonging to the Iranian world, is the chromaticism. This sort of chromatic motif occurs in the modal landscape of eastern music as something quite exceptional and rare.

These few remarks are only intended to stress the originality of the fundamental structures of this music. But in the hands of Ostad Elahi, the clever combinations of different types of scales produces tones that are at times incredibly modern, breaking with all eastern modal habits. We are under the impression, then, that this music, remaining harmonious at all times, even when apparently breaking the rules of the harmonies of modal consonance, complies with other laws, the secret of which the author alone held.

With Ostad Elahi, this musical tradition was gradually vivified, renewed, completed, and transcended on the following levels:

• musical creativity and the composition of melodies;
• technical and stylistic contributions;
• his impact on traditional music, as he influenced all those who were able to grasp anything in his music; and
• the impact of his art on listeners.

I will begin my discussion with technique and style before touching upon the aesthetic and spiritual aspects.

As far as creativity is concerned, it was best demonstrated by his compositions, arrangements, ornamentation of traditional melodic schemes and their development and variation, and especially the improvisation that was his most impressive mode of creation. In addition, he codified roughly 75 modes or melodic types (“dastgâh”) that serve as the basis for his famous improvisations.

To these modes are added about one hundred brief melodies called “zekr” or “sarband”: they are hymns with lyrics, some of which are quite ancient. He himself has spread a great number of these melodies, not to mention the modes he created, resuscitated, or recreated by himself for the most part, none of which he ever claimed as his own due to his modesty. This repertoire is considerably larger than the traditional repertoire, as well as that of most qualified tanbour players found in these regions. The recordings and magnetic tapes attest to this fact, although the tapes themselves are a very small part of what he had played, and this music being a very small part – by his own admission – of that which he had played throughout his childhood and youth.

We have at our disposal, then, but the tip of the iceberg.

Another aspect of his creativity was his ability to renew and recreate. Every time he played the same piece, one would have the impression he was playing a unique piece that had all the characteristics of a perfect model. If one were to ask you which was the best version of the Sheykh Amiri mode, you could say it was the one he just finished playing, but then again you could just as easily say that it was the previous one; in reality, they were all the best. A traditional musician always has a model. When students come to see him, he teaches them this model and when he plays he elaborates on this model. The epitome of art, then, is for each interpretation to become a model.

His musical discourse was constantly irrigated with new ideas and repetition was limited to what was necessary to maintain unity. This trait is seen in a different light when one recognizes that in their traditional versions, these pieces are made up of no more than two or three themes that are repeated mechanically.

Their development, as they appear in the recordings, are clearly creations by Ostad Elahi; Yehudi Menuhin confirmed this in the interview we saw yesterday. He said: “I have heard this man play for half an hour on five notes. His melodies never extended four or five ranges of notes, meaning that he was able to captivate his audience within an extremely small space.” For Yehudi Menuhin, who had heard all the music of the world and who himself played Indian music adeptly, this was extraordinary.

Ostad Elahi often insisted on the spiritual dimension of music. He always said that one must forget the science, that only after the repertoire and technique are forgotten can inspiration emerge. Nevertheless, I would like to point out a few more technical aspects of his music.

Ostad Elahi invented and perfected the technique required to express himself. He added a third string which seems of little importance, but which was in fact a major innovation. Indeed, he could now produce heterophonic effects; in other words, sounds that could be mixed. He developed heterophonic elements, aggregates of notes, which have nothing to do with sticking chords together. Rather, it is a question of meeting points, of notes encountering each other and producing astonishing harmonies that he has named “celestial harmonies” or “celestial notes.”

As for the right hand, he completely reinvented its use by involving all five fingers. It is the basic movement that could take up to three or four years of practice to master, which explains why few tanbour players have managed to integrate this technique, although many currently have an eye on this music.

I will not enter into a discussion of the detail of the movements, particularly because at Ostad Elahi’s transcendent level, all movements become possible. According to many witnesses, there was often the impression that several instruments were playing at the same time.

What he has done for the right hand he also did for the left: he developed a virtuosity that has nothing to do with what I call “spread virtuosity” or “horizontal virtuosity,” which consists in racing from one high point of the scale to a low point. He has developed a concentrated virtuosity, similar to working on a note with a laser in order to make all its potentialities spring forth. When one says, then, that polyphony and harmony are the conditions for musical perfection, I would say that there is enough to do in ornamenting a few little notes, and this ornamentation in itself is already polyphony.

In terms of these technical aspects, I would simply like to highlight the fact that all these innovations are the accomplishment of the integration and conversion of traditional forms, as well as a personal approach. Ostad didn’t build something outside of tradition; rather, tradition was a grain that was sprouted and flowered infinitely.

This technical and aesthetic research corresponds to a personal process that was accountable to high aesthetic demands that served a mystical art with striking effects. It was never intended as a means to demonstrate anything. This is the principle of probity, of sincerity, that makes one play for oneself – for God. That is why we have had to wait until the end of the 60s to hear this music resound a little, softly, in the public artistic life of Iran.

In Ostad’s art, technique is never gesticulation or virtuosity intended to impress and seduce. Actually, it is easily forgotten in order to transmit a feeling, to communicate a sentiment.

Still, I would like to go back to the transcendent dimension of his technique. I do not believe that the hand is merely a docile worker in command of sublime forms. Something quite different goes on, something powerful, that resembles what practitioners of martial arts have described: the fact that there is a moment when one reaches a higher dimension that seems to transcend the laws of causality and physics. When a boxer trains for years and breaks a door with a punch, that is the perfection of physical force. But when a martial arts master breaks only the fourth brick in a pile of bricks with one blow, we begin to wonder. We say to ourselves that it must be some form of energy. I hope you will forgive my audacity, for I realize I am overstepping my function as an ethnomusicologist of the CNRS, but one cannot extend the limits of knowledge if one does not push against some borders, and by pushing against them one inevitably transgresses them.

We arrive, then, at this paradox observed by many people who heard him play this frail tanbour. You have noticed by now that even when amplified the tanbour does not do much in my hands. Yet, when Ostad Elahi played this instrument, one could distinctly hear it amidst a number of other more powerful instruments, even what resembles a box-like oboe – a sort of biniou of Brittany, an instrument called “Karna” in Farsi because it makes you deaf.

By citing all these examples my intention is not to prove Ostad Elahi’s artistic value or his musical genius. To return to the objective viewpoint that is my duty to defend, one could object that many details we have pointed out as remarkable can also be found in other music: virtuosity, ornamentation, inventiveness, and improvisation. But what remains remarkable is the conjunction of all these perfect qualities in one music and on different levels such as technique, style, mastery, expression, ethics, everything that is transmitted with this music, all the good it has given and the good it has done, the fact that it makes us better, its impact, inventiveness, originality, singularity, and the fact that it starts out with almost nothing and ends up with almost everything.

But genius is such only insofar as an audience recognizes it and identifies with it. There is no doubt that the music-lovers who have heard the published CDs will side with the witnesses who have had the chance to hear and see him. In a certain sense, his contribution will remain a unique moment in the ancient tradition of the sacred tanbour, as well as a rare moment in eastern music in general.

In another light, something will no doubt survive in the traditional music, and the recent appearance of the tanbour in Persian music orchestras is one such minor effect. At the same time, we can rejoice in the fact that, although he has had no pupils who were able to inherit his musical heritage, he did pass on his art to his son, Dr. Shahrokh Elahi.

We may have doubts as to the existence of such an accomplished musician in our midst. In another time, in another period, it is certain that Ostad Elahi would have joined the ranks of musical legends such as the Greek Orpheus, the Persian Bârbad, the Indian Tansen who, as the saying goes, died in flames because the maharajah forced him to play the raga of fire. He, too, would have become one of these mythological figures. Similar to these illustrious masters of sound, his music would have disappeared, and the traits of his character would have vanished into myth. But we are fortunate to live in an era in which it was possible to record his music.

It seems to me it has now become possible to answer the question asked some thousand years ago by Avicenna, the Iranian scientist:

“Before all the sciences I said: ‘There is man, where is science?’ Before music I said: ‘Here is science, where is man’?”