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Musician Khyam Allami on How the 'Ud Changed His Life
Khyam Allami grew up in London but found himself longing to connect with his Iraqi roots. The ‘ud – a Middle Eastern lute – was the way he chose, and he has dedicated his life to it.
Whenever I meet someone new, the conversation tends to go like this. “Where are you from?” “My parents are from Baghdad, I was born in Damascus and raised in London.” “What do you do?” “I’m trying to be a musician.” “What do you play?” “The ‘ud and drums.” “What’s an ‘ud?” “It’s a Middle Eastern lute, a plucked string instrument.” Here my new friend will continue with the inevitable. “What made you start playing the ‘ud then?” “It’s complicated,” I begin, cautiously.
My parents aren’t musical but I grew up surrounded by music, Arabic music particularly. Aged around seven, I played a little accordion and then started learning the violin. But when we moved to London, when I was nine, my musical world changed. Within a few years I was playing guitar, bass guitar and drums, and was in love with the likes of Soundgarden, Melvins, Killing Joke and Tool. As a teenager I had pretty much rejected my Iraqi background and stopped speaking Arabic. I was neck-deep in western rock, but “eastern”-sounding melodies always got to me. In particular, the soaring majestic violin solo of Aboud Abdel Al on Killing Joke’s song Communion. It never failed to unleash a torrent of butterflies in my stomach – the kind of deep, nervous, painful longing you only feel when you are stupidly in love with a girl you cannot have. Why did that violin make me feel that way? And more importantly, how do you play a melody like that?
Then came 2003, and suddenly Iraq was a part of my everyday life. For the first time people took note of where I was actually from, and so did I. Depression got the better of me. I had no idea who I was or what I was doing anymore. Iraq burned and I couldn’t do a single thing about it. Why such pain for a land I had never seen, air I have never breathed, people I hardly knew? I finally understood that if I wanted to do my bit, it had to be through doing something that I loved, and I love music.
I had tried to play the ‘ud over a year previously, giving up after only a few weeks, but it still fascinated me. And I was still desperate to understand how those wonderful melodies of the east were played. Although I had never really listened to it properly, I knew that the ‘ud was a central instrument in the music of the Arab world. Composers used it, theorists used it, singers used it and it was old, ancient. I went to meet London-based Iraqi ‘ud maestro Ehsan Emam. I was stupefied by his mastery and the ‘ud itself. The simplicity of its sound – nylon string on wood – calmed my mind. Its loneliness caressed my spirit. Pure, improvised expression of sentiment enticed and bewitched me.
In March 2004 I bought my own ‘ud. I decided to dedicate my entire life, 24 hours a day, to music, and asked the ‘ud to be my guide and companion. A research grant from the British Institute for the Study of Iraq enabled me to study in Cairo with Iraqi ‘ud virtuoso Naseer Shamma. After being one of maybe 10 ‘ud players in the UK, it was a shock to be surrounded by 30 or 40, most of who were much younger and far more advanced than me. I practised eight hours a day, almost every day for those three and a half months.
But it paid off. This year I was chosen to be the first mentee of BBC Radio 3’s new scholarship/mentorship World Routes Academy. The heart of the project was a three-week trip to the Middle East to work with musicians including the renowned Iraqi singer/guitarist Ilham Al Madfai. And as if that weren’t enough, the project culminates in a performance at the Proms on Monday. My programme will be based on repertoire from the Iraqi Maqam, the art music tradition of Iraq. Despite my nerves and the anxiety, I cannot wait to hear that first single solitary note ringing out in the Albert Hall.
Khyam Allami
Guardian