Sufi Music at The Atrium.

I wasn’t in the most brilliant of moods when I went to see Sain Zahoor in The Atrium over at Bradford University last Friday. This wasn’t anything to do with the event. On my way to the station, dashing through Neville Street bridge in rush hour, a bloke took advantage of the temporary lull in pedestrian traffic and exposed himself to me in broad daylight (well, as light as it gets under The Dark Arches.) And when I got to Bradford and was racing up Great Horton Road I was barged into, trampled and squashed by a rather large guy eating a kebab outside Omars. He decided, inexplicably, to launch himself backwards without any indication, an elbow jabbing into my ribs, a size eleven boot crushing my trainered left foot, and a heavy shoulder knocking me sidelong into a wall. “Watch where you’re going, mate,” he said, spluttering bits of semi-salivated coleslaw over my jacket. By now it was 7:24pm. I was definitely in a temper to exchange words but didn’t want to be late; “I am big enough to see,” was my pathetic statement of the blindingly obvious as I hobbled away up the Hill to the University.

I arrived on time but emotionally fraught and physically damaged. Not the best start to an evening’s entertainment. Plus I wasn’t really sure what I’d let myself in for. Sufi sacred music . . . erm, I like to think I have broad tastes and curiousity about other cultures but this might be pushing things a bit far. The event seemed impeccably organised though, and considering the numbers of people turning up I was impressed by how quickly and quietly everyone was ushered to their seat. In my case a named seat. In the front two rows! Thanks Emma. I was escorted to the front by a very amiable chap and introduced to my neighbours, a musician and a lawyer. The conversation didn’t really spark owing to the fact that I was out of puff and feeling a little out of place. I looked around. Maybe I wasn’t the right person to send. Certainly everyone here knew more about Sufi traditional music than I did.

It wasn’t long before the event kicked off. After a short introduction and obligatory thank-yous, a few details of how it had come about, a sketchy biography of Sain Zahoor, and a request not to put the programme on the floor as it contained sacred verses – something I’ve never thought about before but which makes perfect sense – the musicians took the stage. The first four guys dressed all in charcoal black sauntered to their positions and sat in pairs at the sides. The two on the left, a genial smiling gent with precise black hair and his more melodramatic mate with wild locks and a wicked look in his eye, took control of two instruments that looked a bit like old radiograms. Apparently these are harmoniums and have a fascinating history. The two fellows on the right had drums. The tabla player never smiled all night and never joined in with the singing. He appeared to be containing a seething cauldron of conflicting emotions which he somehow managed to channel through his hands and onto his instrument, which he never ceased from playing from the moment he sat down, even between songs. His friend, the Dholak player, was the entire opposite, laid back, humorous, and willing to join in with every chorus.

Once the band had settled into place, Sain himself strode out. He couldn’t have been more different from the band. Black turban, a costume that shone and twinkled with every imaginable colour, and an instrument called an Ektara which was decorated with what seemed to be small balls of brightly coloured wool threaded on a kind of net. First thing he did was strap on some anklet bells called Ghungroos, then he was off . . . stamping his feet in time, twirling and whirling, plucking his Ektara (which unfortunately was drowned out by the other instruments, no matter how much I tried to concentrate and pick it out) but mainly singing.

And, wow, could he sing! I wouldn’t say he was a big bloke but the noise he made sounded gigantic. It’s the sort of voice you can imagine hearing from the other side of the mountain. And you’d hear every word. Even though I don’t speak the language I could hear every syllable, make out every line, spot the rhymes and follow the rhythms. I was taken aback by how joyous it was. I’d half expected it to be a little solemn, hushed, prayerful, but it wasn’t anything like that. The songs apparently were mainly about god, but obviously his god loves a rollicking good tune. Sometimes I heard Scottish sea shanties, Irish jigs and Gypsy flings; the instruments were different, and the intention was quite opposite (most folk music I know is explicitly carnal and wicked) but the spirit seemed the same, and it was definitely music to dance to. The drumming was fast and furious and frenetic, far surpassing most Western drumming in sheer complexity of rhythm, and the harmoniums were like wheezy and slightly woozy accordions, always seeming to be a bit behind themselves, but oddly jolly and inviting. Sain’s voice though stood out as something quite unearthly. Even between songs, when he told a story or talked to the audience, he was never less than gripping. And it was obvious he’s a master story teller. I couldn’t understand a word but he had me enthralled.

At the beginning of the performance we had been encouraged to dance if we were so moved. The lay out of the chairs seemed to suggest that dancing would be difficult, but a couple of people did get up and gyrate. At first I prepared myself for an excruciating middle class moment, a well meaning but lumbering gesture of cultural embrace, but actually the dancing wasn’t half bad. I was a bit worried how the audience would react to a handful of white women making a show of themselves and I wasn’t sure how the band would feel. Sain actually lit up when he saw the dancers, clapped them and encouraged them to keep at it. He seemed genuinely pleased to get a reaction. Most of the audience too indulged the dancers. It was a rather sweet moment.

There was just one tricky bit at the end. The band finished, enjoyed the applause, then came together centre stage behind the singer. Sain talked some more. Some of the audience came to the front. People around me were whispering responses. Then there seemed to be a signal and everyone began to pray . . . at least I think that was it. I don’t even remember how to pray in Christian but instinctively dropped into hands together, eyes closed position. I hope that moment wasn’t immortalised on film. I’m not convinced I followed the proper etiquette.

On the way out I congratulated the organisers of the event. It really was one of the most memorable and inspiring performances I’ve seen in years, and it made me completely forget myself and the atrocious mood I’d arrived with. What made it even more special was knowing that it was the one and only UK date! Which means I can’t recommend anyone go and see it because you all missed out. You can still buy the CD’s though. The band need all the support they can get. If you want a taster have a listen to some tunes on FolkPunjab.com.