Living in Los Angeles, I have had my fair share of opportunities over the years, to attend a great number of Iranian cultural events.  In the early years, I must say, I enjoyed them immensely. Just the mere fact of encountering Iranians en masse in a park at Sizdeh Bedar or at a restaurant wolfing down a hearty Soltani was enough to send me into momentary ecstasy.  Hearing the language spoken in its infinite variety of accents and lilt was, in and of itself, the finest discovery. I had not chosen Los Angeles.  It had chosen me and pleasantly surprised was I as to how well I was going to fit in. So I gorged on the subculture at hand knowing well how many years of famine I had to make up for.  Plays, Movies, Poetry Nights, Concerts.  You name it – I attended it.  Music - my greatest passion - presented itself to me in its Iranian flavor of all genres and venues.  From Jazz to Classic – from impromptu ensembles in backyards complete with kebab and aragh sagi to full fledged concerts at The Bowl and The Greek with all the bells and whistles of stage props, instruments, voices, performances.  And the magnificent smorgasbord of the crowds, from Chanel clad armies in dangerously high heels complete with Harry Winston sparkles and tuxedoed arm candy, to the collar-less peasant shirt/Birkenstock brigade and everything in between.  What a feast. What a treat. What a sight.

Over the years my curiosity for the obscure has mellowed.  In time I became more discerning and some would say even critical of what I saw and heard and experienced.  There was, I came to find, one common thread in all of this. I truly did not feel anything beyond mild amusement. I didn’t get it.  I was the odd one out, standing a safe distance from the frenzy – watching. To me the jazz sounded kitsch, the pop passé and the classic merely misplaced, often trite. This, I came to realize, was my shortcoming and most certainly not that of the performers. What was it that bothered me and kept me at bay, just far enough and detached from the sentiments of the chords and the rhythm?  Was I judging, resisting or plain dismissing?  The arrogance in me saw the performers trying too hard to impress, be cool, unique, and authentic.  It didn’t work for me.  I just plain could not wrap my mind around the charade. So I took solace in belittlement.  A performer is supposed to be given completely over to the moment at hand,  I reasoned, without a care for the audience – submerged entirely in the art. A performer was supposed to reach inside of me and tug at my heartstrings  – with those minor keys – the hallmark of Iranian music – the melancholic plea.  It was supposed to transport me to a timeless, faceless, nameless place and keep me there, rock me with its rhythm until I forgot about my surrounding while at the same time became one with it echoing the sentiments of the stage.  It never happened to me. I felt shortchanged. So I stopped going.

And then this

A ton of bricks hit me with the first note and the second stanza stripped me complete to bare my soul.  A Google search brings up the fact that dynamic duo visited Los Angeles and I missed it. But I am not sorry.  This glimmer of hope belongs to the dusty rooftops of Tehran, complete with old fashioned air conditioner units – tired blue and white, in the background accompanied by a sea of satellite dishes. The simple architecture of a city spilt around a glorious mountain range, laying itself out – flattened – baring itself to receive the rain and the snow, the sun, the dust, the hum.

The melody, a rocking cradle through which the lyrics weave – sung expertly by two magnificent artists - classic Persian beauties no less, singing with their heart (lip-synchronization aside), is complemented cautiously by an ensemble which takes its cue from the singers’ movements.  This – now this tugs at my heartstrings, resonates within me with joy, invites me to see and feel the artists’ sentiments and make it my own. I am transported instantaneously.  The voice doesn’t so much take me home - it is home. It holds me first captive and then rocks me with its confidence.  If I let my intellect take over I can see the defiance, the head scarves draped around the singers’ necks, the mirth in their eyes, a glimpse of victory over whatever history has brought upon their people.   But I don’t. I let my heart hear its unabashed declaration and together with it I do also come to believe in it. That no matter how dire and hopeless a place and a situation may appear, under the temporary cover of pain, resilience is being put together, one brick at a time, forming organically in its natural habitat. Art – the ultimate political statement – is born. I listen to the song over and over until it saturates my senses and together with the sisters I hum – dram omidi. And I promise myself another cultural event in my hometown.