TEHRAN, Iran -- He has been performing professionally for little more than a year, but when singer Khashayar Etemadi showed up for a three-day gig in an unheated gymnasium in Kerman, a city far from this capital, crowds of 1,000 or more showed up each night.
The standing-room only crowds were understandable, though. These were the 28-year-old Etemadi's first concerts this year, and he showed up with a 22-piece orchestra and a trio of chador-cloaked female backup singers behind him. In blue blazer and trousers, he crooned ballads of love and country, while his audience swayed and chanted, "We love you."
"You're great!" one fan shouted to the pop star.
"No, you're great," Etemadi responded.
The brief but intense love affair that has developed between such fans and the puckish, bearded Etemadi has made him Iran's No. 1 pop singer, a significant distinction given the Islamic republic's history of restricting musical expression.
But Etemadi would be considered an overnight sensation in almost any culture. In little more than a year, the husky-voiced singer-songwriter has sold 350,000 cassettes -- while recording perhaps 10 songs at most. Not Lauryn Hill numbers perhaps, but in Iran's emerging music scene, it has made him a star.
It didn't take long for Iran's ruling conservative clerics to recognize his appeal to Iranian youth, a driving force behind the country's reformist movement and the 1997 presidential election of moderate Mohammad Khatami.
Last month, Etemadi was invited to perform at Iran's Ten Day Dawn Festival, an event of symbolic significance. During a heady 10 days in 1979, the secular, pro-Western regime of the late Shah Mohammed Reza Pahlavi fell, the exiled Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini returned to Tehran, and a theocracy reigned.
The invitation to Etemadi "shows that pop music has been sanctioned by the government," says Saeed Amir Aslani, the music critic for the reformist daily newspaper Khordad. "I see this as ... the extension of our political situation here in Iran, an extension of our cultural and political development."
No one danced in the aisles or rushed the stage, but Etemadi's performance at the festival was a cultural milestone.
This is a country that strictly controls the public's access to music. The sale of music by most contemporary Western groups is banned. Mozart, American movie themes and instrumentalists like Yanni can be found in music shops here. But tapes and compact discs of performers like the Backstreet Boys, the Spice Girls and other rock musicians can be bought only on the black market.
Solo female singers haven't performed in public to a mixed audience since 1979, when the late revolutionary leader Khomeini banned music from radio and television, citing its opium-like effect in "stupefying" the mind. Then, "fun imports" like cars, cosmetics and chandeliers also were prohibited.
Khomeini's decree led to an exodus of singers and musicians from Iran, whose rich musical heritage draws on classical Persian poetry and dates to the first century.
Eight years later, however, Khomeini relaxed his order and permitted the sale of classical musical instruments. Pop music, widely played during the shah's regime, was still considered decadent. But male singers of traditional Iranian music began performing again. "It was like a renaissance for our musicians," says music critic Aslani.
About this time, Khashayar Etemadi was a 17-year-old with a dream. Playing piano since the age of 6, Etemadi wanted to sing and perform. But considering the cultural climate in Iran, he gave in to his parents' wishes and enrolled in a Tehran college to study business management.
At graduation, Etemadi's father, a factory owner, presented him with an "ocean blue" Honda, which Etemadi promptly sold to finance his musical career.
"For two years, I took taxis," Etemadi says in an interview at his North Tehran office. "I enjoyed the difficulties I went through to reach my love -- singing. By God's will, I could draw people's attention to my work and therefore I succeeded."
By all appearances, the young singer is still surprised by his sudden fame, and hasn't given in to it.
A bachelor, he lives at home with his parents and two sisters. He drives his own car. He reads his fan mail. His telephone number is in the Tehran phone book. He lingers after a show to sign autographs or talk with fans. After one of the concerts earlier this year, he walked into the audience and presented carnations to a war veteran in a wheelchair.
Ironically, television, one of the media previously banned from playing music, helped launch Etemadi's career.
In Iran, the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance must approve the publication of books, songs or films. Etemadi says when he first brought a tape to the ministry, he was told there wasn't a place yet for his music.
But after a year, officials from state-owned television persuaded the ministry to let them air Etemadi's song "The Last Savior," which tells the story of the 12th imam of Islam, a descendant of the Prophet Mohammed who disappeared and is expected to return and restore righteousness to the world. Not exactly hip-hop, but it helped earn Etemadi Singer of the Year honors among television viewers.
Etemadi hasn't restricted himself to only religious themes. He also sings of unrequited love, of the loneliness of an expatriate in the West, of the falling rain.
"What hope, which tomorrow? Don't ask where raining clouds have gone," he sings in one song. "Soundlessly, they have gone toward the blue color of love."
His arrangements are often grand and sweeping. Flutes, violins, synthesizer, horns, drums, classical guitar, traditional Iranian instruments, choral voices -- you will hear them all. He sounds like a balladeer.
But while Etemadi's sound may be substantial, his observations about his music are more circumspect. Dressed in a chocolate-brown shirt and matching corduroy pants, his dark hair slicked back, Iran's No. 1 pop star is personable, but he chooses his words carefully.
Asked if he ever sings more peppy, upbeat songs, he says, "My voice doesn't allow me to go for faster music. Like Frank Sinatra."
Ol' Blue Eyes was perhaps the last big star to perform in Iran during the shah's time. And Sinatra is the only Western singer Etemadi mentions during an interview. Asked to cite his musical influences, he says: "I never paid any attention to who had the biggest influence on me. I believe that the work in pop music goes back to what people want and those people determine how or when or why the pop singer sings."
Asked to share the recordings in his musical library, he politely begs off. Mozart to George Michael? "Yes, that range," he replies when pressed.
And about his ambitions? "After I finished college, I always thought we in our country should do something for our youth," he says. "I believe an artist should have the highest morality. If he can do some good for people, it's actually the duty of the artist."
Some listeners have compared Etemadi's sound to that of another group of Iranian singers, exiles living in the Los Angeles area. But he says he has never considered leaving Iran.
"From my childhood, I learned three things: love to my nationality, love to my religion, love to humanism," says Etemadi.
If Etemadi is cautious in his responses, it's understandable. Despite the gradual easing of restrictions here, artists have been targeted in the recent past.
In December 1993, Iranian police raided an underground music network and arrested 25 musicians, composers and singers. In September 1995, when Iran's supreme religious leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, was asked about the appropriateness of teaching music, this was his response: "Teaching young people to read and play music makes them depraved and leads to corruption," according to the daily newspaper Resalat.
And yet, change is afoot. Those "fun imports" -- Japanese-made cars, Lancome lipsticks, even chandeliers -- are all available in Iran, and have been for a while. On the Iranian island of Kish, a free-trade zone, pop musicians perform publicly with the blessing of the government. Last year, a book on the music and lyrics of British rock group Pink Floyd was published in Iran. It was a sellout.
"If you take away music from human life, any kind of music, even the rhythms, see for yourself what will happen," says Merhdad Pazouki, a composer and music adviser to Iran's culture minister. "I hope the next move will be female singers being allowed to sing."
The behavior of Etemadi's fans at the concerts in Kerman demonstrates the progress under way. Iranian women wore their head scarves and long coats in accordance with Muslim modesty codes, but they sat among men and sang along with them. At times, the audience stood, swayed and chanted Etemadi's name.
Showing a visitor a videotape of the concert, Etemadi himself seems to grow less guarded. Animated and chatty, he points out fan letters being presented to him, the flowers that were brought to the stage, the autograph- seekers waiting in the wings. And what about the stage setting, he is asked. Why the backdrop of a scallop shell?
"You can always find a pearl in a shell," he says, flashing a dimpled smile.
Pub Date: 03/28/99