Otavalo, Ecuador – A Market Lover’s Paradise

Photo by  Adalberto Perez

By the time I reached Ecuador on my first South American trip, I had suffered market overload. After travelling through Bolivia and Peru and having purchased an array of pottery, knits, and paintings, I needed to give myself (and my heavy backpack) a rest. But then I learnt about the Otavalo market.

Located two hours from Quito, a trip to Otavalo is a step back in time. Saturday is market day, and the best day to visit if you want a taste of what market life is like for the Otavaleños. Some Quito locals had told me to arrive on a Friday and to set my alarm for early Saturday morning. The beauty of the markets can be seen when the sun is barely over the horizon, way before the place is overrun with tourists jostling for the best photographs to post on their Facebook page.

The markets have existed since pre-Colombian times, and a short walk across the bridge leads to the animal market that looks like it could be straight out of the pages of National Geographic. Not for the faint of heart, these markets will leave animal liberationists seething and unable to cope with the matter-of-fact treatment of the animals, but for those able to handle such things, it is a chance to discover what life is like for the locals. Bartering, yelling, laughing, and backslapping Otavaleños weave between the clucking chickens and squealing pigs, while the heavy scent of fresh manure hangs over the dusty market.

Photo by PICQ

In stark contrast to the animals is the artisan market, located in and around Poncho Plaza. Andean pipe music mixes with locals speaking Quechua, and a kaleidoscope of colours fills the square and surrounding streets. Woven wall hangings depicting exotic birds and scenery, thick woollen ponchos dyed blue with agave juice, woollen hats, mittens, and socks all entice the passer-by to part with their money.

The one thing that struck me when I strolled the streets of Otavalo, is that even though the locals were dressed in their traditional attire, they didn’t appear to be doing it for the tourists (as I have experienced in other parts of the world, including in other parts of Latin America). The women’s colourful shawls, intricately embroidered shirts, and layers of beaded necklaces are part of their everyday garb. The men, for their part, have long braided hair and wear sandals, ponchos, felt hats, and calf-length white trousers. This lends an authenticity to this market that people from all over the world come to visit.

Otavaleños are renowned for their textile making and are savvy business people. They are now one of the most prosperous indigenous groups in Latin America and today, 80% of Otavaleños are involved in the textile industry and their products are sold around the world, including in Europe and Asia.

Prior to the 1400s, the Otavaleños used the back strap loom to create their textiles. Then the Incas arrived and Otavalo became an important administrative centre for the Incas. The Incas were smart enough to see the strength and uses for the Otavaleño textiles, so they collected these lovely pieces and put them to use throughout the empire. After the Spanish arrived and Ecuador fell under their rule, Rodrigo de Salazar, a Spanish conquistador, set up a weaving workshop on his land and employed hundreds of workers to produce beautiful, durable textiles to be sold and used throughout South America. Despite the sweatshop conditions, the Otavaleños produced beautiful work and adapted their technique with the weaving tools and fibres given to them by the Spanish. This is how they also learnt how to produce their textiles in mass quantities – a skill they employ even today.

In the 1960s, the Otavaleños adapted a weaving technique from Scotland and developed a material known as Otavaleño cashmere. Then, in 1964, the Law of Agrarian Reform granted workers title to own land. This meant Otavaleños could legally weave in their own homes, and from this law, a thriving cottage industry grew and continues to expand.

After a day spent wandering the streets and enjoying the locals, colourful crafts, and eating freshly cooked humitas, fried bananas and lentils, I ambled back to my hostel, arms fully loaded with various textiles I couldn’t resist. Luckily, I’d purchased a woven bag to load my goodies in and send it all back to Australia. With a rich history and beautiful, hand-made products, it’s impossible to not to buy a piece (or five) of Otavaleño history to take home and relive memories of one of the most captivating and historical markets in the world. 

Hide Your Eyes! The Hazardous Art of Ghalamzani

by Heidi Noroozy

“Put on your sunglasses,” my sister-in-law advised.

It was not immediately apparent why, since we were entering the dark heart of the Esfahan Bazaar, far from the desert sun beating down on the square outside. With every step, the tapping of metal on metal grew louder, a percussion orchestra beating out a rhythmic symphony.

But as we turned the corner into a long hall, a blaze of reflected light dazzled my eyes. Row upon row of embossed copper vases, engraved silver trays, and gold-plated bowls sparkled and gleamed down the length of the endless hall. And all along the stone walls, men sat at workbenches, hammering, chiseling, and shaping metal into practical vessels and decorative plates, their hand tools creating the syncopated music that reverberated through the space.

We had entered the workshop of the ghalamzani artisans, practitioners of the art of Persian metal engraving. The name of this handicraft is derived from the Persian word for pen (ghalam) and the verb “to hit” (zadan).

I slid my sunglasses over my eyes, suddenly grasping the urgency of my sister-in-law's warning. Tiny chips of metal could fly through the air, too small to see yet sharp enough to do serious damage. And yet none of the men laboring so hard in this long corridor wore any type of protective goggles.

Carving designs in metal has been practiced for three millennia, but in Persia it rose to a fine art in the twelfth century, when the Turkish-speaking Seljuks (11^th to 14^th centuries A.D.) perfected their metalworking techniques. They fashioned many practical items from metal, mainly bronze and copper, including incense burners, mirrors, and candlesticks.

The centers of ghalamzani production in modern Iran are Kermanshah, Shiraz, Tehran, and Esfahan. And this handicraft includes several metalworking techniques, the main ones being embossing and engraving. The materials most commonly used are copper, bronze, gold, brass, and silver.

In embossing, a raised design is worked into the metal from the back using a hammer and blunt punch. A thick layer of tar is first applied to the inside of the object or the back of a flat sheet of metal to absorb the impact of the hammer and protect the material from damage. The design is traced into the back of the sheet with a tool called a nimbor. Upon completing the design, the object is heated to remove the tar. In Shiraz, the metal of choice for embossing is silver; in Isfahan, it is copper. Embossing does not involve removing metal, so there are no chips to fly through the air and invade an unprotected eye.

Isfahan artisans are recognized masters of the other technique, where the artisan uses a hammer and sharp chisel to etch designs, many of them quite intricate, into the surface of a bowl, vase, mirror frame, or other object. The artifact is first polished and the pattern applied (often using a piece of perforated paper and rubbing coal dust over the holes). The engraver etches the positive elements of the motif into the metal and leaves the negative elements as raised areas.

The day we visited the ghalamzani workshop at the bazaar, I learned that my sister-in-law’s warning to protect my eyes came from experience. She worked as an eye surgeon at a charity hospital in Isfahan, and every day ghalamzani artisans traipsed through her examining room, needing her to remove tiny slivers of metal from their eyes.

Two pieces of ghalamzani hang on my wall, intricately engraved plates with interlinked geometric patterns chiseled into a nickel alloy. When I look at them and admire the workmanship, I try not to think of the high price they may have demanded from their creator: the loss of his precious eyesight.

Off the Beaten Track: A Moment in Time - Meeting Pete Seeger

Pete Seeger (l) and Rik Palieri (r) in 1980
Photo by Bob Yahn

Our guest today is Rik Palieri, a singer-songwriter based in Hinesburg, Vermont, who performs both original and traditional songs on a variety of instruments, including the banjo, guitar, mouth bow, Native American flute, and Polish bagpipes. Rik is author of the book, The Road Is My Mistress: Tales of a Roustabout Songster, and producer of The Song Writer’s Notebook, a TV show that is now archived in the new Rik Palieri Collection in The Library of Congress. Rik has eight CDs and was recently featured on the Grammy-nominated Singing Through The Hard Times: a tribute to Utah Phillips. More about Rik Palieri can be found at www.banjo.net.

Did you ever experience one moment that changed your life?

For me, that moment came in the mid-1970s, back when I had dreams of becoming a banjo player and folk performer. Yes, while most kids my age were having rock & roll fantasies, I was trying to plunk out a few old folk songs on my long-neck banjo. I had been inspired by activist, songwriter, and beloved performer Pete Seeger. Pete’s life story of rambling around the country by freight train and thumb, learning and sharing music with everyone he met, not only excited but inspired me. After seeing Pete live at a college show, I felt a bright light burn inside me and sensed that it would somehow be my destiny to carry on in his spirit. At that time, this notion seemed ridiculous, as I was just fifteen and a mere beginner on my instrument. Pete was only known to me by listening to his recordings, seeing him at his concerts, and sharing a few backstage handshakes. But then, just a few years later, my magical moment came.

I had read that Pete Seeger was going to give a free evening concert in Central Park with Arlo Guthrie. I marked that day on my calendar and waited for the big day to arrive. Little did I know that, earlier that same day, my mother would take my two young sisters to the park to visit a few museums. After finishing their museum tour, they all went over to Central Park for a picnic and to play with the other children.

As they were setting down their blankets, a huge crowd gathered. Curious, my mother asked one of the young girls sitting nearby what was going on. The girl replied that there was a free concert with Pete Seeger and Arlo Guthrie. When my sister, Lisa, heard that Pete was playing, she remembered that I also planned to be at this show and, for some strange reason, she thought that I would be performing too. My sisters told my mother they wanted to go look for me and headed for the stage area.

They were both only tiny tots at the time, about nine and six years old, so when they met one of the stage hands and told him they were looking for their brother, who was a friend of Pete Seeger, the stage hand brought them to the trailer where Pete and his wife, Toshi, were preparing for the evening show.

Lisa remembers walking into the trailer. “It was so strange. We were only two little girls and did not realize where we were, but as soon as the door opened, I recognized the big tall fellow with a gray bushy beard, holding a banjo. I knew it was none other than Pete Seeger.” After a few moments of stunned silence, Lisa blurted out, “I know you. You're Pete Seeger.”

Pete replied, “Where do you know me from?”

Lisa said, “From watching Sesame Street. Do you know if my brother is here?”

Pete, a little perplexed, asked, “Your brother?”

Lisa continued, “My brother is a big fan of yours, and he plays the banjo too. And he is really good. I thought he said he was coming to see your show. Is he here?” Lisa went on about her brother till Pete asked, “Who is he?”

Lisa said, “His name is Rik Palieri and, you know, he has some of your records too.”

Pete laughed. “No, he is not here.” Then he asked his wife, Toshi, to make the girls some sandwiches, gave them water, then sent them back out to play.

My sisters left the trailer and told my mother what had happened. My mother really did not believe them but said, “That's nice.”

A few hours later, I arrived with my girlfriend and sat down to enjoy the show. That night at the concert, Pete said, “Tomorrow I will be performing at a riverfront festival in Hoboken, New Jersey, to benefit the Clearwater. Everyone’s invited.” (The Sloop Clearwater is the environmental sailboat that Pete helped build in 1969.)

As Hoboken was just a stone’s throw away from my parents’ house, I knew I had to go.

The next morning at breakfast, before I left for the concert, my sister told me, “I met Pete Seeger yesterday.”

I looked at her like she was crazy.

“He was filing his nails,” she snapped back.

Unaware of my sister’s little promotional campaign, I just shook my head and walked out the door with my banjo slung over my back. When I arrived, a few musicians had already begun playing together in a little circle, so I pulled out my banjo and joined right in. We played for while and then some one called out, “Hey Pete's here!”

First concert with Pete in Hoboken

Pete was dressed in a bright yellow t-shirt and a black Greek fisherman's cap. He joined our circle, unzipped his leather guitar case and took out his big 12-string guitar, and played along. After a few songs he introduced himself then asked us about ourselves.

When he came to me he said, “And who are you?”

“Hi, I'm Rik Palieri,” I managed to stammer.

Pete looked at me, cocked his head, and said, “You know Rik, I met your sisters yesterday, and they told me you are a good banjo player. Why don't you come up on stage with me, and we'll sing a few songs together with the rest of the group?”

I stood in shock, thinking: You met my sisters? You want me to join you on stage?

Pete smiled and welcomed me up on the high waterfront stage.

Within a week, my life changed. A photographer from the Asbury Park Press snapped a photo of me and Pete on stage, a photo that appeared in the paper’s next edition, and now the reporter wanted a follow-up story. Later, Pete himself called me on the phone, asking me to help him put on a concert and start building a chapter of the Clearwater in my community.

As the years passed, Pete became my mentor, sending me letters, giving me advice, and helping me get involved in concerts, festivals, recordings, and books. He also appeared as a guest on my cable TV show, “The Song Writer’s Notebook.” Whenever Pete thought something I was doing was worthwhile, he was always there with his warm smile and helping hand.

Sometimes I wonder if I hadn’t gone to that little festival in Hoboken, would my life still  be the same? But my sister Lisa takes a whole different view. “Remember, Rik, it was me who introduced you to Pete Seeger. You still owe me, big time!”

Here is a short video clip of me and Pete singing "John Henry." It's from the Song Writer's Notebook:

Music Under New York

Musicians and singers have been performing on the streets since before the roads were paved. Yet, modern urban artists get harassed for anything from panhandling to violating traffic laws. The New York Metropolitan Transit Authority approached the problem of the pesky artiste from a different angle. Tired of shooing classical violinists and African drummers off the subway steps and platforms, the MTA created Music Under New York, an officially endorsed program that lets artists perform on subways stations. The program supplies them with an MTA banner and schedule. However, it’s very competitive and not easy to get into.

Every year Music Under New York holds auditions in Grand Central Station for new performers, looking for musicians who reflect the New York City culture and diversity.  Auditions last a day and are open to public, but the applicants’ faith is decided by a panel of professionals from the music industry, cultural institutions, and MTA station operators.

The MUNY artists play everything from Beethoven to doo wop and from Spanish guitar to Russian harmonica. Many of them play unique instruments such as Chinese dulcimer, Senegalese kora, Andean pipes, and Aboriginal didjeridoo. Two or three musicians play a saw - yes, a large metal saw, which sounds like a cross between a violin and a flute.  But, even in this eclectic collection of creative minds, some stand out. Like The Opera Collective.

I could write about it, but instead I decided to post my radio interview with one of the Opera Collective members, Vaughn Lindquist, taken in the Times Square Subway stop to the accompaniment of the passing trains and rushing commuters.

Vaughn Lindquist: The New York Opera Collective

Hot Fusion, Tropical Beats

The spicy pepper mixture known as chutney in India has a second meaning in the Caribbean, where it’s also a type of Indo-Caribbean music with deep roots but a short history. It's also as diverse as the people who created it.

Chutney music goes back to the late 1950s, when a dance album called The King of Suriname released in the tiny South American nation of the same name. The music made a splash among East Indians across the region, and the singer, Ramew Chaitoe, became known as the father of chutney music.

Chaitoe sang primarily Indian religious songs known as bhajans in a Creolized Hindi. One song in particular, Raat Ke Sapne, became a dance hit that was popular for decades. The song is about separation, an apt subject for Chaitoe’s primary audience whose ancestors were brought by the British to the Caribbean sugar belt as indentured laborers to replace the freed slaves.

A decade after Chaitoe’s historic recordings, another Surinamese, Dropati, released an album (Let’s Sing and Dance) of traditional wedding songs that became another hit and earned her the title of the mother of chutney music. The King of Suriname and Let’s Sing and Dance remain two of the bestselling East Indian albums, though the genre itself has changed dramatically.

In 1970, a Trinidadian named Sundar Popo had a #1 hit song in Guyana and Trinidad with his song Nana Nani (which means “grandfather" and "grandmother”). Sung in Creolized Hindi and English, with lyrics like “Nana drinkin' white rum and Nani drinkin' wine,” the song was heard all over the islands in the ‘70s, and gave way to the term chutney for this form of music. Sundar Popo sang folk songs with influences of West Indian calypso sounds on topics that reflected life of the Indo-Caribbeans, touching on themes of emigration, repression, and discrimination in his songs. Other chutney music artists emerged, singing about everything from female oppression to life on a sugar plantation.

Today chutney music has gone mainstream, an amalgam of calypso and Trinidadian soca, using electric guitars and synthesizers, and Indian popular music and traditional instruments, such as the dholak (a double-headed hand drum played horizontally), the dhantal (a long steel rod played with a metal horseshoe-type piece), and the harmonium (something like a small keyboard similar to a reed organ). And it’s not just East Indians creating this music; Afro West Indians have gotten in on the act, and the genre has spread to a wider, mainstream Caribbean audience. A musician named Atiya all the way over in Holland shot to fame performing her own Indian soca music.

And as Afro-Caribbeans and Indo-Caribbeans migrated north, to the United States and Canada, so did the music. Record companies and nightclubs promoting this popular party music emerged, especially in Toronto and New York, spreading the Caribbean music scene further. Often, recordings done in the north make their way back to the islands. 

Earlier, some Caribbean governments banned or repressed chutney music because of ethnic discrimination. But by the early to mid-‘90s, both Trinidad and Guyana had East Indian political leaders, which helped lead to a renaissance of this type of music. In Guyana, Terry Gajraj had a top hit with an album called “Guyana Baboo” (Child of Guyana) that evokes nostalgia for Guyanese immigrants everywhere.

In fact, the music has splintered into a dozen other subgenres – dance, folk, hip hop, rap, even appearing in Bollywood films – but even as it moves from the islands onto the international stage, the music remains popular throughout the region and the Caribbean diaspora as the music of their roots, for East and West Indians alike.

Here are just a few popular chutney songs, old and new:

Chutney Pressure: 

Nani Nana:

 Marajin: 

Guyana Baboo:

Mutton, Consommé, and Rum - Buena Vista Social Club

One of my favorite soundtracks of summer is the Buena Vista Social Club. Whenever I hear the distinctive Cuban beat and soulful lyrics, I’m transported back to the days when I lazed on pristine beaches and swam in turquoise oceans. That’s my past, but the Buena Vista Social Club’s history is much more fascinating. 

During the 1930 and 1940s, the Buena Vista Social Club in Havana, Cuba, held dances and live music just about every night. The Afro-Cuban music played in the club grew so popular that the Buena Vista Social Club became the place to be for the hip and cool in Havana, especially for Cubans with African roots. Musicians who performed at the club included bassist Cachao López, band leader Arsenio Rodríguez, and pianist Rubén González, who went on to become members of the musical group that adopted the name of the club. López, Rodríguez, and González have described the 1940s as “an era of real musical life in Cuba, where there was very little money to earn, but everyone played because they really wanted to.”

Many musical styles sprung up from this period including the mambo, and the charanga, as well as dances such as the pachanga, and cha-cha-cha. Afro-Cuban music, the rumba and son, developed, and with the band leader Arsenio Rodríguez increasing the role of trumpets, congas, and piano, son morphed into the son montuno. Since then, son has influenced musicians all over the Americas, both north and south.

After the Cuban Revolution in 1959, President Manuel Urrutia Lleó aspired to obtain a “classless and colorblind society.” This meant that Afro-Cuban cultural and music centres, like the Buena Vista Social Club, closed because they almost exclusively catered to the Afro-Cuban population. The government supported local music but gave preference to nueva trova and the salsa, while son slid in popularity. Cuban music took on more of a pop feel, as did its dance styles, and the son and its traditional variants were no longer desired by the young people of Cuba.

In 1996, a music producer invited American guitarist Ry Cooder to Havana to record a session with two African musicians from Mali. After Cooder arrived (via Mexico), he found out the Mali musicians hadn’t received Cuban visas and couldn’t make the recording. The music producer and Cooder changed their plans and set out to record a son album instead, enlisting the expertise of local musicians.

Amongst the group was musical director, Juan de Marcos, who had worked with the Afro-Cuban All Stars. He helped track down Cuba’s best son musicians, including Compay Segundo, a singer then in his eighties. In three days, Cooder, the producer, and de Marcos had a large group of enthusiastic musicians ready to record. They laid down the tracks at Havana’s EGREM Studios, which RCA Records once owned. Not much of the equipment had changed since the 1950s, and even though Cooder’s Spanish was minimal, he and the other men managed to communicate through other means than speaking – namely through their music.

It took six days to record 14 tracks, resulting in an album that has since gone on to become an international sensation. In 1998, German director Wim Wenders filmed the performance of the Buena Vista Social Club in Amsterdam, followed by a concert at Carnegie Hall. He interviewed the musicians and compiled footage to create the documentary, Buena Vista Social Club. This documentary won many accolades, including an Academy Award and Best Documentary at the European Film Awards. 

The success of the film and album ignited a newfound international interest in traditional Cuban music, which flowed on to Latin American music also. Some of the Club’s performers released successful solo albums, and they have gone on to perform collaborations with other international artists from different musical genres. 

Years ago, I was fortunate enough to catch the Buena Vista Social Club playing a live performance in Melbourne, Australia. Even better, a friend, who had some amazing musical connections, managed to get me back stage to meet members of the group. I chatted in Spanish with these warm and friendly musicians, the whole experience feeling surreal. That is one of my best memories, and I wish I could have captured it in a photo. Too bad there were no camera phones back then.

As time slowly ticks by, the world is sadly losing the original members of the Buena Vista Social Club. Compay Segundo, who wrote Buena Vista’s flagship song, Chan Chan, passed away in 2003, at a very respectable age of 96. When asked about his longevity, Segundo’s reply was “mutton, consommé, and rum.” Forever the optimist, Segundo predicted he’d live to be 115, but unfortunately passed away much earlier. On the hundredth anniversary of his birth, Havana held a concert in his honor. His closest friends made up the orchestra, and no doubt, it would have been a very moving experience for both the musicians and the audience.

There are several surviving original members who now tour under the name of the Orquesta Buena Vista Social Club. Even though many are in their late 80s and early 90s, these musicians still delight audiences of all ages, and introduce new fans to their music with every concert. 

It’s incredible to think how a couple of men not obtaining a travel visa to Cuba kicked-off what has to be one of history’s most impressive musical projects. Although it would have been disappointing to the men from Mali to miss out on their trip to Cuba, the world is a much better place now that we can share in the musical delights of the Buena Vista Social Club. Funny how serendipity works.

And of course, for your viewing pleasure:

Hip Hop With A Persian Accent

In the Bible, Salome is a dancer who convinces King Herod to serve up John the Baptist’s head on a silver platter. In Oscar Wilde’s eponymous play, she is a seductress who takes revenge on John the Baptist after he rejects her affections. In 21^st-century Iran, Salome is the Islamic Republic’s first female rapper and a rising star in the underground music scene.

It’s not easy to be a female hip-hop artist in Iran. Not only are women banned from singing in public, but all forms of popular music are subject to strict controls by the Iranian Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance (also known as Ershad), which licenses all artistic expression, from novels and films to music lyrics, in conformity with Islamic sensibilities. Any lyrics that even hint of politics or social criticism are unlikely to get past Ershad’s censors, a circumstance that drives many hip-hop artists literally underground – into basement recording studios and makeshift concert halls.

Others, like Salome, turn to the Internet to distribute their music, selling songs from websites and iTunes, posting videos on YouTube. The fact that such outlets are equally frowned upon (Iran blocks access to many sites) does not deter these artists from reaching their audience however they can.

Born in 1985, Salome spent her childhood in Turkey and Azerbaijan and began to write hip-hop lyrics in high school. (She still considers herself more of a poet than a musician, claiming that she lacks the necessary musical technique.) Rap became her way of coping with the isolation she felt after moving to Iran and dealing with a new culture. She speaks Turkish and English but performs exclusively in Farsi, a language whose rhythm and melody make it a perfect vehicle for an art form that is as much poetry as music.

Salome’s first big break came in 2003, when Hichkas, one of Iran’s top rappers (whose name means “Nobody”), invited her to contribute a verse to one of his songs. Three years later, she collaborated with Shirali, an Iranian-German rapper, on the album, Delirium. Next came solo singles, released on the Internet, and a 2010 album called Paranoid Descent. She won first prize in the hip-hop category of the 2008 Tehran Avenue Music Festival for her song, “Shak” (Doubt). And she was a finalist for the 2010 Freedom to Create Prize, an international art award that promotes social justice.

Many of Salome’s lyrics have a political theme. “Sabz Shodim Dar In Khak” (Grown Green on This Land), written in the aftermath of Iran’s 2009 presidential election, which many citizens felt was rigged, urges Iranians to unite and not be tricked by power-hungry authorities. “Dad Bezan Sedat Berese” (Scream to Let Your Voice Be Heard) is about Israel’s 2008 attacks on Gaza, and Salome criticizes her compatriots who would take Israel’s side simply to spite their government for its anti-Israel propaganda. (Many Iranians mistrust their government so much that they will automatically adopt the view opposite to the one put forward by the clerics.)

Nevertheless, Salome describes herself as an “apolitical” artist. “I have suffered more for love than I ever have for politics,” she said in an interview with The Guardian earlier this year. Yet even her apolitical songs have a deeply personal or psychological angle. These are lyrics about inner strength and independence of spirit, expressed in songs such as “Ankabut” (Spider) and “Hoboot” (Fallen). When Salome sings about lost love (as she does in Hoboot), she doesn’t wallow in the misery of a broken heart but looks ahead to the healing that comes with moving on.

The closest this rapper will come to giving her music a label is to call it “conscious rap,” which she describes as a genre in which the artist is politically and socially aware, conscious of her environment. But Salome prefers to avoid categories, which she feels limit freedom of expression. She’s a free spirit who would choose to be an underground rapper even if her country’s restrictive laws on artistic expression didn’t force her out of public view. She prefers to record her own songs at home rather than sign with a record label, which would mean making concessions to someone else’s creative vision.

And despite the Islamic Republic’s ban on women singing in public, Salome has little patience with the view of Iranian women as victims of oppression. She sees her own difficulties in finding outlets for her art as no different than those of the men. After all, male rappers are also prohibited from performing in Iran. Instead of focusing on the limitations imposed on Iranian women, she celebrates their inner strength and determination, the opportunities they create for themselves, and the respect that is their due.

Salome is well aware of the risks she faces by practicing an illegal art form. She refuses to divulge her real name, is careful not to put her family in danger, and lives “conservatively” (as she puts it), not drawing attention to herself in her daily life. But unlike many other underground musicians who have left Iran to pursue their musical careers in a less restrictive environment, Salome chooses to remain in Tehran. Her songs are filled with love for her country and pride in her culture, so why would she want to live anywhere else, far from the culture and society that inspire her art?

To see Salome in action, here is a selection of her videos: