In the hands of Kurdish-Syrian “King of Keyboard” Rizan Said, the synthesiser becomes an improbable orchestra, its sounds stretched and distorted. His musical vocabulary draws on the traditions of the Jazeera region, where Kurdish, Arab, Syriac and Armenian cultures have long intersected, and on shaabi, a broad term for popular, often working-class music associated with street celebrations, weddings and communal dancing. Through turbo-fast ornamentation and extravagant pitch bends, Said transforms these familiar musical idioms into something poised somewhere between folk music and science fiction. His earlier album King of Keyboard, with titles such as “Electric Mawwal”, “When Vans Turned Into Clubs” and “Cosmopolitan Hacha”, already suggested an imagination equally at home with traditional musical forms and electronic experimentation.
His third solo album, Ma Waraa Al-Shaabi (Beyond Shaabi), recorded in Iceland with producer Randall Dunn and co-producer Mark Gergis, ventures beyond the exuberant dance music that made his reputation. The opening “Choubi Kawniyya” (Cosmic Choubi) builds towards an extended rhythmic frenzy, while “Baladi Aajil” (Urgent Baladi) and “Ufuq 2160” (Horizon 2160) propel Said’s wildly elastic melodies through a dense, intricately interlocking network of percussion. His keyboards buzz, squeal and dart between registers, their almost cartoonish exuberance held in check by the relentless discipline of the dance pulse.
But there is another dimension to the record. Midway through “Ufuq 2160”, an ominous electronic drone begins to emerge beneath the rhythmic frenzy, while “Mawwal Al Ather” (Mawwal of the Ether) dispenses almost entirely with the dance rhythm. Against a backdrop of subterranean rumblings and cavernous reverberations, Said’s synthesiser assumes the role of an improvising singer, its wavering notes giving way to feverish ornamental runs.
The nearly ten-minute “Naba Kurdi” (Kurdish Pulse) reconnects the album with Said’s musical heritage, while “Hejja Azali” moves from a solemn, almost ceremonial introduction into a deliriously animated dance, its shrill, sinuous melodies tumbling over rattling percussion and pounding electronic beats. The closing “Al Umq” (The Depth) returns to this exuberant interplay, albeit with a more solemn undertone, before the rhythmic machinery abruptly falls silent, leaving a few delicate, reverberating notes suspended in the air.
Throughout Ma Waraa Al-Shaabi, the synthesiser continually blurs the distinction between traditional and electronic music, exaggerating the inflections of acoustic instruments until they acquire an identity entirely their own. The production introduces darker, more spacious textures without diminishing the immediacy of Said’s playing. His relationship with the music of his native Ras al-Ayn has acquired particular poignancy through displacement, yet there is little nostalgia in these restless electronic transformations. The melodies carry the memory of a place and its musical traditions, even as they are propelled, at exhilarating speed, into an imaginary future.
photo by Antje Taiga
To help us get into the groove we reached out to Rizan Said who talked us through the production process behind Ma Waraa Al-Shaabi.
You began playing percussion and reed instruments before becoming one of the musicians who transformed the sound of the Jazeera through electronic keyboards. Your approach to the synthesiser seems to go far beyond imitating traditional instruments such as the zurna, saz or buzuq. The sounds retain something of their original character but acquire an exaggerated, almost otherworldly quality, particularly through the rapid ornamentation and pitch bends.
How did you develop this distinctive vocabulary, and do you still think of the instruments you’re emulating when you play, or has the keyboard become an entirely separate instrument with its own expressive possibilities?
I grew up in Ras al-Ayn, in the Jazeera region of Syria, where music was part of everyday life. From an early age, I was surrounded by Kurdish and Arabic music and the sounds of traditional instruments. I started with percussion and wind instruments, which helped me understand rhythm, melody, and the ornamentation that gives our music its character.
When I began playing the keyboard, I wasn’t interested in simply copying traditional instruments. I wanted to take something from their spirit and create my own sound. I was always searching for sounds that I could hear in my imagination. Sometimes I would start with something inspired by the zurna, saz, or buzuq, but what came out was completely different. Over the years, through experimenting with sounds, fast ornamentation, and pitch bends, I gradually developed my own way of playing.
Today, I see the keyboard as an instrument in its own right. Of course, the traditional instruments are still somewhere in my mind because I grew up with them. But when I play, I don’t feel limited by them. The keyboard gives me the freedom to express ideas that might not be possible on those instruments.
For me, the most important thing has always been finding a sound that expresses what I feel, rather than trying to reproduce something exactly.
Ma Waraa Al-Shaabi translates as Beyond Shaabi, and the music certainly seems intent on stretching the boundaries of familiar dance forms. Tracks such as “Baladi Aajil” and “Ufuq 2160” are driven by exuberant, intricately interlocking rhythms, while “Mawwal Al Ather” dispenses with the dance pulse almost entirely, allowing the keyboard to assume the expressive role of an improvising singer against a dark electronic backdrop.
What does going beyond shaabi mean to you? Is it a question of expanding the musical language you have developed over the years, or of discovering possibilities that the demands of live performance and the wedding circuit might not always have allowed?
The title Ma Waraa Al-Shaabi, or Beyond Shaabi, reflects something I have felt for many years. I love popular and traditional music. It is part of who I am, and I spent a large part of my life performing it, especially during my years with Omar Souleyman. But my musical interests have never been limited to that world. I have always been interested in composition, electronic music, experimental sounds, and film music. I enjoy creating music that tells a story or creates a particular atmosphere, even without a dance rhythm.
When you perform at weddings or live concerts, there is a certain energy between you and the audience. People want to dance, and you respond to that energy. I love that experience, but it is only one side of what I do.
In the studio, I have more freedom to explore different ideas. I can build a piece around a melody, an unusual sound, or even silence. I don’t always need a strong rhythm to make the music expressive. That is what I wanted to explore with this album. Some tracks still have the speed, energy, and rhythmic complexity that people associate with my playing. Others move into more atmospheric, experimental, and cinematic territory. I don’t see these as separate musical worlds. They are all part of my musical personality.
For me, going beyond shaabi doesn’t mean leaving traditional music behind. It means taking everything I have learned from it and seeing how far I can go.
The album was recorded in Iceland with Randall Dunn, Mark Gergis and Úlfur Hansson, bringing you back together with some of the people involved in the Crystalline recordings with Omar Souleyman fifteen years earlier. Listening to the record, I was struck by the contrast between the immediacy and exuberance of your keyboard playing and the darker, more spacious electronic textures that occasionally surround it.
How did the recording environment and your collaborators influence the music? Were these atmospheric elements already part of your compositions, or did they emerge through experimentation in the studio?
Recording in Iceland was a special experience for me, especially because I was working again with people I had known through music for many years. Working with Randall Dunn, Mark Gergis, and Úlfur Hansson gave us the opportunity to approach the music from different perspectives. We all came with different musical experiences, and I think that made the collaboration interesting.
Usually, I begin with a melody or a musical idea. The melody is very important to me, and from there I start thinking about the sounds, the arrangement, and the atmosphere around it. Some of the ideas were already there before we entered the studio, but other elements developed naturally while we were recording and experimenting together.
I like contrasts in music. Sometimes my keyboard playing is very fast and energetic, but I enjoy placing that energy against something darker, slower, or more mysterious. It creates a different feeling and allows the listener to hear the melody in another way.
What I appreciated about the recording process was that we didn’t have to force the music into a particular style. We could listen, experiment, change things, and let each piece develop in its own direction.
I think everyone brought something valuable to the album. The production added new dimensions to the music, but it was also important for me that my own sound and playing style remained at the centre of it.
The Jazeera has historically been a meeting place for Kurdish, Arab, Syriac and Armenian musical traditions, and your career spans a remarkable transformation in how that music has been performed, recorded and circulated, from local weddings and cassette recordings to international festivals. The title “Naba Kurdi” (Kurdish Pulse) also suggests a particularly personal connection to that heritage.
How do you understand your relationship with those different traditions today, especially after so many years of performing internationally? And how has displacement, both your own experience and the wider upheavals in Syria, affected the way you think about preserving and transforming the music you grew up with?
For me, the music of the Jazeera is much more than a musical tradition. It is connected to my childhood, my memories, and the place where I come from. I was born and grew up in Ras al-Ayn, a city where different communities and cultures lived alongside one another. Kurdish, Arab, Syriac, and Armenian musical traditions were all part of the wider cultural environment of the region. I grew up listening to different kinds of music, and those sounds became part of my musical identity. I feel a strong connection to my Kurdish roots, but I also believe that growing up in such a culturally rich region gave me a much broader musical understanding.
Over the years, I experienced how this music moved from local weddings and cassette recordings to international stages. Performing in Europe, America, and other parts of the world showed me that music can communicate with people who don’t speak our language or know anything about where we come from.
Displacement has also changed the way I think about music. Ras al-Ayn is not just the city where I was born. It is where my musical journey began. I still carry the sounds of that place with me, the celebrations, the people, the streets, and the music I heard growing up. When you are forced to leave a place, memories become even more important. Music is one of the ways I can keep that connection alive. But I don’t believe preserving traditional music means repeating it exactly as it was fifty or a hundred years ago. Music has to remain alive. It has to grow and speak to new generations. A piece like “Naba Kurdi” reflects my connection to my Kurdish musical heritage, but I also want to take those influences into new musical spaces, whether electronic, experimental, or cinematic.
After so many years of travelling, performing, and working with musicians from different backgrounds, I feel that my roots have become even more important to me. They don’t limit what I can create. They give my music its character. I may live far from Ras al-Ayn today, but the music I grew up with is still part of everything I do.
(Gianmarco Del Re)
