Iranians pump up the volume for banned tunes
Aryo, 18, has just enrolled in university. As he drives around Tehran in his father's car, Aryo and his friends bang their heads to a western power metal track. To approving nods, he says, "Metal music is great. We listen to everything from hard rock bands such as AC/DC to power metal bands such as Halloween, even Scandinavian death and black metal bands. We love metal music."

But when young men drive through areas where the morality police are known to patrol regularly, they roll up their windows and turn down the stereo a bit.

Because as far as the Iranian censors are concerned, there are only three genres of music acceptable in the Islamic republic: Iranian folk music; Iranian classical or "traditional" music; and Iranian pop music. The sanctioned pop style resembles melodramatic Italian music of the 1970s, with some modern rhythms incorporated. Lyrically speaking, love rules, along with the occasional "message" song about parents, children, or religious figures. From rock to electronica to jazz, all other genres are officially prohibited, including the pop music produced by émigré musicians – very similar to the sanctioned domestic brand – many of whom live in and around Los Angeles.

In January, five Tehran musicians were arrested and jailed on charges of collaborating with LA-based musicians and satellite channels. The police raid was apparently prompted by the recording and distribution of a song with political content that the regime found objectionable.

One of those arrested, Iman Hojat, has already been tried; he was fined for recording illegal music in his studio and released. The other four, including well-known songwriter Roozbeh Bemani, are on bail and awaiting trial. They face fines of up to $15,000 (£9,700) and possible bans on producing and even writing music.

In contrast to several neighbouring countries where the people are more religious than their governments, the Iranian people in general, and Tehranis in particular, cannot live without their tunes – an observation confirmed over a series of conversations around the capital.

Shahram, a 20-year-old university student, listens to American R&B. He sings along to his favourite songs while driving his Kia Pride – a Korean version of the Ford Festiva – and is always looking for Persian R&B, which is as scarce as cocktail lounges in Tehran. His friend Pejman, 19, finds himself in hip-hop, which he regards as the only true avenue of expression for young people in Iran. His old Renault 5 is equipped with speakers that weigh almost as much as the rest of the car. The massive subwoofers pound out Iranian rap by artists such as Yaas, Touhi, Shahin Najafi, 2AFM, and Reza Ya, produced both in the country's underground music scene and abroad. He also listens to international stars such as Eminem, 50 Cent, and Snoop Dogg. As with many young Iranians, Pejman's lack of fluency in English doesn't interfere with his love of American music. Some even listen to rap as language lessons.
Generational divide

When it comes to such "urban" western genres, there's a clear generational divide. Gholam Reza, 60, a building superintendent, listens only to Iranian classical and folk music and totally despises rap, calling it "wild and uncontrollable". Mohammad, a 48-year-old shopkeeper, listens to classical music in his car. His main problem with hip-hop is the volume at which other drivers play it. Shahram, in turn, thinks that the older generation has no taste in music.

One of the best ways to take the pulse of the capital is to spend a few hours travelling around via taxi. The drivers come in for particular scrutiny from the morality police, but that does not stop them from listening to their favourite music.

Around noon on an especially smoggy winter day, I enter a yellow cab on Motahari Avenue. My goal was Vali Asr Square 2 miles away. There are no other passengers yet, so I sit in the front seat of the aging Paykan – Iran's classic domestically produced automobile – next to the driver, 53-year-old Ahmad. As he picks up three more passengers, filling the back seat, he greets each with a big hello and a broad smile on his unshaved face. While the midday prayers blare from mosque speakers and every legal radio station, in Ahmad's taxi there is music. Albeit at a low volume, he is playing Mohammad Reza Shajarian's Tofangat ra zamin begzar (Put your gun down). Shajarian is a renowned traditional musician who had to flee the country after he expressed his support for the protests following the disputed 2009 presidential elections.
As the last passenger, a black-veiled woman in her late 40s, steps in, Ahmad turns his stereo down to a barely audible hum. Noticing a change of atmosphere in the cab, the lady says that she is OK with the music and doesn't mind it playing even during noon prayers. By the time we reach Haft-e Tir Square, about a quarter of the way to my destination, I have engaged Ahmad in a conversation about music. He loves traditional Iranian music, Shajarian most of all, and believes that lyrics should convey worthwhile social and philosophical messages. He says music plays a very important role in his life, providing a mental escape that calms him down and helps him get through the day.

During a pause at the intersection of Hafez Avenue and Karimkhan Boulevard, I turn around and ask one of my fellow passengers, a grave-looking man in his early 60s dressed in a black suit, for his thoughts on music and specifically if he listens to it when he is behind the wheel.

"Music does not bring bread to the table," he replies with a touch of sarcasm.

"What is the use of music in these trying times," he says, tapping Ahmad's shoulder and indicating for him to stop.
Painful din

Once I've done the shopping for which I came to Hasan Abad, I walk over to Vali Asr Avenue and take my fourth and final cab of the day, a run-down yellow Paykan. As soon as I enter, my ears are assaulted by the loud, heavily distorted sound coming out of the decrepit old speakers stationed directly behind the back seat. I can tell the singer is Omid, a Los Angeles–based star of the kooche-bazaari style, though it is impossible to parse exactly what he's singing about.

The din is painful, but the atmosphere inside the cab is jubilant.

Majid, our 35-year-old driver, says he blasts his favourite music without concerning himself about whether his passengers, let alone the authorities, appreciate it. The kooche-bazaari he loves is a fun, danceable style, though the primary lyrical theme is broken hearts along the lines of classic American country music. Along with Omid, his favourite singers are Javad Yasari, Aghasi, Ahdieh, and Firoozeh, all of whose music is officially banned in Iran; kooche-bazaari in general comes in for frequent mockery by conservatives. It's difficult to sustain a conversation amid the tornado of sound, and the stereo – fed by an MP3 player via USB – keeps on pumping out carefree songs of love gone bad for the next 45 minutes, all the way from Imam Khomeini Boulevard back to Motahari Avenue.