Latest / The Story of Uzbekistan: Silk Road Kingdoms and Soviet Legacy — Fexingo History / The Shashmaqam: Uzbekistan's Lost Court Music
Transcript
- Lucas: So we've talked a lot about the politics and the conquests of Uzbekistan, but I want to take us somewhere else today — into the sound of the region. Specifically, the Shashmaqam, the classical court music that was once the heartbeat of Bukhara, Samarkand, and Khiva. Luna: Shashmaqam — that means 'six maqams' right? Lucas: Exactly. Maqam is a melodic mode system, similar to the Persian dastgah or the Arabic maqam, but Shashmaqam is a specific Central Asian tradition. It's a cycle of six suites, each based on a different mode, and each suite has several sections — instrumental pieces, songs, and poetry. The lyrics are drawn from classical Persian and Tajik poets like Hafez, Saadi, and Jami. Lucas: The tradition goes back at least to the 10th century, when the great philosopher and musician Abu Nasr al-Farabi wrote about music theory. But it really crystallized in the 16th century under the Shaybanids in Bukhara. By the 19th century, the court of the Emir of Bukhara had a full ensemble of musicians and singers who performed Shashmaqam at feasts, weddings, and ceremonies. Luna: So it was like the official soundtrack of the emirate. Lucas: Exactly. And it wasn't just music — it was a marker of civilization, of refinement. The Emir himself was often a patron, and some emirs were musicians. The great 19th-century court musician Shokh Burkhan was a master of the tanbur, a long-necked lute. He composed many pieces that are still part of the repertoire. Lucas: But the music wasn't confined to the palace. It was also performed in Sufi lodges — the khanaqahs — because the poetry and the repetition of phrases had a spiritual dimension. The slow, meditative opening sections, called 'tasnif', could put listeners into a trance-like state. Luna: I can imagine that. There's something hypnotic about that kind of music. Lucas: Then came the Russian conquest. The Russians didn't suppress music outright — they actually recorded some folk songs — but they saw the court music as decadent and backward. Still, Shashmaqam survived because it was passed down orally from master to student. Jewish musicians in Bukhara were particularly important as preservers. They were allowed to perform in the mahalla — the Jewish quarter — and they kept the tradition alive. Lucas: The real threat came with the Soviet Union. The Bolsheviks viewed Shashmaqam as a relic of feudalism and religion. The Sufi connection was especially problematic. In the 1920s and 30s, many musicians were arrested or forced to stop performing. The great maqam singer and tanbur player Ustod Shodi was executed during the purges. Luna: That's devastating. How did the tradition not just vanish? Lucas: It almost did. But in the 1940s and 50s, the Soviet regime had a change of heart — or at least a pragmatic one. They realized they could use 'national heritage' to build a distinct Uzbek identity within the USSR, as long as it was stripped of its religious and monarchical associations. So they allowed a sanitized version of Shashmaqam to be performed on state radio and in concert halls. Lucas: The key figure here was Yunus Rajabi, a composer and musicologist who transcribed the whole Shashmaqam cycle from memory and from surviving musicians. He worked with the state to produce written scores and recordings. Without him, the tradition might have been lost. But his versions were censored — he had to remove any overtly Sufi lyrics or references to the emir. Luna: So he had to clean it up for Soviet approval. Lucas: Exactly. And that's a controversy to this day. Some musicians say the Soviet-era Shashmaqam is a pale imitation of the real thing — too fast, too rigid, missing the improvisational spirit. Others say that without those transcriptions, nothing would have survived. After independence in 1991, there was a revival. Musicians started going back to the old recordings and the oral traditions. Lucas: In 2003, UNESCO proclaimed Shashmaqam a Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity. That helped raise awareness. Today, there are schools in Tashkent and Bukhara where young people learn the tanbur, the dutar, and the doira. But it's still a niche art form — not many people listen to it regularly. Luna: Let me ask about the instruments. The tanbur is the lead, right? Lucas: Yes. The tanbur is a long-necked lute with two silk strings, tuned in fourths. It has a warm, resonant sound. The dutar is a two-stringed lute with a pear-shaped body, used for rhythm and melody. And the doira is a frame drum, like a tambourine, that provides the rhythm. Sometimes there's also a ghijak, a spike fiddle, and a nay, a reed flute. The vocalist is the center — the singer has to master the microtonal inflections and the poetic delivery. Luna: It sounds incredibly demanding. Lucas: It is. A full performance of the Shashmaqam can last over ten hours. Each maqam — there are six — has multiple sections: the instrumental 'mushkilot', the slow vocal 'nasr', and the faster 'tarona'. The musician has to memorize an enormous repertoire. Traditionally, learning was by ear, with the master playing a phrase and the student repeating it. It could take decades. Lucas: One of the great 20th-century masters was Orolov brothers — well, specifically the Orolov family from the Ferghana Valley. They kept the Ferghana-Tashkent style of Shashmaqam alive. There's a famous recording from the 1960s of them performing the maqam 'Rost' that still gives me chills. Luna: I want to hear that. But also, I'm struck by how much this music is a blend — Persian poetry, Turkic instruments, Sufi spirituality, Jewish preservation, Soviet censorship... It's like a sonic map of Uzbekistan's history. Lucas: That's exactly right. Shashmaqam is a living archive. And there's a tension today between authenticity and innovation. Some younger musicians experiment with electric instruments or fusion with jazz. Others insist on strict adherence to the traditional form. It's a healthy debate, but it shows the tradition is alive, not frozen. Lucas: I think that's the key. As long as people are arguing about how to play it, it's still a living tradition. And every time someone picks up a tanbur and starts to play, they're connecting to a chain that goes back to al-Farabi, to the courts of the emirs, to the Sufi lodges, and to the resilience of artists who kept playing even when it was dangerous. Luna: That's a beautiful way to put it. Thanks for introducing me to this world. Lucas: My pleasure. If you ever get a chance to hear a live performance in Bukhara — there's a small venue at the Nadir Divanbegi madrasa — take it. It's an experience you won't forget.