Junooni

Contributed by Sheniz Janmohamed: Author of Bleeding Light, Spoken Word Artist, Junooni

I wasn’t born in Pakistan. Neither were my parents. I have no ties to the country, save for my love of its literature and music. And that’s why its soil runs through my veins.

While many of my peers from Pakistan have grown up on the music of Junoon, I grew into its music. It was in university that I discovered how the timeless lyrics of Bulleh Shah could find their way through the riffs of Salman Ahmad’s guitar, the exquisite pain in Ali Azmat’s voice and the brilliant bass of Brian O’Connell.  For it was Bulleh Shah who forced me to ask the question we all ask ourselves at one point in our lives, “Who am I?” A question so simple and so profound, a question sung in the desert and shouted in the streets, a question with no answer and every answer. A question a talented group of musicians had the courage to ask themselves when it wasn’t particularly fashionable to be “old school”. They made it fashionable, and they made it last.

While studying for exams, writing papers and contemplating my purpose on this planet, I listened to the rhythms of Junoon and watched their videos on youtube. Junoon’s music is a repository of sufi poetry, a time capsule of an era, a tear shed at the loss of innocence, a quest for truth and a revolution for change. It brought me closer to a Pakistan that was more complex, nuanced and real than the one I read about in the newspapers. Junoon was the pulse of a generation, and it continues to circulate in our collective bloodstream.

While I admired all the band members of Junoon, I had a soft spot for Salman Ahmad. Salman Ahmad was my kind of guy. The all encompassing Sufi with a gypsy heart, he embodied the passion that so few of us have the courage to display. The first time I heard him live was at the Mystical Journey tour in Toronto, a show featuring a troupe of Sufi musicians from around the world. He accompanied a graceful kathak dancer who effortlessly whirled in and out of circles, matched in fanaa’ by the subtle rhythms of “Heer”.

I had no backstage pass, no way to tell him how much Junoon influenced my life. But the fact that I had seen him perform live was enough...or so I thought.

Years later, I heard Salman Ahmad was coming to Toronto, and would be performing at the very festival I would be performing at.  The opening night of the festival, I waited to be interviewed by a less than enthusiastic journalist, and out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a familiar face. Salman Ahmad, decked out in a fedora hat and an indigo tie-dye  shirt, was walking my way. Before I had a chance to inform the organizers, he had reached out for my hand to shake it. For a good part of the evening, I stood next to him, his sons and his wife Samina. When you meet someone you had admired from a distance, they can either disappoint you or exceed your expectations. Salman Ahmad and his family were kind beyond expectations. And perhaps this is the the essence of being Junooni. It’s not just about the music, it’s about how you live your life every day. It’s about being true to your expression in every expression.

Salman Ahmad performed the next night, after the rain had soaked the grass, our clothes and the pavement. The air was cool and pleasant, and a large crowd gathered around the outdoor stage to hear the songs of Junoon ring out through the city. As Salman took to the stage, the excitement became palpable. And there I was, right in front of the stage, staring up at an intermittent stream of coloured lights, dancing off the backs of the band members.

I was so close, I could see Ahmad’s rope of tigers eye hanging loosely around his wrist.

I was so close, I could feel the vibration of the bass pounding in my chest.

Toronto got a taste of Junoon’s classics that evening, and the audience couldn’t get enough--they sang along to every word, clapped in time and cheered until their voices became hoarse. Ahmad and John Alec performed a hypnotic tribute to Ustad Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, haunting and impeccable in its execution. Salman’s eyes were closed throughout the song, the light behind him shimmering like a halo as he moved his head back and forth in the rhythm of his guitar. The song was more than a song-- it was an act of prayer.  It was impossible for the audience not to feel the blessings of that devotional offering, that sacredness of sound.

And then Ahmad asked, “How many people from Punjab out there?”

And we knew what was coming. Bulleh Shah was from Punjab. The restless soul of Bulleh Shah was resurrected in the lungs of Salman Ahmad, of every Junooni, of every lover of Sufism. And therein lies the true beauty and legacy of Junoon- it’s ability to remind us of the wisdom of our beloved poets, to ask the hard questions, to take the risk of being authentic-- at any cost.

In those few hours, there was no separation between the audience and the performer. We were bound together by the light of junoon burning in our veins, that inner voice urging us to ask the eternal question.....bulleya ki jaana main kaun?

Junoon's 20th Anniversary album features timeless classics rendered in brilliant new ways by artists like Bilal Khan and Rohail Hyatt. Visit www.junoon.com to hear samples of the new tracks.