interview with IDIN SAMIMI MOFAKHAM
Idin Samimi Mofakham is a unique Iranian composer, an inspiring person, and a friend with whom I had the joy of conducting this interview. We talk about the tradition of Western classical music in Iran, the interruptions and rebirth of music education after the revolution, current compositional trends, and his personal journey from heavy metal to microtonality and experimental creation. The conversation also touches on the political dimension of music, festival curatorship, and his research into ancient Iranian tuning systems, which he now pursues in Norway.
How would you describe the tradition of Western classical music in Iran?
Western classical music was introduced to Iran around 1850, and by the early 20th century, institutions began offering formal education in both Iranian and Western classical traditions. However, the 1979 revolution marked a turning point—the momentum was abruptly halted for several decades. It wasn’t until the 1990s that music education resumed, albeit cautiously, in schools and universities.
Given these interruptions, Western classical music in Iran is still relatively young and has faced a complex, uneven development. Despite limited institutional support, a growing number of Iranian musicians have managed to establish themselves internationally—as composers, performers, and conductors. This speaks to the resilience of the artistic community.
That said, the popularity of Western classical music among the general public remains low. There is a lack of access—mainstream media, state-funded venues, and arts programming offer little to no exposure. We have no structured music education in public schools, which means most children grow up without discovering whether they have musical talent. I believe the state has an obligation to ensure equal access to the arts, but in the past few decades, successive governments have invested in everything except cultural development or public education in the arts.
I’ve explored these dynamics in more detail in my article "From Dar ol-Fonun to the Tehran Contemporary Music Festival." It delves into the intersections of policy, ideology, education, and even the impact of historical events like the Second World War, the Islamic Revolution, and the Iran-Iraq War on the country’s musical life.
Idin Samimi Mofakham (photo: Martyna Kosecka)
Given the uneven development of the music scene you described, what compositional trends are currently shaping Iranian music?
In recent years, spectral music has gained significant traction among younger Iranian composers. While I’ve been living outside Iran for the past five years, I’ve remained deeply engaged with the musical community—particularly through independent, non-governmental educational initiatives and online platforms. This ongoing connection allows me to stay attuned to the evolving compositional trends and aesthetic concerns within the scene.
There is a growing interest among emerging composers in exploring microtonality, often inspired by Iran’s rich heritage of classical modal systems. Researchers such as Arshia Samsaminia, Saman Samadi, and myself have contributed to this shift by encouraging a deeper investigation of traditional Iranian microtonal practices through the lens of spectral thinking. This has led to some exciting and original approaches—where the spectral paradigm becomes a tool for reconnecting with indigenous tuning systems rather than simply replicating the French school of spectralism. That said, many composers are still rooted in the aesthetics of classic French spectralism, and the transition toward more localized and research-based approaches is ongoing.
Turning to your personal story, how did your path as a musician begin?
As a teenager, I never imagined I’d become a composer. My dream was to become a writer, and music was just a hobby. I was into heavy metal back then—Sepultura, Slayer, that kind of thing. We had a half-broken classical guitar at home, and I knew someone who gave guitar lessons. I asked him to teach me how to play metal, and he agreed—but only if I learned music theory, some classical repertoire, and jazz fundamentals first. That path gradually led me toward different kinds of music than I’d initially intended.
Eventually, I applied to the classical guitar program at the Tehran Conservatory. Around 2000, I formed my first experimental band, Migraine. It was an eclectic mix—we played everything from jazz standards to slow rock to early Philip Glass. But our most intense and authentic moments came during improvisations. At the time, we didn’t even know what "free improvisation" was—we were just doing it intuitively, isolated from the broader world.
Eventually, I dropped out of the conservatory. The curriculum wasn’t fulfilling my curiosity, and I realized being just a classical guitarist wasn’t enough. Looking back, I owe it all to that broken guitar and my teacher who nudged me toward a deeper engagement with music.
But your story didn’t end there, did it?
Not at all. In 2005, I left Iran to study composition and musicology at the Komitas State Conservatory in Yerevan, Armenia. I stayed there until 2011. When I returned to Iran, I became deeply involved in musical life—co-founding the Composition and Music Theory Department at the University of Applied Science and Technology, and later, co-founding the Tehran Contemporary Music Festival with my wife and collaborator, Martyna Kosecka, along with two close friends. The festival ran for four editions and was dedicated to new and experimental music.
In 2019, I moved to Norway to pursue a PhD at the Norwegian Academy of Music in Oslo, focusing on the application of ancient Iranian tuning systems in contemporary music. I’m currently based in Oslo, working as a freelance composer, researcher, and performer. Much of my time is spent exploring these tuning systems in practice—both as a solo composer and as part of SpectroDuo, the experimental ensemble Martyna and I formed in 2013.
Since moving to Norway and continuing your research into Iranian tuning systems, what projects are you currently working on?
Right now, I’m focused on several chamber music projects for smaller ensembles. My primary interest remains the exploration of microtonality—specifically, the integration of ancient Iranian tuning systems and modal structures into contemporary compositional frameworks. Beyond the technical application of these systems, my work is informed by a broader philosophical inquiry, drawing on post-structuralist thinkers such as Gilles Deleuze. I'm particularly interested in how concepts like multiplicity, becoming, and deterritorialization resonate with non-Western intonational practices, especially those grounded in just intonation and the classical microtonal traditions of Iran. This intersection allows me to approach tuning not merely as a sonic phenomenon, but as a conceptual field—one that destabilizes fixed hierarchies and opens space for fluid, non-linear musical forms. In this sense, my compositional practice becomes both an artistic and philosophical exploration of identity, memory, and the politics of sound.
When organizing the Tehran Contemporary Music Festival, where you hosted many European artists, did you notice differences in how Iranian audiences responded to contemporary music?
Absolutely. The Iranian audience tends to be extremely curious—often more so than their European counterparts. That hunger likely stems from decades of artistic isolation. There was a real desire to discover, to engage with something unfamiliar. At every edition of the festival, regardless of the repertoire—whether it was European avant-garde, local composers, or even harsh industrial noise—we never had fewer than 100 or 200 people in attendance. That kind of enthusiasm is rare, and it speaks to a broader thirst for cultural connection and novelty.
Given your background — and the current global tensions, especially in the East—do you see music as something that should engage politically, or stay separate from such concerns?
That’s a deeply personal and complex question. I believe music can be political, and in some contexts, it must be. For me, composing is not about escaping the world—it’s about confronting it with the tools I have. Art has the capacity to illuminate, to resist, to mourn, and to preserve memory. This is especially crucial in regions where histories are silenced or manipulated.
That said, I don’t think every piece of music has to carry an overt political message. Sometimes, the very act of creating art under oppressive conditions is a political gesture in itself. For me, the challenge is to remain honest to the material and the context—whether that leads to abstraction or confrontation. In my recent work, I’ve been exploring themes of loss and remembrance, not as slogans, but as meditations. In this way, music becomes a space where politics, metaphysics, and personal memory intersect—quietly, but powerfully.