Al Gromer Khan - Sitar, Scents and Elevation

A composer and sitarist trained in India after years of dedicated apprenticeship under maestro Ustad Imrat Khan, German-born Al Gromer Khan, born in 1946, is among the most radiant figures in contemporary international spiritual music. His instrument appears on some of the finest albums by the legendary Popol Vuh, but it's in his solo work that he has developed a truly personal style.

Al, as a kid, what did you listen to?

In the years right after the war, I was always glued to the American AFN radio broadcasts. Even today, when I want to get into a cheerful mood, I put on Earl Scruggs and his banjo. As a result, everything I record actually draws on every possible and imaginable stimulus. So when I compose, all I can try to do is keep my music on a minimal, subtle level, where "less is more". But even within a formally minimal context, the focus has to remain the "soul".

The word "perfume" often appears in the titles of your albums and tracks: what symbolic meaning do you attach to it?

Well, I don't really appreciate symbolism as such; I don't like the idea that one thing must necessarily stand for another. In fact, I believe symbolism kills art, saddling it with an image that inevitably diminishes it, instead of letting it embody something new and original. That said, for me perfume is more a kind of ambiguity, a "poetic element" inherent in the arts, or if you prefer, something the rational mind can't grasp, and which, the moment you catch it, vanishes, while still giving whoever perceived it a taste of the sublime. Perfume can do that, but of course there are no guarantees.

Your style on the sitar: at times you seem closer to the best acoustic Ry Cooder, and thus to an essentially Western approach, than to Eastern masters like Ravi Shankar.

Funny that you mention Ravi. In 1966, when I was living in London after dodging the call-up for German military service, India started seeping into the lives of us young people, and more or less by chance I wandered into a small Soho club, the Singers Club; there were two young men sitting on a sort of makeshift stage: they were none other than Ravi and Alla Rakha, the tabla player and future father of another famous tabla player, Zakir Hussain. Listening to them were no more than 30 people, mostly Pakistanis in their best dark suits and ties, plus a few hippies wearing brightly colored kurta shirts decorated, naturally, with floral patterns. The two of them started at a very slow pace, and meanwhile the Pakistanis were shaking their heads.

They didn't like it?

Actually, it was only later that I found out that head-shaking was, for them, a sign of appreciation. As for the performance itself, it didn't impress me. As far as I was concerned, Indian music ended right there.

So where does your reverence for the sitar come from, then?

My whole relationship with the sitar, and everything connected to it, began with Vilayat Khan. He was the great magician. It all started with his concert at Westminster Abbey in '67. I sat down and was immediately struck by a kind of hypnosis. The maestro opened with a slow melodic ornamentation, and within a few minutes tears were streaming down my cheeks. It was only at the end of the performance—more than two hours later—that I came back to normal. Once I left the hall, I told myself: I have to do this too. So, over the following decades, all I did was express, through music, that something I discovered I had inside me and which, evidently, wanted to come out.

So no connection, then, with Western pop-rock guitarists?

Let's say I'm not crazy about long solos, in the style of Eric Clapton, nor about virtuosos like John McLaughlin, who in '68 asked me to sell him one of my sitars. Since he had Scottish ancestry, we couldn't agree on a price. I prefer musicians who create little riffs that then become magical rituals.

An example?

The riff played by Hubert Sumlin on Howlin' Wolf's "Smokestack Lightening", or Keith Richards's intro on "Gimme Shelter", or George Harrison's intro on the Beatles' "I Feel Fine". As for T-Bone Walker, I loved everything he did, both the atmosphere he created with his guitar and his blues voice, and the way he performed live.

What's the most valuable piece of advice your teacher, Ustad Imrat Khan, gave you?

He used to say things like: "One percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent toil and sweat". But also: "Don't blame your instrument, blame yourself".

Listening back to the album "Zuban" now, I can't quite figure out where you were trying to go with it: it's a studio exercise that's far removed from the purity you'd show in your later albums.

During your formative years, you tend to look for something that connects you to whatever trends are current at the time. But, alas, that's usually a fool's errand. In Munich I worked with a number of young musicians and learned how to work in a recording studio. Looking back, though, I've come to understand that what you're searching for is never actually found. Musically speaking, certain things just didn't connect with one another, and the right "state of mind" never came through. On top of that, the people I was experimenting with at the time released that material behind my back, without my consent. And there's no getting around it: every time I tried to sell my soul, so to speak, in those early years - doing something commercial so I wouldn't have to worry about paying the bills - it turned into an absolute disaster. The album "Kama Sutra" was a prime example of that, even if there are some pretty good sitar parts on it.

Of all the musicians you've met, who do you feel had reached the highest level of spiritual awareness through their own art?

There are so many great ones, each in their own way. Musicians who, at different stages of your life's growth, put you into a state of pure emotion. The most revelatory music I've ever heard in my life was Persian classical music, which I stumbled upon via shortwave radio and recorded onto cassette in Bombay back in '72. As for the sitar: Vilayat Khan, to me, embodied all sitar music, all classical music, and all world music.

I imagine his greatness didn't come from technical skill alone.

Indeed, it was also about his personality, his refined and elevated aesthetic sensibility. Vilayat could have just sat there smoking a bidi, the typical Indian cigarette with tobacco rolled in a tendu leaf, and it would still have been a memorable experience. But when it comes to spiritual evolution, it's always hard to express it fully in words. Spirituality, as I see it today, should remain something intimate and private. I despise musicians who make a big show of talking about their religious beliefs.

What do you want to remember about your collaboration with Florian Fricke's Popol Vuh?

I have to admit that, in those days, I was too obsessed with sitar practice, and everything else revolved solely around my own survival and the need to scrape together enough money to spend the winter season in India deepening my knowledge and practice. To be honest, I couldn't really relate to what Popol Vuh were trying to do. But there's one memory I hold dear, one of those things you never forget: I once asked director Werner Herzog to lend me 200 marks to pay for a sitar session, and he told me: "Listen, I know how difficult it is to play that instrument, so let me give you 400 instead." I was very fond of him.

What are your thoughts on Fricke, the composer and the man?

He was someone who worked by following a kind of inner guide, and I really liked that about him. I won't deny that we shared some pleasant moments together at the Bavaria Studios. Those sessions, moreover, usually paid well, so that was certainly a good thing. His use of alcohol and drugs, on the other hand, that's something I really couldn't stand.

Of all the Popol Vuh albums, there's one that's never mentioned, yet it pulses with real intensity: "Yoga".

Heheheh... let's just say that on that occasion Florian only took part in something that was my idea, my work, and my playing alongside "Indian musicians" (as the participants were generically credited on the back cover), whom I chose myself. He limited himself to holding a drone on the harmonium.

I'd like to ask you about a little-known figure, a tambura player with a substantial discography who also played in Popol Vuh: Klaus Wiese.

Look, just a few minutes ago I wrote a few things about him! And when I tried to go back to finish the text, I couldn't find it anymore, it was gone... he's probably pulled one of his little tricks on me again, good old Klaus. In the past I've written at length about our relationship: he was a friend, with all that implies. And true friendship, as you know, can go through stormy phases too. That's not a problem. Thanks to him I learned a couple of very important things. He was also one of the few people who understood exactly what I was trying to do with my humble work. May he rest in peace.

I'm not clear on what Wiese's contribution to the extraordinary "The Alchemy Of Happiness" actually was: the album is credited to both of you, but I don't see any indication that he played or composed anything on it.

Klaus knew when a piece of music had “energy” and when it didn’t. Ute – my wife, as well as CEO of Khanart and “the greatest queen in the entire universe known to me” – also asked me what Klaus’s actual contribution to “The Alchemy Of Happiness” was. I gave her the same answer I’m giving you: “He liked it”.

What do you think of his substantial body of recorded work?

Allow me a touch of self-deprecation when I tell you that I tried more than once to talk him out of making music, but he wouldn’t listen to me.

Of all your many journeys, which place tops them all?

India remains the top! From one moment to the next it could shift from paradise to hell. When I arrived there, in search of a spiritual Promised Land, I was at first shocked by certain socially insensitive behaviours of Indians, by the incessant, unbearable blare of car horns in the traffic-choked streets of the big cities, by the intolerable racket from the audience during the most delicate passages of Vilayat Khan's concerts. You have to wonder how a culture could give rise to a magic so refined, to a spiritual love so selfless, and at the same time to something as foolish and crude as the Holi Festival.

Your first reaction on arriving in India?

Shock. The servants were treated like slaves. The noise and the garish colours made me shudder. I could feel the ruthlessness of the rich and of the middle class – self-proclaimed gurus of modernity – towards the poor and the struggling. Even my famous music teacher, Imrat Khan, treated me with extraordinary ruthlessness through an endless string of demands. Things haven't improved much during India's "high-tech revolution" of the last forty years. Perhaps it's time for a bit of self-examination right now. Where are mystics like Meher Baba or Mahatma Gandhi when you need them most?

In your wild formative years, there was even a jam session with Marc Bolan.

During the period I lived in London on Wardour Street, in Soho, between '66 and '67, lots of people passed through my flat, which was above the St. Morris Club. Usually someone would pull out an acoustic guitar, the joints would get lit, tea would be served, and off we'd go. That period, and the whole so-called "Summer of Love", was really a lot of fun. Marc, despite his fame, wasn't one of the more intriguing characters. I remember him singing something like “Find a little wood and have a little sleep” (“Troviamo una bosco carino e facciamoci una dormitina”). He was into little spirits, fairies and hobbits, basically everything you'd find in Tolkien's books. That is, until a few years later, when he turned into a reissued Chuck Berry.

It was none other than Cat Stevens who introduced you to English poetry, though.

We used to meditate on maxims by William Blake such as “It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend”. Books like “Songs of Innocence” were often the subject of debate. Hippies in general were obsessed with Blake. Steve, as we called him, during the period when we saw each other regularly, between '69 and '70, was going through his first metamorphosis: from a pop phenomenon for teenagers to a folk-rock artist. We also talked a lot about Charles Dickens.

How did things work between you two?

He'd usually call me and simply say: “Can I come over?”. I knew we'd sit on the floor and he'd roll up some red Lebanese hash or green Moroccan. We'd have tea and talk, or strum guitars and beat on bongos. Literature was discussed mostly in terms of phonetics and semantics, in relation to song lyrics. We shared experiences together that I could never reveal. At the time, thanks to my job at Ronnie Scott's jazz club, I got to know a lot of people who were in vogue, like the Walker Brothers, Georgie Fame or Ronnie Lane of the Small Faces. But my closest friendship was with Steve.

What drove you two apart?

In the summer of '70 I left for Morocco and stayed there for a long time. I don't know if he's ever read my novel "Kurt e Bongo": he would certainly spot a lot of similarities with one of the characters.

Can you confirm it's you on backing vocals on Cat Stevens's moving "Fill My Eyes"?

Yes, I accompanied him a few times during recording sessions, usually at Olympic Studios in Barnes, west London. That particular time, coming back late at night through London's West End, he asked me if I wanted to be paid for the vocals. I told him: "Forget it, it's nothing." Over time, though, he treated me to some delicious Indian dinners; he was very generous in that respect. Once I went to Pye Studio at Marble Arch, where he was working on a song with the reggae singer Jimmy Cliff. The song was called "Honey Man". I played percussion and tambourine on it, but "Honey Man" was never released. My guess is the producer, Jimmy Miller, thought the lyrics were too gay.

Where does your attraction to writing come from?

Well, I have to say that I've kept my nose in a book my whole life. As a young man, I was also lucky enough to have a German teacher I liked a lot; in fact, she must have given me a top grade once. But joking aside, there was a period, about a quarter of a century ago now, when I felt my music wasn't being understood for what it was, that it was being labelled and pigeonholed into categories that didn't suit it at all; I really thought that most "consumers" would rather be served songs they were already familiar with than take a chance on something that might take them into unknown territory. So, to work my way out of that rather unpleasant situation, I thought: let's write! And it turned out to be great fun: after a few false starts, I learned the basic rules and found my own style, one that kept a quiet but still gripping rhythm.

What's the number one rule for a writer?

Rule number one is to tell the truth about what actually happened, and then tweak it a little to fit the story you have in mind. Because the underlying story has to come from real life, from things that really happened. To quote Goethe, "Draw on what comes from the mouths of ordinary people".

With "Future Lounge" (2002) you took a further step toward rarefaction.

That was one of the rare occasions when the first stage of conceiving an album was based on images. My old friend Nick Campbell, from the famous London architecture practice CZWG, had designed some lofts I absolutely loved. It was the late 1980s. I thought it would be great to draw a kind of ambient music from them, in the style of Brian Eno. And Nick let me use one of their photographs as the cover.

"Perfect Day", in 2024, is yet another demonstration of your unstoppable path toward essentiality.

All I care about is being able to work spontaneously from an idea, maybe just a couple of simple melodic phrases, in a special inner state, that is, right after being kissed by a Muse.

The electronics on your albums have an unmistakable warmth: how do you manage that?

Well, I start with something and then, after making a few decisions about composition or arrangement, I start stripping away whatever isn't necessary for that space, like when you want to tidy up a messy room so you can feel at ease in it. In that sense, I'm a kind of interior designer, and it's from that very condition that, as our prophet Eno taught us, ambient music was born.

On some of your albums you recommend listening at low volume. What are the benefits of listening at that volume?

The reason is this: as a boy, living in an Alpine village, I would sometimes hear music echoing from afar at night. Well, later on I wanted to recreate that memory, and it became a way of listening that still works for me today.

What disappointed you about the hippie movement?

As with any other event in history, the end of a movement coincides with its loss of innocence. This happens when the forces "in the background" start using a fresh, stimulating movement for their own purposes, replacing the original concept with a fake one. As they say, Satan is not the devil, but a surrogate (for God, ed.).

How do you think the German people have changed, from the Sixties to today?

Germans are as they've always been: gloomy, lacking in irony, resentful and envious, always falling in line with the majority, prone to walking right past you in the morning without saying hello. That said, I love living in Munich, because it's a city with a soul all its own, endowed with a kind of subtle humor that pops up when you least expect it.

And your political class?

I'll quote Shankar for you: "Politics is always a dirty business."

Being considered one of the pioneers of ambient and new age, I have to ask: who do you appreciate within these genres?

I'm not really a fan of either new age or ambient, especially the kind driven by a dance-style kick drum. Even Eno, who theorized ambient in the first place, has said he no longer recognizes it today compared to his original idea. That said, I do like the album "Discreet Music", quite a lot actually. As for new age, I'll borrow someone else's line, who defined it as "the bastardization of late-20th-century Blavatskyan occultism with 1960s hippie culture."

That's a sharp definition…

It's a stupid, hateful mishmash of fake orientalism, quack medicine, pseudo-history, horrible crystalline music, vaporous self-indulgence, and millionaire gurus preaching self-healing. It's worse than religion — actually, if religion were beer, new age would be the light version.

A regret that's stayed with you for a long time?

Having been too naive when certain people I trusted deceived me. This went on for decades. I had no idea what their strategies were until it was too late. So, from that point of view, it would have been a good idea to be more pragmatic and realistic, instead of projecting ideals of friendship onto people who abused my good faith. Maybe, who knows, in a future life…

Is there, in your soul, an adversary you haven't managed to defeat?

Yes. I can be terribly blunt. Over the years I've hurt the feelings of some people who, looking back, had good intentions towards me. I still break out in a sweat when those memories come back to me. I can only hope I've been forgiven.

This one is from Rabindranath Tagore: "Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark."

Strange that you should quote Tagore of all people. Did you know that, in 2016, I was awarded the Tagore Prize for Culture? Well, I gave it back when I found out I had to "share" it with some unknown academic scholar. As for faith, well, it's a strange subject. It seems most people understand it as forcing themselves to believe in things their instinct rejects. There is, however, a Sufi principle called "iman", which can be translated as "certainty", meaning when intuition suggests something so overwhelmingly that it becomes certain. But I suppose Tagore saw in it the poetic element inherent in the highest manifestations of truth and emotion. And on that, I agree with good old Rabindranath.

What's the most extraordinary aspect of being an artist?

That you work under no master but yourself.

Ride the wave of great music

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