Als Cat Stevens hat er die Popwelt beherrscht, als Yusuf Islam versucht er, seinen eigenen Platz darin zu finden. Ein Gespräch über Wahrheit, Identität und warum man sich selbst aufgeben muss.

Es ist ein Moment fürs Tagebuch des Lebens oder auch für die Enkel: In einem dunkel vertäfelten Berliner Altbauzimmer, auf einem knarzenden Ledersessel, sitzt Yusuf Islam, alias Cat Stevens, spielt Gitarre und singt. Einfach so. Live. Die schmalen Hände liebkosen die Saiten mit der größtmöglichen Selbstverständlichkeit, und diese berühmte Stimme, die einfach alle emotionalen Ebenen abdeckt, füllt den Raum, ohne wirklich laut zu sein. Der Mann mit dem grauen Bart und dem milden Blick schließt die Augen, summt, lacht, singt weiter, während eine Handvoll Journalisten ihn ein bisschen ungläubig anstarrt. Das ist jetzt wirklich Cat Stevens: "Don't be shy/ Let your feeling roll on by/ on by, on by, on by, on by, on by..." Das kennt man aus Mamas Plattensammlung. Wie auf Bestellung fliegt eine kleine Motte durch den sonnendurchfluteten Raum.

Aber nein, es ist immer noch Yusuf Islam, der da sitzt, der Ende der 70er Jahre sein Leben als Cat Stevens beendete, um als Moslem ein neues zu beginnen. Dazu gehörte, fast 30 Jahre lang keine Popmusik mehr zu machen. 2006 veröffentlichte er sein erstes Album unter neuem Namen, "An other Cup". Mittlerweile ist er noch milder geworden, offenbar versöhnt mit der alten Identität, denn auf seinem zweiten Album als Yusuf, mit Namen "Roadsinger", hört er sich nicht nur wieder genauso an wie Cat Stevens, auf dem Cover spielt er sogar mit seinem Erfolg in der Hippie-Zeit. Das war lange undenkbar.

"Roadsinger", das er Lied für Lied von CD vorstellt, bevor er anfängt, für die Journalisten live zu singen, sei ein bodenständiges Album, sagt Yusuf und zupft an seiner schwarzen Lederjacke. "Es ist meine musikalische Signatur." Es geht um Dunkelheit und Licht, um die Reise, die das Leben ist, um Liebe, Prüfungen und Träume. Viel Gitarre, aber auch Streicher, manchmal sind sogar ein paar Elektrosounds zu hören. Aber hauptsächlich natürlich diese Stimme, die im Popzirkus auch nach Jahrzehnten einzigartig ist.

Sein Handy klingelt. "Salam Aleikum". Ja, er habe gut geschlafen. Schmunzeln. "Wir haben Sushi gegessen." Die Leute im Raum sind vergessen. Er schlägt die Beine mit den schwarzen 60er-Jahre-Stiefeletten übereinander und lacht. Mama würde angesichts von so viel Nähe zum einstigen Superstar wohl hyperventilieren. Dabei war Yusuf Islam bisher nicht so gut auf die Presse zu sprechen. Vor allem nicht, nachdem geschrieben wurde, er unterstütze die Fatwa gegen den Islam-kritischen Schriftsteller Salman Rushdie. Deshalb hat er selbst Aufnahmegeräte dabei, wenn er aufgenommen wird. Auch heute. Eins auf dem Tisch, eins in der Hand.

Die sind aber egal und vergessen, als er zu spielen anfängt. Musik ist die Kunst, die dieser mittlerweile 60-Jährige universell verständlich beherrscht. Denn auch wenn einen Songwriting-Wunder wie "All Kinds Of Roses" oder Thinking 'Bout You" nicht vom Hocker hauen, weil sie eben aus Mamas Zeit zu stammen scheinen, sprechen sie trotzdem das berühmte Herz an. Gehen die Harmonien völlig treffsicher in die Eingeweide. Das kann Yusuf Islam genauso gut wie Cat Stevens.

Mister Islam, als Sie Ihre neue CD vorgespielt haben, haben Sie die Augen geschlossen: Was hören Sie, wenn Sie sich selbst hören?

Ich sorge mich ein bisschen, denn wenn ich mich höre, denke ich, dass ich mir nicht selbst zuhören, sondern live spielen sollte. Ich mag mich nicht wiederholen. Andererseits ist die Platte ja da, um wiederholt zu werden, um immer wieder gehört zu werden. Wenn ich da bin, während sie läuft, ist das zu dem bestimmten Zweck, dass die Leute sehen, das ich es bin. Dass ich die Platte gemacht habe. Aber für mich selbst schließe ich lieber die Augen davor. Ich will mir der Situation nicht zu bewusst sein. (lacht)

Sie haben Ihren festen Platz in der Musikgeschichte. Deshalb eine ganz allgemeine wie große Frage an Sie: Kann Musik die Welt verändern?

Nein. Aber sie kann eine Vision von einer besseren Welt zeichnen. Musik kann den Job nicht erledigen, das müssen die Menschen tun. Aber ein Song kann inspirieren, er kann einen Menschen auf den Weg bringen. An einer besseren Welt zu arbeiten, ist das beste Ziel, das man haben kann. Aber das funktioniert eben nur, wenn du an dir selbst arbeitest.

Gab es eine Zeit, in der Sie dachten, Musik könne die Welt verändern, und dann waren Sie von der Realität enttäuscht?

Wir haben doch die wahre Geschichte vier junger Männer namens The Beatles miterlebt. Die haben die Welt in gewisser Weise schon verändert: was die Haltung gegenüber der Jugend angeht und dem, was die Jugend zu sagen hat. Das war anders als alles andere, was zuvor gesagt wurde, und wie es gesagt wurde. Das war ein neuer Realismus und schon eine Mini-Revolution, eine musikalische Revolution. Und die ganze Jugend war ein Teil davon. Für eine gewisse Zeit hatte man das Gefühl, dass die Dinge sich wirklich ändern. Aber dann hat sich das Geschäft breit gemacht, sie vereinnahmt. Und wenn das Geschäft übernimmt, wird ein Künstler zum Instrument des Kommerz'.

Wie würden Sie einem 18-Jährigen, der Sie nicht kennt, erlären, wer Cat Stevens war?

Puh... ich würde sagen, da war dieser... Wissen Sie was, ich würde ein Musical über ihn schreiben! (lacht) Oh, das habe ich ja gerade gemacht. (lacht lauter/ Er arbeitet gerade an einem Bühnenmusical namens "Moonshadow", Anm. Red.) Ich würde es in eine andere Welt übertragen, denn Kinder brauchen eine starke Bildsprache. Ich würde sagen, der Junge war ein ziemlicher Rebell, der nicht glauben wollte, dass es keine Antworten gibt. Der nicht glauben wollte, dass die Antwort, nach der er suchte, nicht zu finden sei. Also ist er mit seiner Musik ausgezogen, sie zu finden. Das war ich ein bisschen.

Und wie würden Sie Yusuf Islam beschreiben?

Yusuf ist jemand, der einem guten Weg folgt, den er nicht selbst angelegt hat, der nicht von Menschen angelegt wurde. Der Weg, den alle Propheten und gute Menschen gehen.

Propheten?

Ich bin kein Prophet, aber ich gehe den Weg, ich versuche ihm zu folgen.

Was hat der Glaube Sie über die Musik gelehrt? Hat er ihr etwas hinzugefügt?

Am Anfang war es eher unklar. Im Koran steht nicht, dass Musik verboten ist. Das Wort Musik kommt gar nicht vor. Es kommt also auf die Interpretation an. Aber wie es gute und schlechte Poesie gibt, gibt es auch gute und schlechte Musik. Mir war nicht klar, ob es mein Schicksal sein würde, jemals wieder einen Song zu schreiben. Ich musste auf ein Zeichen warten. Und das Zeichen war, dass mein Sohn eine Gitarre mit nach Hause brachte. Zur gleichen Zeit passierten alle diese Dinge in der Welt, der 11. September. Und es sah aus, als würde die Welt entzweibrechen. Da war ein Riss. Die Welt wurde wilder. "Wild World" war plötzlich auf jedermans Türschwelle. Und ich wusste, es ist Zeit, wieder zu singen. Denn wenn meine Musik für irgendetwas stand, dann immer für den friedlichen Weg des Miteinanders. Wie man miteinander lebt, wie man einander liebt, wie man diese Welt genießt, ohne sie zu zerstören.

Ihr Lieblingszitat lautet: Um zu sein, musst du aufgeben, wer du bist. (von dem spätmittelalterlichen Theologen Meister Eckhart, Anm.Red.)

Oh ja. (verträumt)

Geben Sie sich immer noch auf?

Es ist anstrengend. Dieses Motto ist ein Paradox. Um dich aufzugeben, musst du erstmal jemand sein. Du musst also an einem Punkt ruhen. Aber vielleicht ist das nicht der Mensch, der du am Anfang dachtest, zu sein. Vielleicht musst du viele Wandlungen durchmachen, bevor du überhaupt begreifst, wer du bist.

Sie sind also immer noch nicht angekommen?

Das Leben ist eine Reise. Ganz sicher.

 [stern.de, 05.05.2009]

Er will nur ein bisschen Frieden: Yusuf Islam, der früher einmal Cat Stevens hieß, hat eine neue Platte aufgenommen. Obwohl er als gläubiger Muslim in den vergangenen Jahren einige Schikanen der US-Politik erleiden musste, widmet er sich auf "Roadsinger" ganz und gar amerikanischen Musizierstilen.

Yusuf Islam, der mit dem Namen Steven Demetre Georgiou zur Welt kam, als Cat Stevens weltberühmt wurde und 1977 weitgehend dem Weltlichen entsagte, wagte vor fünf Jahren eine Reise nach Amerika. Er landete in Washington. Er wurde abgewiesen. Nach Verhören flog er wieder heim. Zurück nach London, wo er die Koranschule seiner muslimischen Gemeinde finanziert. Die Mittel stammen aus Cat Stevens' Nachlass.

In Amerika galt Yusuf wegen seiner Spendentätigkeit als Terrorist. Als mächtiger Knoten im globalen Netzwerk. Was trieb ihn 2004 nach Washington? Yusuf Islam enthüllt es selbst: Für Dolly Parton, die Blondine mit den großen Brüsten, wollte er Gitarre spielen. Dolly Parton wünschte es, um "Peace Train" von Cat Stevens überzeugend aufzunehmen. Mitten in Amerika, in Nashville.

Yusufs neuem Album "Roadsinger" ist zu entnehmen, dass der Bann inzwischen aufgehoben wurde. In Nashville spielte Yusuf glaubwürdigen Country ein, gemeinsam mit Hank Williams' Enkelin. In Kalifornien ließ er sich wieder zu Blumenkinder-Folk hinreißen.

So beweist er, dass er nichts im Schilde führt. Das Plattencover ist ein illustrierter Freundschaftsgruß ans Mutterland der Popkultur: Im Staubmantel durchwandert er die Wüste von Amerika, mit der Gitarre auf dem Rücken oder auf dem Schoß, als Straßensänger.

Man betrachtet Stillleben mit Westernstiefeln und einem Cat-Stevens-T-Shirt mit der Aufschrift "Wanted". Sein VW-Bus trägt das Friedenszeichen und das Nummernschild "CAT 60S". Und weil heute 20-Jährige mit Vollbärten Folklore spielen und sich altväterlich kleiden, kauft man Yusuf sogar den Sängerberuf wieder ab.

Vorgänger war ein Aufwärm-Album

"An Other Cup", sein Album von 2006, war als Comeback gefeiert worden. Heute weiß man: Das war voreilig und übertrieben. Erstens hatte Yusuf sich bereits davor gelegentlich zurückgemeldet. Zweitens lag das Album einer Art Erweckungsfibel bei, mit Tee trinkenden Turbanträgern, weißen Tauben und dem Suren lesenden Star a. D. Und drittens drückt der Künstler selbst es heute so aus: "Ich bin wieder zurück und mache das, was ich am besten kann. Geschichten erzählen. Bilder zeichnen mit meiner Musik, die so menschlich ist, dass sie der Menschheit positive Gefühle beschert. Ich glaube, das neue Album setzt genau da an, wo Cat Stevens sich verabschiedet hatte." "An Other Cup" sei für "Roadsinger" heute, was "Mona Bone Jakon" für "Tea For The Tillerman" vor 29 Jahren war. Das Aufwärm-Album.

Alles auf Anfang also, lediglich auf einer anderen Stufe der Erleuchtung. In den Sechzigerjahren tingelte Cat Stevens als Teenager-Sensation durch London. 1968 litt er unter offener Tuberkulose und genas auf wundersame Weise. Eine demutsvolle Weltreise bekehrte ihn zu sämtlichen Erlösungslehren, zum Buddhismus und zum Kommunismus, zu Tarot und Yoga.

Drogen mied er. Die Erfahrungen flossen in Songs wie "Wild World", "Moon Shadow" und "Morning Has Broken" ein. Als sich Cat Stevens 1974 zu weit auf den Stillen Ozean hinauswagte, vor Malibu, beschwor er Gott: "Wenn Du mich rettest, will ich den Rest meines Lebens für Dich arbeiten."

Die Wellen spülten ihn an Land. Am Weihnachtsabend 1977 löste Stevens sein Versprechen ein und unterrichtete die Menschheit über seinen Namenswechsel. Dass er sich dem Gott Allah verschrieb, begründete der griechisch-orthodox Erzogene mit dem verlässlichen Autoren des Korans.

1981 stiftete er seine Instrumente. Anschließend wurde es still um ihn.

Erst 1989 tauchte Yusuf wieder auf. Er bat den Westen um Verständnis für die Fatwa gegen Salman Rushdie. Rushdie revanchierte sich mit einer Schrift gegen den "Sauren Apfel des Islam". Amerika besann sich auf seine bewährten Rituale gegen unliebsame Popmusik: Das Radio boykottierte ihn, Farmer ebneten mit schweren Fahrzeugen alle verfügbaren Cat-Stevens-Platten ein.

Während der Neunziger veröffentlichte Yusuf religiöse Bücher und CDs. Auch Bühnen wie das Wettsofa des ZDF nutzte er für die Botschaften eines esoterisch klingenden Islam. In Sarajevo sang er Friedenslieder. Die Jahrtausend-Dämmerung wurde vom ihm mit "A Is For Allah" begangen, einem ganzen Album solcher Lieder. Yusuf damals: "Das Musikgeschäft und die damit verbundene Kultur interessieren mich nicht mehr."

Der 11. September 2001 hat auch Yusuf Islam verändert. Er begann, zu wohltätigen Zwecken, seine alten Hits neu zu entdecken. Hier ein "Peace Train" für die Kinder im Irak und da ein "Wild World" gegen Landminen. "Father and Son" nahm er 2004 mit Ronan Keating auf und war wieder in den Hitparaden. Wahrscheinlich dachte er, dass einer Reise nach Amerika danach nichts mehr im Wege stünde.

So gesehen hat "An Other Cup" dem Folksänger 2006 erneut die Welt geöffnet. Gern berichtet Yusuf, wie eine Gitarre seines Sohnes unbeaufsichtigt daheim herumlag, um ihn zu verführen. Er erlag der Popmusik. Für "Roadsinger" spielt Yusuf sogar Synthesizer und elektrische Gitarren, handhabt die Studiotechnik selbst und hat nichts einzuwenden, wenn die Plattenfirma auf die Platte klebt: "The Journey of Music Continues from Yusuf, the Man Previously Known As Cat Stevens."

Ähnlichkeiten zu Prince

Man denkt da nicht zufällig an Prince oder den "Künstler, der früher als Prince bekannt war". Prince ist kürzlich zu Jehovas Zeugen konvertiert. Die Frömmigkeit steht allerdings dem Schweinepriester auf der Bühne und bei seinen Platten nie im Weg. Warum auch? Pop ist öffentlich und Religion privat, und Yusuf hält es heute ähnlich. Auf die ihm schon immer eigene, keusche Weise.

"Welcome Home", begrüßt einen mit wimmernden Gitarren, und im Song heißen die Menschen ihn im Pop wieder willkommen. Es gibt anrührende Folklieder über die Vögel und die Fische, über spielende Kinder und die Regenbögen über ihnen. Oder über Wolken, Regen, Finsternis. Wenn Yusuf singt, dass sämtliche Laternen ihn erleuchten, aber nur ein Wächter Platz in seinem Herzen einnimmt, hätte das Cat Stevens 1970 auch nicht anders ausgedrückt. Der "Roadsinger" ist wieder da, die Hunde bellen. Es herrscht unfassbare Freude. Und zwar vollkommen zu Recht.

Zwei Schlüssellieder setzt Cat "Yusuf" Stevens in die Mitte seines großartigen Albums: In "Be What You Must" klingt das Klavier aus "Sitting" an von 1972, damals war er halt Buddhist. Und "World O' Darkness" rechnet mit den Söhnen ab, die sogar in der Dunkelheit noch einige Schritte weiter gehen.

"Shamsia", klagt Yusuf. Shamsia, das war die trotzige Afghanin, die zu Schule ging, obwohl die Taliban es ihr verboten hatten und die Söhne sie mit Säure übergossen. "Shamsia" heißt auch das spieluhrartige Klavierstück mit dem Yusuf seinen Zuhörer wieder entlässt. Man wünscht dem Album viel Erfolg, Erlöse für die gute Sache und dem Sänger eine angenehme Reise.

[Welt Online, 07.05.2009]

The return home

It has taken him years to reconcile his past,

but Yusuf finally embraces the Cat Stevens legacy on new album.

THE singer-songwriter Yusuf enjoys the reaction he gets driving through London in his 1960s-vintage VW Kombi van which is custom-painted with artwork from his days as the artist known as Cat Stevens – including images depicting such huge hits as Peace Train and Moonshadow.

“Every time we rode that thing across town we’d get this amazing buzz. People would just look at it and smile and that’s the kind of message I’m sending out with my music,” said Yusuf, now 60.

The VW van is prominently displayed on the gray-bearded Yusuf’s new CD Roadsinger (to warm you through the night), symbolising his desire to embrace his Cat Stevens legacy. He is picking up where he left off 30 years ago when he became a Muslim, changed his name to Yusuf Islam and walked away from the “Catmania” of pop stardom.

Yusuf, who prefers to use only his first name to foster a more intimate relationship with listeners, now feels he can square his Muslim beliefs with a return to the introspective folk-tale and storytelling songs that made Cat Stevens one of the most popular artists of the 1970s, with career sales of more than 60 million albums.

“I wanted to prove that there’s music in this Muslim,” Yusuf said by telephone from his headquarters in London, near one of the Islamic schools he founded as part of his charity work using royalties from his Cat Stevens recordings.

“I think Muslims should work a little bit harder at making people a bit more at ease and to create an atmosphere of happiness, which is what we need. I think that’s what this record does, that’s what my music used to do and it still does,” he said, a few days before heading to Los Angeles for his first West Coast performance in 33 years, mixing tunes from the new album with past hits like Wild World and Father and Son.

After his singer-songwriter son, Yoriyos (Muhammad Islam), inspired him to pick up the guitar again, Yusuf tested the waters with the 2006 comeback album An Other Cup, his first collection of pop songs in 28 years. That record mixed Eastern and Western influences, using new technologies and overdubbing that sometimes overshadowed his voice and guitar.

On Roadsinger, Yusuf says he’s returned to the “very stripped-down musical approach” – with minimal overdubbing – that he adopted for his introspective 1970 folk-rock album Mona Bone Jakon and the breakthrough Tea For The Tillerman after he had nearly succumbed to tuberculosis.

“A lot of people were very complimentary about An Other Cup and they were extremely surprised that I still sound like me,” he said. “The only other point they made was that they wished there were more of the bare guitar-style songs which I used to do in the Tea For The Tillerman days.”

Yusuf had a further epiphany on a flight  to the US when he listened to an inflight music channel featuring the LA vibe of the 1970s with singer-songwriters like Joni Mitchell, Carole King, James Taylor and Jackson Browne.

“I realised that I was so much a part of that sound and perhaps it wouldn’t be a sin if I just got back to doing some of that kind of style again,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve come back to a very simple approach to songwriting and recording.”

Yusuf says the album’s opening song, Welcome Home, symbolises his return to what he does well. The darker The Rain – about Noah and the flood – was reworked from a song on a 1960s demo tape. The gentle piano melody of Sitting (from 1972’s Catch Bull at Four album) introduces a new song featuring a phrase by the 13th century German theologian Meister Eckhart, “To be what you must/ You must give up what you are,” that Yusuf says sums up his own spiritual journey.

Yusuf also deals with the prejudice he’s encountered as a Muslim. The Roadsinger tells of a troubadour who’s treated like a stranger on returning to his hometown but then finds “the path to heaven ... in the desert sand” of a foreign country. The singer now spends part of each year in Dubai, which he describes as “a modern Muslim country with a futuristic approach”.

A father of five, Yusuf says he was “quite horrified” at some newspaper headlines about him. In 1989, he says, British media misinterpreted his remarks in a lecture as supporting the Iranian fatwa condemning author Salman Rushdie. In 2005, he won libel damages from two British papers after they falsely claimed he supported terrorism.

“I couldn’t recognise myself, and so it’s no wonder that no one else could either,” said Yusuf, whose charitable organisation Small Kindness helps children in the Balkans, Iraq, Darfur and Indonesia. “That’s why again, it’s so important that I’ve come back to singing what I feel and people can get much closer to me that way than by reading the headlines.”

Boots and Sand, a bonus track on the CD sold through iTunes and Best Buy, with backup vocals by Dolly Parton, Paul McCartney and Allison Krauss, takes a lighthearted look at the 2004 incident when he was denied entry into the United States because his name was similar to one on a US government “no-fly list”.

Three of the songs on Roadsinger – World O’ Darkness, This Glass World, and the instrumental Shamsia – were written for Moonshadow, a musical about a boy’s journey from a world of perpetual night to a world of light, that Yusuf hopes will open on London’s West End next year. The score also includes such older songs as Father and Son, On the Road to Find Out and The First Cut Is The Deepest.

The musical takes Yusuf back full circle to his pre-Cat Stevens days when the child born as Steven Demetre Georgiou heard music coming from West End theatres near his parents’ Moulin Rouge restaurant.

“Musicals were my first love and then came the Beatles,” said Yusuf. “It’s amazing that after all this time, after having written so many songs and lived so much of my life, now having the opportunity to put all that into a musical is quite a miracle.”

He started relating again to his past songs in 2000 when he was asked to help produce a boxed set of his work. Then he gradually began performing his old songs again, at first for benefits, such as an a cappella version of Peace Train he did as a message of unity for the post-9/11 Concert for New York City in October 2001.

“That whole process ... kind of helped me realise that perhaps my legacy should not be totally forgotten ... that I had contributed something and it was worth revisiting.”

But Yusuf has no misgivings about leaving pop music for so many years. “I don’t really regret not having been involved in the music business because I think I made my exit at an appropriate time ... and if you look at what was happening musically at that time, it was probably the right time to go,” he said.

“But there are more interesting things happening today with the advent of the Internet. ... A lot of people my age as well as youngsters appreciate this style of music because I’ve always written from the heart and I’ve always written what I believe to be true so that’s got to be valid.”

[thestar online, 22.05.2009]

„Nur ein musikalischer Kommentator“

Interview mit Yusuf, dem Sänger, der früher Cat Stevens war,

und der wieder wie die Rock-Ikone von einst klingen will

Reconciling Cat and Yusuf

How well I remember the sixties and the seventies, that singular musical era! Styles and genres mixed and mingled in an effervescence of creativity and non-conformism, in a search for meaning and renewal that was as singular as it could be troubling. In the London of July 1975 the songs of Cat Stevens could be heard at every corner. There was something about his voice; an unmistakable musical talent combined with words that told of a spiritual journey; the poetry of life and suffering, peace and childhood, separation and death. Peace Train, Wild World, Lady d’Arbanville, Father and Son: all popular hits, all expressing the rich, complex and often tormented inner life of their creator.

Two years later, in 1977, Cat Stevens converted to Islam and turned his back on music. He later explained his decision as driven by the need to make a clean break with his past as a star and as a musician. There was no place for music in his early understanding of Islam; nor did music fit with his natural need to separate himself from a world in which he had become an “idol”, with all the inflated sense of appearance and possession that the term implies. He craved silence, intimacy; sought simply to be. His journey had become an inward one, spiritual and demanding. There was no longer room in Yusuf Islam, his newly adopted convert’s name, for the man who had once been Cat Stevens.

Over the following years Yusuf embarked on a series of far-reaching initiatives. In retrospect we can see that each bore the seal of Cat’s aspirations and of Yusuf’s newfound beliefs. He established schools that combined academic excellence with clear-cut ethical objectives. He set up an aid and solidarity organization that financed projects around the world; he was one of the first to travel to Sarajevo to defend and celebrate Bosnian culture through art and song. He wrote tirelessly, composed children’s songs and anacheeds (Islamic chants) to be recited with no instrumental accompaniment except percussion, in conformity with the views of several Muslim scholars. The scope of his action was as broad as his gift of self was limitless: Yusuf emerged as a man of spirituality, a man with a cause and a vision. What before he’d expressed in music, he now brought into being in the most concrete way in the name of his faith, through his commitment to education, solidarity, love and peace. Music without music: Yusuf no longer wished to be Cat.

Then came his reaction to the Rushdie affair, which shocked many of his friends and admirers. How could a man who had spent so much of his life singing of life, love and the quest for meaning, then taken up the cause of education, solidarity and peace, lend his support to a government’s call to kill a man? I quickly took a stand against Khomeini’s fatwa, arguing that it was more politically motivated than grounded in Islam. When, years later, I met Yusuf Islam for the first time, I asked him two questions: one, on his endorsement of the fatwa, and the other on his position on music in Islam.

His response to the first was clear, unequivocal. When asked by the media about the question of blasphemy in Islam, he had answered that the Jewish Torah, the Christian Bible and the Qur’an all prescribed the death penalty for blasphemy. For all its absoluteness, his answer, based on scripture, was by no means an endorsement of the fatwa, which for him was an act of illegitimate vengeance that respected neither British nor international law. On the other question, that of music, we disagreed. I submitted to him other views on the subject, and encouraged him, with all his talent and creative powers, to return to music. Firmly believing that musical instruments were not permitted in Islam, but above all driven to cut himself off from that world, he could not accept my arguments. But though I differed with his position on music in Islam, how could I not grasp his desire to remove himself from such an intense, invasive and often disturbing past? Yusuf could never entirely escape the light or the shadow of Cat, whether in his personal quest, his one-time celebrity, or in the way others - Muslims or non-Muslims - saw him. Cat was part and parcel of Yusuf.

Time went by… 28 years. His children had grown up; now they would help their father Yusuf rediscover Cat the child. Yusuf caught a whiff of Cat’s musical perfume in the guitar that his son had left in a room by mistake. It was a beautiful mistake - and our good fortune. That guitar, one of Cat’s old friends, was to summon Yusuf and to represent the reconciliation of past and present, of the star and the believer, of art and the quest for meaning. Yusuf returned to music with all his power, his voice and his humanity. With his guitar he sang of life, love, war, the environment and freedom; he now sang of the human and the universal, never ceasing to be Muslim, speaking the most intimate hopes and dreams of his fellow human beings. Once again he sang his original successes, which even then had so faithfully conveyed his doubts and hopes, and mankind’s universal humanity. At long last, Cat and Yusuf had become one.

For Muslim women and men around the world, his story embodies a powerful lesson. We hear of “Islamic chants” (anacheeds) that are supposedly “Islamic” because they express religious themes, or because they employ no instruments, or because they are based on traditional or Qur’anic texts. In this light, only such chants are permissible (halal) in Islam, the only form of creativity recognized. There are indeed scholars who hold such a position, but it is far from unanimous. In To Be a European Muslim (written in 1996) I dealt with these views and took a clear position on music in Islam. Not only is it permitted, but Muslim women and men must also reconcile themselves with art, with creativity, and with the imagination in all its dimensions. Guided by their ethical bearings, they must not allow themselves to be enchained by the adjective “Islamic” that ends up isolating them, suffocating them, and depriving them of their creative energy in the universe of art, of music, painting, sculpture and literature. Muslims are constantly justifying themselves; they feel obliged to describe everything as “Islamic” to satisfy and to conform to the norm. But our ethical concerns must not force upon us an obsession with the norms of “licit” and “illicit” (halal and haram).

Seen in this light, any song, any form of artistic expression that celebrates humanity, love, justice, the quest for meaning, and peace is, in fact, in full conformity with Muslim ethics and needs no further qualifiers. Meaning, hopes and human edification are to be felt and to be lived; they have no need of a normative framework that bridles and ultimately annihilates them. The expression of ultimate ethical causes in art transcends the narrow limitations of specific ways of belonging, and brings together the universal quality of all that is most precious to humans, who can feel themselves uplifted, broadened, vibrating, becoming more human, more peaceful; who can feel themselves being regenerated by a voice, a hand, a pen or a brush. Music can be a prayer, a painting a path, a song a story: as long as art speaks to mankind of its heart, its wounds, its hopes, tears, smiles and aspirations, it forms the universal language of humankind and can bring about by way of imagination, emotion and the heart what no dialogue of reason or of civilizations can hope to offer.

It’s true. Yusuf had been a part of Cat before Cat became Yusuf: a paradox that the Sufi tradition has long taught us. It was necessary for Cat to set out in search of Yusuf for Yusuf to discover and understand Cat’s secrets. Now at last the quest and the path converge: artist and believer now sing with the same voice. For faith and art are friends of the beautiful, and in the end, together create a love story: “God is beautiful and He loves the beautiful,” as He loves those who create beauty, the friends of hope and the seekers of meaning.

[tariqramadan.com, 29 April 2011]

10 Years and 10 Questions with Yusuf / Cat Stevens

Yusuf traces his musical and spiritual journey from Drury Lane to The Laughing Apple

Standing and chanting “46664,” I truly understood power: power of peace, power of inclusion, power of mind. In 2003, Nelson Mandela hosted a concert in Cape Town, South Africa, called 46664 Concert, named for his prisoner number when he was jailed for opposing the Apartheid government. The concert was held to build awareness of the HIV/AIDS epidemic in the country and included artists ranging from South African legends Johnny Clegg and Yvonne Chaka Chaka to international favorites like U2 and Beyoncé. But few moments reinforced the message of peace, love, and care like Yusuf Islam.

Yusuf/Cat Stevens has been a misunderstood figure for decades, as far back as his disappearance from the world stage in the late 1970s. When he re-emerged under the name Yusuf Islam, many questioned the meaning or defined it for themselves. But even then, that was placing a filter on a simpler message. “The name Islam actually comes from the word ‘salam,’ meaning ‘Peace,’” he explains. “It’s partly why I am back making music again, to help bridge the lack of that kind of information.”

His voice now bears all of the experience of the intervening decades, an array of feelings and ideas far more complex than the simplistic shading often attributed to his story. Hearing his voice stretch skyward (whether at that 46664 Concert or on his new album, The Laughing Apple) encourages listeners to surrender to infinity, to accept that all of the particulars that we obsess over mean nothing in the face of the universe.

Even those that don’t ascribe to the particulars of his chosen faith and politics can feel that peace, love, and care in his songs. “Music has the ability to overarch politics and treacherous trenches of war,” he says. Singing along to the opening threads of “Wild World”, as we did on that evening in Cape Town in 2003, that power transcends all, bringing light to the beauty and hope into the world. We spoke with Yusuf about 10 key moments in his life, 10 years where he found that power and shared it with the world.

1963

At the age of 15, your father bought you your first instrument, a guitar for £8. I believe you were originally inspired by acts like The Beatles and Bob Dylan but also by listening from your family’s rooftop to the musicals of the adjacent theater district. How did these disparate types of music come together to influence you as a young songwriter, and how has your relationship to a guitar shifted over the years?

My first school was just off Drury Lane, in the heartland of clubs, cinemas and theatres, so musicals were a big influence on my background — as well as Greek weddings, of course. Tin Pan Alley was round the corner, full of guitar and instrument shops. When The Beatles arrived, I was already a fan of Buddy Holly and Little Richard. I bought my first guitar for £8, an Italian make called Eko. It made the right noises. Folk and blues became my initial repertoire, but I started to make my own music rather early on; it was much easier than trying to learn and decipher the complex chords and lyrics others made. My second guitar was a 12-string Hagstrom, influenced by Huddy Leadbetter (Leadbelly). It sounded like an orchestra. Things really changed and my songwriting took a leap when I laid my hands on a black Gibson, Everly Brothers J-180.

1968

By 1968, you had already achieved quite a bit of acclaim and released legendary songs like “The First Cut Is the Deepest” and “Here Comes My Baby”. Not much later, you contracted a particularly rough case of tuberculosis, as a result of the stresses of burgeoning fame, touring, and recording. What was it like to have those songs reach farther around the world as you fought such a personal battle, and how did your health scare change your perspective?

Writing a hit song was important in those early years. “First Cut Is the Deepest” was intended for Otis Redding, before my producer, Mike Hurst, gave it to P.P. Arnold. “Here Comes My Baby” was a complete Xmas-party take on an originally sad song. But these brought a lot of attention to my songwriting skills. Unfortunately, I too started engaging in an “endless” party, spending most of my good health on drinking, smoking, and late nights. I got struck down with tuberculosis. Suddenly, finding myself flat on my back in a hospital bed surrounded by doctors and nurses, I asked myself a lot of important questions: “What if I died? What would happen to me then?” My friend Paul Ryan had given me a copy of a Buddhist book called The Secret Path. That was the beginning of my search for explanations.

1970

Mona Bone Jakon and Tea for the Tillerman both were recorded and released in 1970. You had always been prolific, but that’s quite the achievement, especially considering some of the beautiful songs on those albums. What was happening at that time in your life that you felt such a creative burst? What inspired you most and resulted in that creative peak?

After I came out of convalescence, I had grown a beard and had started writing music again. My esoteric studies infused a new spirit and deeper levels of insight into my songwriting. A lot of my songs were now much more personal and reflective. I wasn’t going for “hits.” All I wanted was to let my music become the vehicle for my journey. Ideas for songs were coming from every direction, fired by my inner desire to reach the highest state of being. Paul Samwell-Smith brought an uncluttered approach to the production of those recordings, dominated by a six-string guitar. My words exposed a naked, childlike openness and willingness to learn.

1971

Your most famous recordings all have incredibly iconic artwork, including the melancholic and beautiful Teaser and the Firecat. When you hear titles like “Peace Train”, an illustration — somehow whimsical and innocent, yet also brimming with nuance and complexity, like the song — immediately comes to mind. People don’t always know that those illustrations were yours. How does your art background impact your records and songwriting, and how do the two creative disciplines differ for you?

My ability to create pictures never went away with music; I simply transposed them into songs with stories. Iconic images, such as “Peace Train”, “Moonshadow”, and “Morning Has Broken” still remain as vivid expressions of my landscapes and colours. I wanted to be an artist — a cartoonist, more like. So when I was able to combine my music with my art by painting the covers of my albums, it was a dream job. As a medium, art is much slower and takes longer to make an impact. Music is instantaneous. It also employs our imagination, which creates more possibilities for the brain to unlock valuable emotion and insights.

1976

The story of your near-drowning in 1976 and the wave that saved you is absolutely terrifying, inspiring, and amazing. Was that the beginning of your gradual spiritual journey towards Islam and exit from the music industry in 1979, or had the seeds already been laid? With your experience and knowledge now, do you think it would have been possible to pursue a life as both a Muslim and working musician back then?

I always believed in the existence of a Supreme Being, since my early spiritual feelings in Christianity. Buddhism enabled me to get rid of a lot of accumulated superstitions and remove the limitation of four walls of a temple in order to experience a sense of sacredness. But that day out in the Pacific Ocean, I forgot everything I knew in this world and renewed my relationship with Him in the form of a lifelong commitment. Human beings have the contemptible ability to conveniently forget things they promise, but I didn’t: When I received the Qur’an as a birthday present about six months later — without consciously linking these two events — I was given the chance to fulfill mine. Also, it was the first Divine Scripture I’d ever come across which seemed to be inclusive; it actually mentioned the existence and names of other religions and their links to revelation and primordial “Oneness.” It explained, more than any other, the Nature of the Divine Self, through the Ninety-Nine Names of God.

1979

After you auctioned off your guitars and left the music world, you poured your energies into your faith, family, education, and philanthropy, making powerful strides in improving the lives of so many. During this time, did you miss music or the creative process? Did you completely stop writing or playing music, or did you merely refrain from doing so as a consumable product for others?

I have written a short book called Why I Still Carry a Guitar, which goes some way in explaining what went on in those years of apparent “silence.” But the answer to this question is actually quite complex. It was a combination of many things, including my weariness with the music business at the time, as well as doubts about the place of music in my new life, as a new Muslim, coming from a very strict quarter of conservatism within the Muslim community. Idolatry also was pretty much obliterated with the arrival of Islam, and separating the aesthetic activity of music from the culture of star-worship was another factor. However, my creativity didn’t go away and I ended up starting a whole new genre of music and songs for Muslim kids.

2004

In 2004, you won the Man of Peace Award of the World Summit of Nobel Peace Laureates. The year prior, I was lucky enough to see you perform as part of the 46664 concert honoring Nelson Mandela, in my hometown of Cape Town, South Africa. Was the ability to spread your message of peace and effort to highlight other such peaceful people what drew you back to performing?

In a word: Yes. My song “Peace Train” was not an accident in the book of Destiny; as far as I’m concerned, fate had already written it. Music has the ability to overarch politics and treacherous trenches of war. The Religion of Islam I discovered was quite separate from most of the killing and chaos we see selected as “newsworthy” by the great judges sitting up in those white, puffy clouds in editorial-land. It’s my hope that the media would try to focus more attention on the spiritual centre of Islam, which the vast majority adhere to, and let people see the truer picture. The name Islam actually comes from the word “salam,” meaning “Peace.” It’s partly why I am back making music again, to help bridge the lack of that kind of information.

2006

Though you’d begun to make small steps back into the music world, you fully returned with An Other Cup. How did you feel when making that change? Were there any expectations as to what response you would receive from your audience? Did your use of a new name come into mind as part of that conversation?

In 2006, I released An Other Cup, after 27 years of musical retreat. The title was a subtle reference to Tea for the Tillerman. Indirectly I was saying: “Well, if you liked the first cup, maybe you’ll like another.” It certainly was a pleasant surprise to many ears, although criticisms came from some small sections of the Muslim community who had quite incredibly assumed that because I was making music I had left Islam — God forbid! The truth was that I had purposefully re-opened a bridge for me to cross and approach my friends and admirers of old, those whom I left stranded in 1979 and who had no other link to Islam except me, and perhaps Muhammad Ali, the boxer. Most other famous Muslims were politicians, tyrants, or terrorists! I chose to limit my name to Yusuf, in order for my critics not to accuse me of misusing the name of Islam, and also because it was more personal.

2012

In 2012, you added to your already extensive list of accomplishments in the music world with the release of Moonshadow, a musical soundtracked by selections taken from throughout your career. What was it like to take that retrospective look at your career and life? Did that process have an impact on you personally?

“Maybe There’s a World” was one of the new songs written for my musical, Moonshadow. I got together with a director from Sweden, and we put on a few workshops in London with a handful of actors and singers. It was a metaphorical adventure, a journey out of this world on a faraway planet called Alaylia, a place of perpetual night where only a solitary moon shone free. One young man has a dream of finding the land of the lost sun. I suppose it was a stretch of an idea based on my personal pilgrimage of discovery.

2017

The Laughing Apple will mark the 50th anniversary of your debut album, but also will clearly be its own artistic statement rather than merely relying on the past. Songs like “Blackness of the Night”, your earliest protest song, can easily speak to the contemporary refugee crises, so how does this album relate to your legacy and catalog while also continuing to push forward?

Sometimes we need to stop, step back, and learn from history in order to progress. My musical catalog contains many songs yet-unfulfilled, especially those I recorded in the ‘60s. Though I had a bag full of new songs, the older ones still sounded relative. The childlike character of the album emerged organically as — one by one — I began to pick them out of my dusty trunk of songs. They are now fresh again, like the shiny, red smiling apple on the cover.

"I've returned to being an amateur

without any ties or strings attached,

which gives me a freedom I never had before."