Learning to Play the Oud

I’m an idiot.

Somehow, along the way from childhood to adulthood, I’ve managed to acquire an overinflated sense of my own capability. I don’t really know how it happened, or when it happened, or what events in my life have conspired to give me an irrationally cocky self-confidence. But I have it, and I will be burdened for the rest of my life with an instinctual assumption that I can probably do anything if I just have a go at it.

My mum always said when I was at school that I was a jack-of-all-trades and a master of none—that I could do almost any subject at school and do it really quite well, but was never actually very good at anything in particular, nothing that obviously stood out as the-thing-that-Joe-does. Maybe that’s so, and maybe being perfectly passable at almost anything is the reason why I instinctually think I can do anything I turn my hand to. Maybe not.

Whatever the reason, I am an idiot.

This over-inflated sense of myself keeps creating me problems. One of these happened about three years into my PhD studies.

I can’t really remember where it came from, but somehow I latched onto the notion that learning a new instrument could be just the thing that would help me switch off from work and studies. And that instrument was to be … the oud.

Learning the Oud? What on Earth is an Oud?

The oud is a beautiful instrument. Beautiful to look at at. Beautiful to hear.

The oud is a short-necked instrument that is very similar to a lute with an ancient pedigree, and is a central feature of Arabic music. The oldest pictorial reference to ouds are from the first few centuries CE but its history may stem from Persia, several millennia BCE . It has a bowled back, and 5 or 6 groups of strings on a fretless neck. Its long history in the Middle East has seen its influence stretching across the Mediterranean and to parts of Africa also. Each country with a tradition of oud playing has its own distinct styles and qualities.

There are many fabulous oud players, of course, and there are a number of masters that I’ve enjoyed listening to in recent years.

Munir Bashir is an Iraqi Assyrian oudist, and possibly the pre-eminent oud maestro of the mid-20th Century. He is one of the few musicians equal in mastery to the title of his seminal album, L’Art du ‘Ud (The Art of the Ud).

Rahim AlHaj is also from Iraq and was a pupil of Munir Bashir. His music combines traditional Iraqi oud with contemporary influences. When the Soul Is Settled: Music of Iraq is simply beautiful.

Hossein Behroozinia is an oudist from Iran. His 2006 album From Stone to Diamond is exquisite.

Marcel Khalife, from Lebanon, is one of most important players in bringing oud to the attention of western audiences. Taqasim is a must-listen.

Anouar Brahem is a Tunisian oud player, widely respected as a musical innovator. His music has especially sought to bring oud and Middle Eastern music into the jazz world. There are so many wonderful Anouar Brahem albums, but I would really recommend The Astounding Eyes of Rita, from 2012.

However, the oudist that I have listened to and loved the most is Dhafer Youssef, from Tunisia. I find Dhafer Youssef’s creative blend of Middle Eastern oud and jazz utterly entrancing. Abu Nawas Rhapsody is an astonishing album.

So Why the Oud?

I’ve loved so-called ‘world music’ (music from the non-Western mainstream) for years, and I suppose it was only a matter of time before I found the oud. I think Anouar Brahem was the first musician I remember actively listening to as someone playing the oud.

Around the same time, Wifey (a professional musician) was getting into early music herself. She’d talked a bit about making an instrument, though I forget quite what — a harp, was it? Looking at instruments with her, I’d seen that you could buy a kit to make a lute, but it seemed a bit poncey to me, a bit too Gordon Sumner. And that must’ve been the time that I first thought about getting an oud.

What an Idiot

And that’s where it all got out of hand.

Once the idea had lodged in my mind — that I could get myself an oud and teach myself to play it—I couldn’t shake it.

I’ve played guitar for years. I was given one in my teenage years and taught myself to play it instead of revising for my GCSE exams. It wasn’t too hard to learn to a standard where I was ‘good enough’. I could play along to most tunes, and slowly learnt skills and techniques. I was never very good, of course. That’s not the way I roll, as I think I may’ve said. Maybe if I’d had some lessons I might’ve got there. But I didn’t, and I only ever got to Force 3 on the ‘adequate’ scale.

I assumed I could just do the same with the oud: buy an oud; get a book; learn the basics; listen to some oud music and play along; fiddle around a bit. Easy, right?

Ha. Not so much, it turns out.

I bought myself an oud. It’s lovely: handmade in Egypt, with real skill and craftsmanship. The bowled back of it is stunning, with amazing alternating woods for the ribs, highly glossy. The front is beautiful, with fabulous carved inlays in the sound holes.

I learnt some scales, some basic fingerings, improvised a bit—all the usual stuff a cocky idiot does. And it all sounded … rubbish. Utter rubbish.

Fretless stringed instruments are hard — who knew? Apart from violinists, of course. But who knew? Cellists knew, yes, sure. Cellists knew. And viola players. And double bass players. Ok, yep, I’ll admit they knew. And oudists, of course. But apart from them, who knew? Apart from those who live with people learning violin, or cello, or viola, or double bass. Or oud. But apart from them, who?

So, I decided I’d go the extra mile this time and actually get an oud teacher. School of Everything seemed to be a great place place to find an oud teacher, so I looked. As it happens, there aren’t so many oud teachers in Birmingham, where I live. Or even in Britain, for that matter. I made contact with a School of Everything oud teacher in London, but it was obvious that it wasn’t ever going to happen.

Seven years I’ve owned an oud. It’s not come out of its case in the last six.

It’s been moved around several times, getting it out of the way of something behind. In the process, the handle has broken. The dust has slowly gathered on the case as its got neglected, then forgotten. It’s never been taken out in six years, let alone strummed.

Occasionally one of the children reminds me that I own an oud, and that it’s there, waiting for me, for when I get to the end of my darned PhD.

I now stand on the threshold of the post-PhD world. Will I learn to play the oud?

Well, what do you think?

No, I thought not.