In early 2022, when Daniyal Ahmed set off on a road trip from Karachi in Pakistan into the neighbouring province of Balochistan , his only contacts were a few distant connections who he hoped would lead him to a legendary musician within the region. After circling villages near Pasni, a fishing port on the Arabian sea about a six-hour drive from Karachi, Ahmed by chance spotted Ustad Noor Bakhsh on the side of a lonely road sitting next to his broken motorbike, waiting for help.
Ahmed is an anthropologist who teaches at Habib University, and had been chasing down masters like Bakhsh in remote regions across Pakistan. Bakhsh was already well known within Balochistan both as a solo benju (a type of zither) player and as Balochi vocalist Sabzal Sami’s accompanist for three decades. Ahmed was alerted to Bakhsh’s talents after he saw a video of him playing circulating on Facebook. A musician himself, he’s invested in amplifying regional talent that has become obscured in a country lacking robust infrastructure to support musicians, especially those who play traditional music.
When Ahmed told Bakhsh about his work, he was invited to stay, and over five days recorded an album’s worth of music by Bakhsh. In clips of sunset jams near the Shadi Kaur creek, Bakhsh sits cross-legged with his electric benju – his right hand expertly plucking strings on the base, his left moving rapidly up and down the keys on the neck – playing everything from Balochi compositions to Bollywood favourites, flanked by two damburag players, each holding a long-necked lute and keeping the beat.
Ahmed wasn’t just blown away by Bakhsh’s technique, but his ability to improvise, and play across forms. “The playing is virtuosic – it’s totally full of this spiritual energy,” says Ahmed, who has since become his manager. That first meeting changed both of their lives within a year. Ahmed’s Instagram stories of Bakhsh playing went viral, leading to press in Pakistan and India, an invitation to perform at Boiler Room’s debut broadcast in Karachi last June and then release an album, Jingul, in September, which received acclaim from Pitchfork. This summer, at the age of 78, he embarked on a 10-country European tour, including the huge Roskilde festival in Denmark.
The benju is thought to have been adapted from the Japanese taishōgoto: Chris Menist from Songlines aptly likens it to a “slide guitar with typewriter keys”. When we meet in Berlin in June, Bakhsh isn’t playing his benju, but he can’t stop miming the action of playing, his hands busily demonstrating the melodies he’s describing. Ahmed teases him, calling him “obsessed”, and Bakhsh smiles.
Ahmed’s assessment proves accurate: Bakhsh jumps right into the conversation by excitedly explaining traditional Balochi musical forms, such as the songs of longing called zahirok. While he can play classical raag, which might be a more familiar form from South Asia to those outside the region, it’s clear where his passion lies in playing Balochi music. Bakhsh also makes another thing clear – true talent on the benju, in his opinion, is demonstrated solely by instrumental tunes. “Even a small child can accompany a vocalist,” Bakhsh tells me in Urdu.
Balochistan stretches through Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan, the Pakistani portion of the region making up the country’s largest province. While rich in natural resources, the majority of ethnic Balochs – who make up about 5% of the country’s population – live below the poverty line. But it’s also home to a distinct, rich cultural history, and a jaw-dropping landscape of 800km of coastline, with everything from mangrove forests to desert further inland.
Bakhsh is endlessly inspired by this landscape, and by birdsong in particular. He is from a nomadic family that herds goats and cattle across the Makran, and was born in Gaddani, a coastal town a 90-minute drive from Karachi. That’s where he first heard Ustad Khuda Bakhsh (no relation) play the benju. He would abandon his goats at a moment’s notice to hear the musician perform. “At 12 years old is when Ustad Khuda Bakhsh ‘tied the thread’,” says Bakhsh, referring to the ceremony where a master chooses a student. Age 14, he started performing at weddings and healing ceremonies, and at 15 he became singer Sabzal Sami’s accompanist.
Bakhsh relocated to Turbat, Balochistan’s second largest city, to work with Sami. “When I was 16, Sabzal Sami arranged my marriage so I would stay in Turbat,” Bakhsh says. And it worked – Bakhsh ended up playing with him for 30 years. During that time, Bakhsh played for other vocalists, did solo shows and was even offered a steady job playing for a radio station in Balochistan capital, Quetta. “My heart wasn’t in it – I didn’t want to stay in Quetta,” he says. He also pushed himself to keep learning by listening to cassettes of legendary benju player Bilawal Belgium, and masters of other instruments like Misri Khan Jamali, who played the alghoza, a wind instrument that consists of two recorders bound together. Eventually, Bakhsh struck out on his own, focusing on instrumental shows and settling in a small village near Pasni where he’s lived for the last 20 years.
He dedicated himself to his craft, even through a multitude of personal tragedies, including the death of his first wife and the drowning of two young sons, who “had a great desire to play the benju, to play the tabla”, Bakhsh recalls fondly. Today he bears the responsibility of supporting the majority of his extended family but is stoic about it, simply saying: “Allah provides.” Sales of Jingul via Bandcamp have also helped, he says, thanking Ahmed. Previously at home “we didn’t have water”, he says. “We installed a water tank, and built a bathroom and a kitchen.”
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When the recordings Ahmed made of Bakhsh went viral, the benju master was still playing small shows and weddings in Balochistan. Ahmed wanted to create a bridge to his audience outside of Pakistan, since inside the country, instrumental music isn’t very popular and there are few record labels or provision for touring. Bakhsh’s “rhythmic groovy feeling sounds a lot like the west African music people are very familiar with,” he says, adding that the electric benju sounds a bit like the electric guitar, lending Bakhsh’s music accessibility.
When British-Pakistani DJ and producer Nabihah Iqbal became involved in organising the first Boiler Room show in Karachi, she couldn’t let the opportunity pass to introduce Bakhsh to audiences both inside and outside Pakistan. “His music is just incredible and [his instrument] is kind of unusual, even in Pakistan,” says Iqbal.
At a recent performance in Berlin, Bakhsh exuded joy when playing. The sun set slowly over the rooftop venue as he performed to a packed, sweaty house. Near the end of the show, nearly every person was on their feet dancing, the excitement in the room reaching its height as Bakhsh played his version of a qawwali classic about Sufi saint Shahbaz Qalandar. They were simply matching the incredible energy brought by Bakhsh – who at this point had been on tour for a month. It confirmed something he said in our interview: “When I play the benju, I’m still young.”