Former Cat Stevens wins undisclosed payout over sexist bigot claims

Yusef Islam, the former Cat Stevens, today accepted substantial undisclosed libel damages over a claim he was a sexist bigot who wouldn't speak to women not wearing a veil.

The Muslim singer's solicitor, Adam Tudor, told the High Court that the allegations, published in March last year, were entirely false.

'Mr Islam has never had any difficulties working with women, whether for religious or any other reasons,' he said.

Mr Tudor said the article was distributed by the agency World Entertainment News Network to subscribers, including the Contactmusic.com website.

He added: 'Unsurprisingly, the article caused Mr Islam considerable embarrassment and distress, particularly given that it had the effect not only of creating an utterly false impression of his attitude to women but also because it cast serious aspersions, quite wrongly, on his religious faith, which is a matter of the utmost importance to him.'

He said that WENN and Contactmusic.com had already published apologies and agreed to pay the damages, which were to be donated to the charity Small Kindness, and Mr Islam's legal costs.

Mr Islam was not in court.

[dailymail.co.uk, 18. Juli 2008]

Führt Musik zu Gott, Mister Islam?

Der Mann, der Cat Stevens war, bringt ein Album heraus.

Die "Presse" traf den berühmtesten britischen Muslim

im Red Room seines Londoner Domizils.

Dort sprach Yusuf Islam über seine Rückkehr ins Popgeschäft.

Sie spielen Ihre Gitarre mit einem Plektrum, auf dem „All Things Must Pass“ steht. Ist das ein Andenken an George Harrison, dessen erstes Soloalbum so hieß?

Ich spielte heuer auf einer Charity-Veranstaltung mit Klaus Voorman, diesem alten Freund der Beatles, der das berühmte „Revolver“-Cover gestaltete und immer mal wieder mitspielte bei den Soloalben der einzelnen Beatles. Für mich war George Harrison vor allem deshalb wichtig, weil er als einer der Ersten Popmusik als Vehikel für soziale Hilfeleistungen nützte. Ich erinnere nur an das berühmte „Concert For Bangladesh“. Unser Song hieß „The Day The World Gets Round“, und ich hoffe, dass er ein bisschen was dazu beiträgt, uns zu besinnen.

Friede auf der Welt hat nicht selten seinen Ausgang in einem harmonischen Heim. Sie luden in den Red Room. Was hat es damit für Bewandtnis?

Der Red Room war ursprünglich jener Raum, den mir mein Vater oberhalb seines Restaurants einräumte. Das war in den wilden Sixties. Ich strich mir die Wände rot, weil ich das in einem Film mit Marianne Faithfull und Mick Jagger gesehen hatte. Ich glaub, er hieß „Performance“. Er war mein Refugium. Dort schrieb ich so viele heute berühmte Lieder. Etwa „Lady D'Arbanville“, „Matthew & Son“ und „Wild World“. Den Red Room gibt es heute auch auf meiner Homepage. Er ist jener Teil, der am häufigsten angeklickt wird. Und hier bei mir zu Hause habe ich mir mein Jugendzimmer ebenfalls nachgebaut. Alter Plattenspieler, wuscheliger Teppich, asiatisches Mobiliar. Ein Platz, wo man kreativ sein kann. All meine neuen Songs entstehen in diesem Raum.

Existiert der Originalraum auch noch?

Den Shop meines Vaters gibt es noch. Die Wohnungen darüber auch, aber es hat sich wohl alles stark verändert darin. Falls Sie meinten, dass es schon ein Cat-Stevens-Museum wäre, muss ich Sie enttäuschen. Bloß die blaue Plakette des Denkmalschutzvereins English Heritage ist an der Fassade angebracht worden.

Sie haben fast 30 Jahre keine weltliche Musik gemacht.

Wie ging es Ihnen, als Sie vor zwei Jahren „An Other Cup“ veröffentlichten?

„An Other Cup“ war eine wirklich fantastische Rückkehr zu dem, was ich am besten kann, nämlich mit Hilfe der Musik direkt von Herz zu Herz zu kommunizieren. Ich will die Menschen in ihrem Innersten ansprechen. Politik hingegen interessiert mich gar nicht. Damit wollte ich nie etwas zu tun haben. So viele Menschen wollten mich wieder singen hören, nicht zuletzt meine Familie. Jahrelang versuchte man mich zu einer Rückkehr ins Musikgeschäft zu überreden. Ich dachte lange: Nein, das mach ich nicht, das wäre ja ein Rückschritt. Heute sehe ich, dass es ein Schritt nach vorne ist.

Wie hat die islamische Community auf diese Rückkehr zur Popmusik reagiert?

Nun ja, da gab es manche, die sagten, ich hätte den Pfad der Religion nun verlassen. Man muss das verstehen. Es gibt halt auch große kulturelle Unterschiede innerhalb der islamischen Welt. In Afghanistan würde ich sicher als ungläubig gelten. Aber die überwältigende Mehrheit der Muslime hier in England war begeistert.

Nun stehen Sie mit „The Roadsinger (To Warm You Through The Night)“ am Start. Unterscheidet sich das neue Opus musikalisch vom Comeback?

Viele Menschen meinten zu meinem Comeback-Album, dass sie gerne darauf mehr Gitarre gehört hätten. In einer gewissen Art ist „Roadsinger“ die Antwort darauf. Es markiert die Rückkehr zum Minimalismus meiner frühen Alben. „Welcome Home“, das erste Stück, entstand übrigens aus einem vergessenen Demo aus den Sechzigerjahren.

Stoff Ihrer Lieder sind oft die mannigfaltigen, steinigen Wege zu Weisheit und innerer Ruhe. Ist das Leben ein Bildungsroman?

Ich denke, dass wir – wie der Bauer sein Land bestellt – unser Bewusstsein kultivieren müssen. Kreativität ist die wichtigste Eigenschaft des Menschen. Sie ist eine Gnade Gottes und wir sollten uns ihrer würdig erweisen.

Ist Musik also mit dem Göttlichen verlinkt?

Wenn Menschen beim Hören einer Melodie in einen Zustand der Ekstase kommen, dann könnte man verleitet sein, das so zu sehen. Wichtig ist, dass Musik die Existenz erhellt; ob das gleich näher zum Göttlichen führt, da bin ich mir nicht sicher. Mir geht es darum, dass meine Musik zu dem führt, was wir im täglichen Leben vermissen: also Friede und Harmonie.

Vazierende Musiker und Straßensänger haben eine lange Tradition. Fühlen Sie sich ihr verbunden? Schließlich hieß einer Ihrer frühen Songs „On The Road To Find Out“?

Auf jeden Fall. Reisen ist meine zweite Natur. Soziale Sicherheit und Verwurzelung sind sehr wichtig für unser Leben, aber genauso wichtig ist es auch, dann und wann mal auszubrechen aus den Routinen. Ich liebe es, auf Tournee zu gehen, würde so gerne wieder Australien und Neuseeland bereisen. Die Natur des Lebens ist zu reisen. Wir wachsen mit den Erfahrungen und auf Reisen sind unsere Sinne besonders wach. Leider servieren die Hotels heutzutage überall die gleiche Art von Frühstück. Da wird viel zu viel Lokales ausgespart.

Nach Veröffentlichung des Albums werden Sie aber nicht viel zum Reisen kommen. Wie steht es um das Musical, an dem Sie gleichzeitig arbeiten?

Es wird „Moonshadow“ heißen und beinhaltet mehr als 30 alte und neue Hits von „Peace Train“ bis „Morning Has Broken“. Premiere soll im Herbst in einem Westend-Theater in London sein. „Moonshadow“ berichtet über eine Welt der Dunkelheit, wo alle versklavt sind, bloß um zu überleben. Der Held darin heißt „Stormy“, ist ein kleiner Rebell. Er ähnelt ein wenig mir in jüngeren Jahren. Das Buch schrieb ich gemeinsam mit Rachel Wagstaff. Regie werden Nicola Traheren und der Schwede Anders Albien führen. Christopher Nightingale ist musikalischer Supervisor.

Den Titelsong „Moonshadow“ hat einst auch schon Patti Labelle mit ihrer Gruppe Labelle interpretiert. Mochten Sie ihre Version?

Ich kann mich erinnern. „Moonshadow“ ist ja fast kinderliedartig komponiert. Deshalb hat mich diese entschieden funkige Version von Labelle total überrascht. Ich mochte sie sehr. Überhaupt ist R&B meine Lieblingsmusik. Die Botschaft dieses Songs hat immer noch viel Kraft. Durch unsere materielle Sicht der Existenz behindern wir so viel in uns. Dabei wäre es viel wichtiger, am Spirituellen zu arbeiten – denn unsere spirituelle Verfassung bestimmt auf vielerlei Arten, was wir erleben.

Auf dem neuen Album sind auch drei Songs, die in das Musical integriert werden. Welche sind das?

„World Of Darkness“, „To Be What You Must“ und „This Glass World“, wo der Protagonist verführt wird von den vielfältigen exotischen Düften entlang der „Road“.

Ist der Broadway noch ein Thema für Sie, nachdem Ihnen 2004 die Einreise in die USA verwehrt wurde?

Auf jeden Fall, der Broadway zeigt schon Interesse. In der Zwischenzeit war ich auch wieder drüben, in L. A. und Nashville, wo ich mit Kollegen an Songs arbeitete. Ich verarbeitete diese schmerzvolle Erfahrung mit etwas Humor in meinem Song „Boots & Sand“, bei dem auch Dolly Parton und Paul McCartney mithalfen.

Ihr Sohn ist auch Musiker. Versucht er Einfluss auf Sie auszuüben?

Mein Sohn Mohammed ist ein richtiger Antreiber. Er hat einen breiten Geschmack und kam über Umwege wie Mars Volta und Nirvana auf meine Musik. Es freut mich total, dass er etwas mit ihr anfangen kann. Er ist eine große Inspiration. So brachte er mich wieder auf Nick Drake, den ich erst jetzt wirklich höre. Auch das Tracklisting auf „Roadsinger“ dachte er sich aus. Er zwang mich auch, ein echtes Foto fürs Cover zu inszenieren. Wäre es nach mir gegangen, hätte ich mich mit einer Fotoshop-Montage zufrieden gegeben.

[diepresse.com, 25.04.2009]

Hazy days are here again

A meeting with Yusuf Islam carries with it a degree of trepidation - for me, as well as for him. The Muslim convert formerly known as Cat Stevens returned to public life three years ago, releasing an album of secular pop songs after a 30-year break, but he still seems uneasy about being back in the spotlight. Our interview has been cancelled and rescheduled several times, even though I am told he is happy to talk about his new album Roadsinger, a return to the gentle acoustic mood of his classic early 70s period. His nerves are perhaps unsurprising: in 2004, two British papers reported that US authorities had identified Islam as a supporter of terrorism, and had been right to deport him from the US while he was travelling there. (He sued, successfully, and donated his award to orphans of the Asian tsunami.)

I am apprehensive about meeting Islam, too, for personal reasons. My father owned just three records, but two of them were by Cat Stevens - his albums Tea for the Tillerman, and Teaser and the Firecat, from 1970 and 1971 respectively. This meant that plaintive, searching songs like Stevens's Moonshadow and Peace Train were the soundtrack to my youth; they also provided a strange portent of things to come. Stevens's conversion to Islam - which came after he almost drowned off the coast of California in 1976 - narrowly preceded my own father's conversion from atheist intellectual to devotee of Indian spiritualism, after he almost died from serious food poisoning. Without getting too deep about it, Cat Stevens/Yusuf Islam is the famous version of my father. If we don't get on, there will be all sorts of psychological ramifications.

We meet in Islam's offices in north-west London, near the Muslim primary school he set up in 1981 using the money he earned as Cat Stevens. In appearance, he is a unique combination of man of God and world-famous pop star: he has the short hair and grey beard of a Muslim cleric, but a languid self-confidence and transatlantic accent. It's a confusing mix.

Islam doesn't see any contradiction between these two halves of his life. "Before," he says, "I was writing about being on the road in search of something. I'm still writing about that journey, but now I have the luxury of having a little map in my pocket."

That map, presumably, is the Qur'an. While his best 70s work was the product of a restless soul looking for meaning in a chaotic world, the author of the new album is an older and calmer man, one who has found solace through following a fixed religious path. Many of the songs on Roadsinger form part of a musical Stevens has written, called Moonshadow, a semi-autobiographical story about spirituality and the search for perfection. (It has yet to be performed, though Islam is hoping for a West End premiere this autumn.)

I ask him if the inspiration behind his songwriting has changed much. "Songs are always informed from your own life experience, and I've picked up a lot of stories over the last 30 years," he says. He started playing music again after his son, Muhammad Islam, now 24, brought a guitar home and encouraged his dad to pick it up. (This was four years ago and, unbeknown to him, Muhammad had been writing and performing his own songs under the name of Yoriyos.) "In a funny sort of way," Islam says, "I'm back to where I first started. If you don't pick up a guitar for 30 years, it's like a brand new experience."

Born Steven Georgiou in 1948, Islam grew up above his Cypriot father's restaurant on Shaftesbury Avenue, in the heart of London. He became a pop star at 18, with hits like I Love My Dog and Matthew and Son, and then suffered burnout at the grand old age of 19. "The intoxication that fame brings caused my downfall," he says now. "I contracted tuberculosis and got the message direct that this was not the right way to live. I was coughing up blood in a convalescent home for a year, trying to make sense of it all, and for the first time I realised that there were much more important things to think about than the pop charts."

While he counted Pete Townshend and Paul McCartney among his friends at the time, he was increasingly inspired by the folk scene - particularly that growing out of a tiny Soho club called Les Cousins, where guitarists Bert Jansch, Davy Graham and Al Stewart held all-night sessions. This led to a reinvention as Cat Stevens the acoustic troubadour: earnest and soulful, with a roster of songs - Where Do the Children Play?, Wild World - that captured the uncertain mood of the early 70s, its introspection and hazy, unfocused spirituality. When he later rejected his own back catalogue as the outpourings of an unenlightened man, it felt like a personal betrayal for many of his fans. Why did he feel he had to make such a clean break?

'There was a natural progression from dreaming and singing about the perfect life and a better world, and then getting off my high horse and actually living it," he says. "And I needed to make that break, because the world of music and entertainment is designed to create an unreal place that people can escape to. I had to separate myself from the world I was in. I had to get real."

That separation turned out to be total. Again, my father went through a very similar experience, having little to do with the world he was formerly a part of, and I mention this to Islam. "We're all looking for the fountainhead of existence and we may travel in many different directions to find it," he says, gnomically, wanting to keep the conversation more philosophical than personal. "It's an upward path, though. There's a verse in the Qu'ran that describes that path as feeding an orphan on a day of hunger. If your ego has shrunk, you find out that you can do a lot more for others."

As Cat Stevens, he became frustrated at the contradictions between writing personal songs that his audience felt close to, and then having to deal with the separation from his audience that fame brought. He would attempt to create intimacy in a concert hall, only to be bustled by bouncers from the backstage door into his limousine. "It got to the point where I would be screaming, 'I just want to be able to get on a bus!' And then I completely lost my inhibitions and became humanised again. It's all to do with your understanding of your connection with God. You learn to view life as a place to learn, and I had a lot of learning to do."

In his time away from the music business, Islam raised a family - he had an arranged marriage - and gave most of his money to charity. His attitude to his former self has softened over time, and he recently endorsed the re-release of several albums after years of disowning them."The songs from that era," he says, "were premonitions of the way my life was to go. They were like being in a room with your eyes shut and feeling the light of the dawn, and then opening your eyes and seeing the reality of the world. That's what Morning Is Broken is about, I think. "

Islam no longer considers making secular music as at odds with his faith. In fact, he has been thinking about how his fame might benefit the Muslim community. "The whole idea of being part of a multicultural society means you have to contribute in as many ways as you can," he says. "So I started thinking, I can sing. It's what I know best. I can make a contribution." Has he encountered any resistance? "Generally, the reaction has been good," he says, before adding with a smile, "Some of the scholarly elite might be frowning at me a little bit."

He cites a line of Rudyard Kipling, by way of illustrating the problem of mutual distrust between Islam and the west - and his own difficult position as England's most famous convert. "Everyone remembers it, 'East is east and west is west, and never the twain shall meet.' What's forgotten is the line that follows: 'Till earth and sky stand presently at God's great judgment seat.' Whichever side you come from, you're going to have to meet next to God."

So, is Islam anything like my father? If you ignore the fact that one of them is famous the world over and has album sales of 60m, and the other doesn't, then, yes, there are strong similarities. Both have burned bridges with their pasts in the pursuit of spiritual redemption; both have kept their integrity while losing friends and colleagues along the way (though not their children: my father and I are still close).

I wasn't sure if my mentioning this personal connection had meant anything to Islam at all, or had even seemed inappropriate, but he surprises me as he gets up to leave. "Send your father my regards," he says.

[theguardian.com, 06.05.2009]

On the heels of Obama's historic speech,

Muslim musicians gather in NYC to celebrate,

finding their freedom to do so within Islam itself.

In 2005, Yusuf Islam (the artist formerly known as Cat Stevens) wrote an essay explaining his return to mainstream music after several decades of having abandoned it out of fear that it violated the tenets of his new religion, Islam. In Music: A Question of Faith or Da'wah?, Yusuf confronts criticisms about his allowing his past albums to be re-released. Such criticisms were premised on the idea that music is impermissible in Islam and, as such, listening to it can make one a sinner, if not an unbeliever.

Yusuf turns that question on its head, explaining first that music is not a matter of faith, but of understanding, and then taking the question beyond that of permissibility to preferability - as Yusuf explains, music can be and has been a potent tool for spreading the message of Islam (da'wah).

The da'wah that Yusuf speaks of is not just one of converting others to the faith. In the post-9/11 world, where misconceptions of Islam abound, music can help reflect the inner spiritual core of the religion. Yusuf understood that even the music he created before he embraced Islam represented the "poetic inspiration of a seeker, someone thirsting for peace and trying to understand the unexplained mysteries of life." This music, re-released as that of a now-devout Muslim, is Yusuf's way of using media to "to show Muslims and non-Muslims the transcendent beauty and light of Islam." In recent interviews, Yusuf has emphasized this bridge-building role of music: "Muslims should work a little bit harder at making people a bit more at ease and to create an atmosphere of happiness."

Yusuf is not alone in his view of music as a necessary and effective tool of cross-cultural understanding. His sentiments are shared by many others in the Muslim community, as evidenced most recently by the Muslim Voices Festival, which will take place in New York City from June 5 to 14.

Echoing Yusuf's thoughts about music as da'wah, Zeyba Rahman, Senior Project Advisor for the Festival, describes music as a powerful medium for cultural diplomacy, going "where politics cannot always manage to." Music has the power to touch and engage our emotions, opening up a space where our very mode of thinking can be transformed.

"Time and time again, I find that music flows over borders to move people in ways that just talking about issues does not. It is the glue that binds us and is particularly effective when its intention is to uplift spirits to encourage a sense of community. I have seen the same effect again and again in different contexts all around the world," says Rahman.

Cultural diplomacy depends not just on finding commonalities among people - it also requires that a person know him/herself and articulate that sense of self in a way that connects with others. For many Western Muslims, music plays precisely that role. As Asad Jafri, Director of Arts and Culture for the Inner-City Muslim Action Network (IMAN), explains, these Muslims are using music to create their own narrative, refusing to be "defined strictly by scholars and academics."

Although music in this sense is seen as a new mode of expression, music has always existed in the Muslim tradition. "Islamic religious practice has music at its core," Rahman points out. "The call to prayer is melodic. Quranic recitation brings out beautiful vocalists who sing verses out loud throughout the Muslim world publicly and privately. Whenever Muslims celebrate the Prophet Mohammed's birthday or other religious celebrations, there are special hymns sung a cappella or with simple musical accompaniment. Music is a natural complement to our spiritual practice."

Beyond the basic religious practices, Muslim mystics have found music essential to deeper spiritual exercises. The whirling dervishes of Turkey and the South Asian qawwali tradition are examples of ways Muslims use music to draw attention to and become intertwined with the Divine. Hussein Rashid, a Harvard Ph.D. candidate studying South Asian devotional literatures, describes a typical qawwali concert as a highly interactive process between the performers and the audience, designed to bring the "listeners into communion with the Divine."

The Muslim Voices Festival will feature this broad array of Muslim music - from highly skilled Quranic recitations to whirling dervishes and Sufi music to Pakistani qawwalis. Prominent vocalists, composers, and musicians from throughout the Muslim world will perform a wide range of sacred music. There will be instrumental recitals and vocalists singing poetry from the sacred texts of Rumi.

Modern, secular poetry will also be sung at the Festival. Rounding out the full diversity of Muslim voices, the Festival will feature a number of performances by Muslims of more secular outlooks, such as the alternative rock band Zerobridge. These voices will complement the spiritual music with probing social commentary, together creating a compelling Muslim narrative for the Festival participants.

[patheos.com, 05.06.2009]

Ich und er

30 Jahre lang wollte dieser Mann lieber ein anderer sein -

und nannte sich Yusuf Islam. Jetzt hat er sein Ego wiederentdeckt. Warum? Das soll er am besten selbst erklären.

Eine Busfahrt durch London mit Cat Stevens.

Mit der Faust drischt der Engländer auf die Hupe seines Kleinwagens. Wütend starrt er zu dem seltsamen Gefährt hinüber, das seine Einfahrt versperrt. Es ist ein VW-Bus, Baujahr 1965, bemalt mit einem »Peace«-Zeichen, einer Friedenstaube und dem Bild eines bärtigen jungen Mannes. Derselbe Mann, inzwischen alt geworden, sitzt hinterm Steuer und dreht gerade am Zündschlüssel. Aber ist er wirklich derselbe?

Früher hieß er Cat Stevens und war ein großer Star. Dann warf er seinen Namen weg wie einen abgenagten Apfelbutzen, nannte sich Yusuf Islam und kehrte der Popmusik den Rücken zu. Doch vor zwei Jahren war er plötzlich wieder da. Seit seinem Comeback-Album An Other Cup fragen sich viele: Wie viel Cat steckt noch in Yusuf?

Yusuf gibt Gas und fädelt in den Verkehr auf der Salusbury Road im Norden Londons ein. Er trägt einen schicken braunen Cordanzug und eine randlose Brille; Bart und Stirnlocken sind sorgfältig gestutzt. Normalerweise fährt er Mercedes, aber weil er auf dem Cover seines neuen Albums ein Symbol der Hippie-Ära zeigen wollte, weil es auf der Platte außerdem um Bewegung, Stillstand und Lebenswege geht, hat er sich den alten VW-Bus gekauft. An diesem Freitagnachmittag will er mit einigen Journalisten eine Rundfahrt durchs Zentrum von London machen, vorbei an wichtigen Wegmarken seiner Vergangenheit – falls der Wagen nicht unterwegs zusammenbricht. Hinten im Bus ist noch die Campingausrüstung des Vorbesitzers zu bewundern, das Autoradio ist allerdings brandneu. Yusuf schiebt seine neue CD Roadsinger (To Warm You Through The Night) hinein. Zwei akustische Gitarren klimpern, dann kommt der Gesang. »Saw a sign on the path / All seekers this way.« Ah, diese Stimme!

Vor einigen Jahren hätten wohl nur wenige darauf gewettet, dass Yusuf Islam einmal ein Pop-Comeback gelingen würde. Durch die Hinwendung zum Propheten Mohammed hatte er seine Fan-Basis erfolgreich dezimiert; CDs mit islamischen Kinderliedern (A Is For Allah) ließen nicht darauf schließen, dass er es noch einmal im Pop versuchen würde. Doch als dann vor zwei Jahren wieder seine Stimme ertönte, als sie immer noch genauso klang wie in den Siebzigern, immer noch die Aura von Räucherstäbchen, Batiktüchern und Buddhafiguren verbreitete, da war klar, dass dieser Mann nichts Böses im Sinn hatte. So empfing ihn die Popwelt mit offenen Armen, und Yusuf konnte da anknüpfen, wo Cat Stevens einst aufgehört hatte.

»Das ist eine unserer Schulen«, sagt er und deutet nach links. »Islamia Primary School« steht an dem Gebäude, aus dem gerade ein Schwarm kleiner Mädchen mit Kopftüchern herausrennt. In den Achtzigern gründete Yusuf mit den Erlösen seiner Erfolgsalben drei islamische Schulen, was ihm unter britischen Muslimen hohes Ansehen verschaffte. Die Öffentlichkeit war an-fangs skeptisch, was da gelehrt würde, doch seit zehn Jahren bekommen die Schulen nun staatliche Unterstützung; auch Prinz Charles hat sie inzwischen besucht. Statt die Vorzüge der islamischen Erziehung anzupreisen, fängt Yusuf aber plötzlich an, von Jimi Hendrix zu erzählen.
Jimi Hendrix?

Wie er den knatternden VW-Bus so durch Nord-London steuert, grauhaarig und mit mönchischer Gelassenheit, fällt es schwer, sich daran zu erinnern, dass dieser Mann schon mitmischte, als der Rock noch jung war. Im Dezember 1966 hatte er seinen ersten Hit, zwei Monate lang war er darauf mit der Jimi Hendrix Experience auf Tour; gemeinsam fuhr man nach Bremen zur TV-Sendung Beat-Club, wo Steve Marriott von den Small Faces Amok lief. »Das war haarig, sehr haarig«, erzählt er. »Alkohol, verwüstete Hotelzimmer, Randale im Flugzeug.«

Viele würden sich mit solchen Anekdoten brüsten, Yusuf hadert damit. Lange hat er über jene Momente in seinem Leben nachgedacht, in denen er gegen die Gebote des Islam verstieß. Und das waren nicht wenige. »Am Anfang war alles außer Kontrolle. Als junger Mann mit großem Antrieb und großem Erfolgshunger macht man Dinge, die nicht besonders klug sind«, sagt er und lacht etwas gequält. Was für eine Sünde mag ihm gerade durch den Kopf gehen? In den Achtzigern scheint Yusuf versucht zu haben, durch besonders strenge Befolgung der Glaubensregeln für Cats Verfehlungen zu büßen. Dass man sich seiner Vergangenheit nicht ohne Weiteres entledigen kann, merkte er jedoch spätestens dann, als sein Sohn Mohammed vor einigen Jahren eine Gitarre ins Haus brachte und sie im Wohnzimmer liegen ließ. Anfang der Achtziger hatte Yusuf seine Sammlung erlesener Gitarren versteigern lassen, als Zeichen des radikalen Neubeginns. Nun stand er zögernd vor dem Instrument, das ihm einst den Weg an die Spitze geebnet hatte. »Ich habe auf ihr gespielt«, erzählt er, »und gemerkt, dass es keine besonders gute Gitarre war. Doch ich hatte sofort wieder eine enge Verbindung zu dem Instrument. Also habe ich mir eine neue, bessere Gitarre gekauft.«

Durch die St John’s Wood Road fahren wir auf den Regent’s Park zu, und Yusuf berichtet von seiner musikalischen Wiedergeburt. »Ich kann gar nicht mehr aufhören, Songs zu schreiben. Vor ein paar Tagen habe ich erst wieder einen verfasst; er ist mir einfach zugeflogen. Kaum ein Album habe ich so zügig aufgenommen wie Roadsinger. Der Titelsong saß schon beim ersten Versuch – das hatte ich seit vierzig Jahren nicht mehr geschafft!« Wenn sich sein Talent so leicht wiederbeleben ließ, ist es dann nicht bedauerlich, dass es dreißig Jahre lang brachlag? Der Muslim antwortet mit einem Zitat aus der Bibel, Buch Prediger, Kapitel 3: »Alles hat seine Zeit und jegliches Vornehmen unter dem Himmel seine Stunde.«

Über die Marylebone Road nähern wir uns dem Londoner West End, wo Steven Demetre Georgiou in den Fünfzigerjahren aufwuchs, als Sohn einer schwedischen Mutter und eines zypriotisch-griechischen Vaters. Die Eltern hatten mitten im Theaterviertel ein griechisches Restaurant namens »Moulin Rouge«, in das viele Tänzer und Schauspieler aus den nahen Musicalhäusern kamen; in den Clubs um die Ecke lief Blues, Jazz und Bluebeat, wie man den Ska damals nannte. »Es war großartig, zu dieser Zeit dort aufzuwachsen«, sagt Yusuf.

Er reißt das Steuer nach rechts und biegt in eine Straße ein, die schnurgerade nach Süden führt. Eben hat er noch vom Propheten Abraham und den gemeinsamen Wurzeln von Judentum, Christentum und Islam erzählt, nun ist er in Gedanken wieder bei seiner Jugend. »Dies ist die Gower Street. Die führt direkt zum Restaurant meines Vaters. Soho ist gleich um die Ecke, das war meine Spielwiese.« Er zeigt auf ein Eckhaus an der rechten Straßenseite. »Da drüben hat mein bester Freund Andrew gewohnt.« Auch auf einen Regenschirm-Laden – »der älteste der Welt« – und eine ehemalige Schokoladenfabrik weist er hin: »Mmmh! Den Geruch habe ich heute noch in der Nase.« Dann sind wir da. »Sehen Sie den schwarzen Laden? Das ist es.«

Das ehemalige Restaurant der Familie Georgiou steht an der Ecke New Oxford Street und Shaftesbury Avenue, ein großes Lokal in bester Lage. Bereits jetzt, am Nachmittag, sind die Bürgersteige voll, und vor den umliegenden Pubs stehen Trauben von Menschen; abends dürfte hier erst recht das Geschäft brummen, heute wie damals. »Mein Vater ist viel herumgekommen«, erzählt Yusuf. »Er ging in den Zwanzigerjahren von Zypern nach Amerika und hat dort viele Ideen aufgeschnappt. Unser Restaurant war im Art-déco-Stil eingerichtet, das war damals ziemlich fortschrittlich.« Er zeigt zu einem Fenster im ersten Stock hinauf. »Und dort oben war mein rotes Zimmer.«

In der privaten Mythologie des Yusuf Islam nimmt dieses Zimmer eine zentrale Rolle ein. Nach ersten Hits in den Jahren 1966 und 1967, nach Erfolgen und Exzessen, erkrankte Cat Stevens an Tuberkulose. Drei Monate verbrachte er im Krankenhaus, lange auf der Schwelle des Todes, dann zog er wieder bei seinen Eltern ein, in ein Zimmer, dessen Wände er purpurrot gestrichen hatte. In diesem Raum erholte er sich ein weiteres Jahr von der Krankheit, dachte über die Zukunft nach – und schrieb mindestens vierzig Songs, darunter Klassiker wie Moonshadow, Father And Son und Peace Train. Das rote Zimmer ist die Keimzelle seiner Karriere, und weil es so wichtig für ihn ist, hat er es nun in seinem Büro in Nord-London nachgebaut, komplett mit roten Wänden, Wasserpfeife und Hippie-Mobiliar. Ein weiterer Schritt zur Versöhnung von Yusuf und Cat; er könne sich sogar vorstellen, den abgelegten Namen bei Konzerten erneut zu verwenden, sagt er. Aus seinem Handy kommt ein orientalischer Klingelton. »Salam alaikum, Dave«, sagt er. »Alles cool, wir sind gerade am Restaurant. Im Wagen stinkt’s ziemlich nach Benzin. Bis später, inschallah.« Hinter uns hupt jemand, und Yusuf kämpft mit der Gangschaltung. »Wo ist denn bloß der erste?«, murmelt er, dann steuert er den Bus ins Straßengewirr des Londoner West End. In etlichen dieser Häuser hat er etwas erlebt: »Dort habe ich meine erste Gitarre gekauft«, erzählt er. »Da drüben hatte der Vater eines Freundes ein Café. Und da ist der Spielsalon, wo ich immer geflippert habe.«

Als wir aus einer Gasse wieder auf die Shaftesbury Avenue einbiegen, deutet er auf ein großes Kino. »Das war das Saville Theatre, das damals Brian Epstein gehörte. Nach meinen ersten Hits bin ich dort mit Georgie Fame aufgetreten.« Auch Jimi Hendrix, Cream und die Bee Gees haben an diesem legendären Ort gespielt, die Beatles drehten dort einen Promo-Film für Hello Goodbye. Im Player läuft immer noch Yusufs neue CD, sanfte akustische Klänge perlen aus den Lautsprechern. »Time rolls on«, singt er, »and so we travel on.«

An den Häusern blinken die Markisen der großen Musical-Theater, und Yusuf gibt sich überraschend als Musical-Fan zu erkennen. Er erzählt, wie er sich als Teenager an den Bühneneingang schlich, um West Side Story zu hören, und wie er Anfang der Siebziger selbst lange an einem Musicalstoff gearbeitet habe. »Es ging um die russische Revolution, um Zar Nikolaus und seinen Sohn Alexej.«
Was ist mit Lenin und Trotzki?
»Die waren auch dabei! Wir haben sie irgendwie noch reingekriegt.«

Wie um die Ambitionen des jungen Cat doch noch zu erfüllen, arbeitet Yusuf erneut an einem Musical. »Moonshadow« soll es heißen und Songs aus allen Phasen von Cats/Yusufs Karriere enthalten. »Wir haben inzwischen ein wunderbares Skript«, erzählt er. »Es geht um einen jungen Mann, der in der Welt der Dunkelheit lebt und von einer Welt des Lichts träumt, in der niemand arbeiten muss.« Als er das sagt, muss er selbst lachen.

Auf der Tottenham Court Road verlassen wir das West End und fahren wieder Richtung Norden. »Ich zeige Ihnen noch meine Moschee«, sagt Yusuf. Er fährt östlich am Regent’s Park vorbei, die goldene Kuppel der Londoner Zentralmoschee ist von Weitem zu erkennen. »Ich bin jetzt in einer Position, in der ich meine in jahrelangen Studien erworbenen Kenntnisse, meine Lebensgeschichte, nutzen kann, um einige Dinge zu erklären«, sagt er. »Zum Beispiel über den Islam, dessen Kern ich glücklicherweise gefunden habe, ehe die Bomben losgingen.«

Aber inzwischen ist klar, dass es bei seiner Rückkehr in den Pop nicht nur um den Glauben des alten Yusuf geht, sondern auch um das, was den wilden Cat bewegte. »Wir werden niemals wirklich älter, oder? Irgendwie fühle ich mich, als sei ich immer noch 17.«

[Süddeutsche Zeitung Magazin 18/2009]

The philosopher of melodies

Yusuf Islam speaks to Neos Kosmos about his musical journey,

his Greek identity, his thoughts on the Cyprus issue

and the real message behind his latest artistic endeavour,

the musical Moonshadow.

An aura of utter peace and tranquillity glows on his face. Every single move he makes, from the warm handshake to the welcoming gesture of inviting me to take a seat, encompasses - in a very distinct way - the harmonious precision and melodic sweetness of his music. His presence reminds me of those wise old men that live in fairy tales, yet Yusuf Islam - the man who became famous as the master of melodies, Cat Stevens - is real. While in Melbourne for the world premiere of his musical Moonshadow he gives Neos Kosmos readers the privilege of sharing his thoughts with them.

His music, his life journey, his philosophical stance through his life, the extent to which his ethnic identity dictated his life choices as well as the Cypriot issue emerged as the most intriguing themes in our conversation. With a serene but captivating smile reigning over his face, and the thought that the courage and explorative spirit of this living legend should be portrayed in the most faithful way, we begin our conversation ...

Moonshadow: a personal story

Moonshadow is the first musical of your career and comes at the age of 64. The hero of the story is in search of the light, of hope. Did your life journey inspire you to write the script of Moonshadow?

It is reflective of my journey in many respects and that's because the songs themselves tell a story. You see, I was never disconnected from the message in my songs; I live my music, live my words and that's how I got to write those songs because they are part of my story. In Moonshadow my hero, after a very big battle, finds the light within himself. That's a very big part of it. There is one of the sayings in the musical that to be what you must, you must give up what you are - and that's only natural. If you do the same things today the same way you did yesterday you'll end up with the same results. If you want something different you have to do something different; and so there is that element of change. We - human beings - tend to like to sit at the same table. Breaking habits is part of our explorative nature and that's what is very important to human kind. If we don't go beyond our normal comfort zone, we may never learn anything.
The other message is about the family because in the story there are families that don't like each other but they don't know why, because it is like historical and it is just inherited hatred and therefore there is a point where the world can change when people start to see each other as they are themselves. Looking at each other like you are looking at your brother or your sister or your family, as it is said in the story: "When everything else in this world is broken the first place to fix is the home". So there is a big story there about brothers and sons and I do adhere to those messages.

Exploring life through music:

Months before you converted to Islam, and while visiting Morocco you were fascinated by the ritual call to prayer from the local Imam. When this was described to you as "music for God" you said in a previous interview that you got somewhat surprised and that you'd never heard that before. You said: "I always thought that there was music for money, music for power, music for fame". So what is music for you these days?

Music for me now is really a part of my agenda for creating better harmony and better understanding. Because now if you go to a show you see lots of people from different kinds of backgrounds, different kinds of religions, ages, coming around one thing. That is the beauty of the art itself, of music. Music is to do with harmony. We close our ears when we hear discord. We open our ears, we open our hearts when we hear harmony and I've always been a lover of melody. I've never stopped loving melodies. I mean a song without melody for me, forget it, I don't care. For me music is the art of surprise. There must always be a surprise, it can't just be the expected like the Eurovision song contest. When you see that, you see the same thing. Okay, they are dressed differently, but actually it is the same thing. So I love the art of surprise; that to me is music.
Music is also a healer, I think when I went back and started singing my old songs I started feeling better myself, you know and I started singing Peace Train with a completely different dimension, with a new dimension of having you know, actually found something myself. So music is really communicating, and that is a big job.

Names and identity:

You've changed your name four times, you were born Demetrios Steven Georgiou, you became Steve Adams at the start of your career, then Cat Stevens and now Yusuf Islam. It seems that you are at ease going through name changes, unlike other people who see their name as an integral part of their identity. What does a name mean for you?

I think it's a symbol. In fact my first name was interesting, because in reality I had five names. I learned here from my sister-in-law Maria who lives in Melbourne that originally I was called Dimitri, my first name was Dimitri Georgiou and then my dad got upset with his brother whose name was Dimitri and when he got back to London he got me christened again as Steven. So my name changes, as you see, started very early in my life. So I still got Dimitri, Steven Georgiou and then I took my father's grandfather's name Adamos and for a while, Steve Adams, and then I went on to adopt Cat because as I felt that in the music business you need something to catch people's attention and that certainly did the job.
When I discovered Islam what I really discovered was that the unity within Islam was the prophetic history and I found Joseph. More clearly than I ever saw it before in the Bible, I saw his story as a symbol in some sense of my story - of having being sold in the market - but having been raised again and given fantastic position.

You've been born to Cypriot and Swedish roots, you've changed your name, becoming Yusuf Islam some 35 years ago. Do you still feel connected to your Cypriot roots and to what extent?

I am and we are all very close to the family. Right now I am helping a few people in Greece who are having difficult times. And you know that stays and that remains, but the real vision of being Greek is again one of explorative nature, that's what I believe. When it becomes too traditional you get stuck with the deterioration of the Acropolis, who is going to save it? But the minds that built the Acropolis, that's more important. So I think that the intelligence and the history and the legacy of thought, scientific as well as religious and metaphysical thought, is still the heritage of Greece. I think that is within me because otherwise I would never be a thinker. And being a thinker is part of who I am and how I got to be who I am.

The Big Brothers and Cyprus occupation:

You have a Cypriot background and at the same time you are a Muslim. What are your thoughts on Cyprus' occupation and the Cypriot issue?

Well I think that Cyprus is one of the blessed islands which is actually part of the Holy Land. Whenever there was a new revelation [in different religions, philosophy and streams of thought], it always came to Cyprus first. It is very close to the light of revelation and so Cyprus is a very special place and it has been an attraction for many people to come to the island to conquer it.
Cypriot people have always adapted and adopted a very survivalist attitude towards conquerors. So I believe that while the big brothers are fighting, and I mean Greece and Turkey, it is going to be difficult for a solution to come about. Big brothers have to make peace and that could be done in a mutually advantageous way, because when peace arrives, business thrives, people can go around and explore. More bounty flows from peace than from war. If the brothers can make peace a lot could happen to Cyprus, but there is still a British colony on that island, which I think still feels rather uncomfortable to me, so people do like to position themselves in Cyprus and that causes divisions.
Religiously, there is a misunderstanding and I know from my own history the times that I closed the door to even thinking about Muslims because you know traditionally we should hate them. You know that's the kind of attitude I had for many years. I know that this attitude I had, which applies for many people today, has been fed by people who have ulterior motives. This attitude doesn't help people. When I discovered Islam I raised the curtain. I said there is too much I see here that is familiar and when I saw that familiarity that's what I embraced. People try to turn that around and make it look foreign. It is not foreign, it goes to the heart of the teachings of Jesus, to the heart of the teachings of Moses. It is the same voice. Let's pray for Cyprus!

[neoskosmos.com, 04.07.2012]

Nine Lives

The singer Steven Demetre Georgiou Adams has never maintained one identity long. As a teen-ager in sixties London, he took the stage name Cat Stevens—but his first hit, contra his new feline brand, was “I Love My Dog.” Next, after a near-fatal bout of tuberculosis, he transformed from a pop heartthrob into a soulful superstar. Albums such as “Tea for the Tillerman” became the soundtrack of the early seventies; every passing VW bus blasted Stevens’s staccato vocal rhythms and scratchy, joyful acoustic guitar.

By decade’s end, he’d grown disenchanted with a business that craved his hits but rejected his quest. After forays into Zen Buddhism and numerology, he became a Muslim named Yusuf Islam and forswore music. He went on to found Islamic schools in Britain and to work for peace in the Balkans, but he also became embroiled in the Salman Rushdie controversy, was questioned about whether he had inadvertently donated money to Hamas, and in 2004 was denied entry to the United States. Though Yusuf insisted he was a man of peace, a casual observer might have thought that he’d come to embody his own lyrics to “Wild World”: “A lot of nice things turn bad out there.”

Last Thursday, at Brooklyn’s Barclays Center, Cat Stevens was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Beforehand, his current, sixty-five-year-old iteration sat cross-legged on a couch in a room at the Essex Hotel, drinking tea and looking out on Central Park. Of the impending ceremony, he said, “It seems like a very nice rapprochement—would you say that? Something that heals?”

Aside from Peter Gabriel, he didn’t view the other artists in his Hall of Fame class as fellow-travellers. “Kiss?” he wondered, in a soft London lilt. “I have no feelings for Kiss. I admire the way they look”—a reference to the band’s face paint. He laughed and added, “But maybe it’s just a way of hiding yourself behind makeup.”

First, Art Garfunkel would introduce him: “If he says anything wrong, I’ll say, ‘Where’s the other guy?’ ” He mimed looking for Paul Simon. Then Yusuf planned to thank his lodestars, from Beethoven to the Beatles. “Before I came around to seeing the prophets as my models, the Beatles represented the kind of people I wanted to be with, be one of. But when I met John and George, in David Bailey’s photographic studio, about ’69, I was completely tongue-tied. I finally said something stupid, like ‘It took me a long time to make it!’ They looked at me, knowing I’d hit it after two years, and said, ‘You didn’t have it so hard.’ ” And then he’d sing three of his hits. “I was thinking about how ‘Father and Son’ and ‘Wild World’ are about leaving,” he mused, reflecting on his life’s journey, “and ‘Peace Train’ is about waiting for the train to come back, as it now has.” His lyrics always foretold what was coming: “When you allow the music to flow, it’s a very mystic thing.”

For years, of course, the music didn’t flow. Yusuf married in 1979; his wife, Fawzia, had never heard of Cat Stevens (she was an Elvis fan). “And at the time I became a Muslim,” he said, “there were two points of view about music and the prevalent one was a bit strict, so I just withdrew entirely. I eventually came around to the other view, which allowed the voice and a drum.” In 2000, Yusuf released a popular children’s album, “A Is for Allah.”

Then he began to realize, he said, that “I’d left a whole generation who loved me and my music.” When did that occur? “I think Yoriyos is the guilty one,” he said, smiling at his twenty-nine-year-old son, who was sitting attentively on the floor nearby. “He brought a guitar into the house in, what, 2003?”

“Actually, before that,” Yoriyos admitted. “I kept it in my cupboard.” Yusuf raised his eyebrows, and they both laughed. “After you took it off me in Dubai, the next morning you’d written a new song, already—”

“I had to find F,” Yusuf recalled, his fingers shaping the chord in the air. “C was always easy, but for F, I had to press a little harder.”

Now he’s touring again, as Yusuf/Cat Stevens. Yoriyos, whose band used to open for his father, explained that his own name is the Greek version of George: “It means farmer—”

“Tillerman!” his father cried, rising to his feet. He added, “I’m not happy about the part of entering the Hall of Fame that means I’m entering history. What I’m happy about is that I’m bursting with music—my new album is very bluesy, actually. I’m singing again because it’s the best way to communicate without politics, without all this terrible mess!” He gestured toward the window, beyond which lay all his past incarnations and impediments. “And because your identity is the thing you never stop becoming.” 

[The New Yorker, 21. April 2014]

A Thoughtful Chat with Yusuf Islam/Cat Stevens

Cat Stevens’ seminal 70’s work, Tea For the Tillerman, Teaser and the Firecat and Catch Bull At Four introduced the world to his remarkable gift as a master storyteller.

A huge international star, Stevens’ spiritually uplifting and enlightening body of work infused such classic songs as Where Do the Children Play, And I Might Die Tonight, Wild World, Sitting and Moonshadow.

Today, reconciled with his musical past, Yusuf Islam has come to terms with his life as Cat Stevens.

He’s released several albums, An Other Cup and Roadsinger and tours sporadically.

Back in April he was honored with induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, cementing his place as one of music’s most gifted talents.

Enjoy an interview with Yusuf himself below.

Spirituality has always infused your work.

It wouldn’t be difficult to decipher my spiritual ambitions through listening to my lyrics. So therefore I think people would have already had a premonition that I was on my way somewhere but it wasn’t quite clear where we were going.

Did your spiritual beliefs help you deal with the initial onset of your phenomenal success?

For sure. My first period of success was an inoculation (laughs) toward preparing me for the next phase of exposure to fame and fortune.

I was on a secret mission, perhaps not everybody could see it but through my words they can kind find my story and my longings and yearnings for peace and enlightenment.

My albums illustrated that also. For instance Catch Bull At Four was taken from a kind of ten-stage enlightenment process from Zen Buddhism. And my music evolved to the point I suppose. I tried many different styles as well.

I mean Foreigner was one stage, it was me saying, ‘look, you can’t nail me down (laughs), I don’t want to be nailed down in this particular style or format or package or box, I want to be free, and say it from another part of my soul.’

Did you re-listen to your recorded work?

I had gone through a phase of actually separating my songs into two groups. The first group was what you might call the amoral or moral, social, spiritual, family, ecological, those kinds of songs which quite frankly nobody can argue with.

Other songs I call love songs, songs of (laughs) unfettered love and symbolism of that sort, those kinds of songs I brought to another side. But I always recognized that the majority of my songs were thinker songs, songs that didn’t make people dance.

In fact that was one of the things that upset me when my records came on in a disco (laughs). People would sit down and stop dancing and start contemplating (laughs).

Bring us back to your childhood and days of wonder growing up amid the bustling and vibrant London theatre district.

It was the backdrop. And in a way one of the major influences of my life and career was the fact that I grew up in the center of London and the hub of the West End where theatres and coffee bars and jukeboxes played throughout the night. So in a way it was natural that I fell into the entertainment world. It was a natural step.

There were many great shows, which came by. Right across the road from us was The Shaftesbury Theatre so Hair was one of those shows. One of the first places I played was The Saville Theatre. I played there with Georgie Fame and Julie Felix back in 1967.

It was strange to go out of my front door just down the road (laughs) to The Saville Theatre. And again some of my early gigs, some of my first show were at little kebab shops and pubs and folk clubs just outside my door more or less, just a few hundred yards away.

You played at Les Cousins, a folk club.

It was an inspiring club. I never really played that often there, maybe only once. It was a very elitist folk club and I was one of the young trainees. I certainly was not ready to stand up next to Bert Jansch or John Renbourn or Davey Graham, who frequented that club. And Paul Simon also.

He was launching his career more or less from Britain; he had a lot of support here. Judith Pepe was one of these strange ladies who used to help him in his career advice. She had a little clothes shop down the road on Greek Street. Anyway it was an inspiring venue but eventually I was looking at not necessarily being a performer, but being a songwriter.

That’s an important point really, which maybe some people don’t know. I thought I could stay in the background, write songs and have other people sing them. Unfortunately the songs that I wrote were so quirky (laughs).

Your version of The First Cut is the Deepest sounds like a song the Small Faces could have done a bang up job. Rod Stewart of course later covered it.

In a way I always wanted someone like Percy Sledge to sing that song. I didn’t know the song was that special when I wrote it. P.P. Arnold found it. Mike Hurst, my producer and P.P. Arnold thought it was a great song and was particularly special.

I had a kind of feel for that having a slow rhythm and blues type of thing. Again, I was writing songs that I thought other people would be singing. Eventually I had to sing them myself.

Early songs of yours like Matthew and Sonand I’m Gonna Get Me a Gun had a pop edge. Then there was a transformation for you in the 70’s where your work became much more introspective and folky. What prompted this change in styles?

There were always hints of my folk roots anyway even in my early albums, songs like The Tramp, one called Blackness of the Night, one called “Portobello Road.” When you hear those they’re kind of folk songs in a way.

It’s only when the producer and the arranger got together that really my songs started changing. I was starting to write in a way also for my arranger that things became a bit too poppish. I wanted to get away from that. In fact one of the last songs that I recorded with Mike Hurst was an attempt to get him on board that kind of style and that was a song called Where Are You. It never made it and so we parted.

I knew that was the way I wanted to go. It was only later that I met Chris Blackwell. I had an idea of writing a musical on the Russian Revolution. One of these was Father and Son and suddenly he said, ‘Why don’t you sign with Island Records?’ It was a great offer.

Tea For the Tillerman is a brilliant album, your first gold album and one of your most popular to date.

For me it represented a picture of childhood and childish wonderment. And I would say also the spirit of inquiry. I think that was the representative album of those kinds of qualities and sensitivities.

To me the childish picture on the front told the story.

 How long did it take for you to create the artwork on the album cover?

Maybe four or five hours, probably something like that. I think the fact that the album had the feel of being homemade, it wasn’t overly produced, and it was minimalistic when that word wasn’t even known at that time.

There was a lot of space, which was also kind of the touch of Paul Samwell-Smith who gave a lovely aesthetic air to the studio and to the productions.

So I think that was one of those special milestone albums, which conforms itself out of the blue and suddenly it’s there.

Your lyrics can stand on their own as poems and stories, what inspired you as a lyricist?

I suppose you’d have to go back to the musicals, which first of all influenced me. All of those musical were part of the story. So painting stories with words was like my art. I liked to do that.

Influences? I suppose I loved the stories behind certain blues songs, Leadbelly’s songs, songs about the days of slavery when people were struggling for freedom. Those are real songs, real words. I think Bob Dylan came in to make everybody think again about how words can be used in a contemporary music genre.

I think that that helped. And along that vein came Paul Simon and various people. But again I think the biggest influence was maybe the musicals in the beginning.

When you broke in America in the Seventies, you were on quite a rollercoaster ride, how did you maintain your sanity and protect your integrity during this tumultuous time?

I suppose that I was lucky enough to have two record chiefs, one in the UK and Europe and one in the States who understood the importance of giving space to the artist and that was Chris Blackwell of Island Records and Jerry Moss of A&M.

Both of those people have similar qualities in that they understood that to get the best out of an artist, particularly people like me, it was best to give us freedom to explore our artistic ambitions and tastes. And that’s what happened.

Many musicians feel that once they achieve that elusive hit single, all of their problems will vanish. Yet if they are lucky enough to land a hit, they find that those problems don’t disappear and then they’re really in a spiritual crisis.

I wrote a song once called I Never Wanted to Be a Star. You can believe it or not as you wish (laughs). But there is some element of truth in it.

I said in that song that (recites lyrics) ‘I only wanted a little bit of recognition, a little bit of love.’

And often times that’s what young artists are, they’re frustrated. They want to be recognized, they want to be acknowledged. They want attention so people would not dismiss them; it’s a simple as that.

I suppose there was some kind of a truth in that song.  But my ambition I thought at one stage was if I had ten thousand pounds in the bank, that’s it, my life is secured. And that’s when a pound was worth what it was (laughs).

When did your disillusionment with success come into play, did it occur fairly quickly?

Disappointment is part and parcel of the competition game, which is played in the music business. You’re never ever able to maintain that titillating moment of success when things are going so well, when you’re at number one. It doesn’t last.

And then people ask you and expect you to come up with something as equally unique. And sometimes they want you to repeat. That’s where I realized to satisfy my own artistic desires; I cannot stay in one place at the same time or continuously.

I had to risk a certain amount of sales in order to progress artistically. At the same time I think I was one of those artists that people went along with and there were a continuous number of fans who enjoyed whichever way I went.

Father & Son is one of your most emotional songs.

It was about a son who was eager to join the revolution, to leave the farm of his father. And his father was trying to keep him home and telling him you shouldn’t just grow up chasing dreams that (recites lyrics) ‘you still may be here tomorrow but your dreams may not.’

Was your father supportive of your music?

I don’t know if he even heard much of it so I’m probably sure he wasn’t really supportive. In a way he used to like the effect of my music because it brought a lot of customers into the shop. He had a restaurant very near to the West End called Moulin Rouge.

Later I changed it to my father’s name; we turned it into a Greek restaurant officially and called it Stavros.

Morning Has Broken was based on a hymn.

Yeah, I found that in a hymn book when I was going through a sort of dry period. I hadn’t written a song for a week or two. I was worried, I had to write something. I was looking for something to complete the album Teaser and the Firecat and then I discovered Morning Has Broken.

How about Wild World?

Again, it mirrors that kind of paternal advisor which you find in Father and Son giving words of caution to the young hearts going out to grab this world and go and taste the excitement of this world. So in a way, I don’t know where some of these songs came from but maybe it was a reminder to myself about the need to be cautious.

So I could have been talking to myself quite often.

Being very young when you were experiencing your success, your songs spoke of someone who was much older, did you feel that you were an old wise man in a young body?

I suppose my childhood passed relatively quickly and I grew up quite fast in the West End. You’ve got to learn life quick if you’re gonna survive in an environment like that. Maybe I felt a bit wizened because of the street experience and the survival game, I suppose.

Somehow there was something of the wise man within me even as a child.

[rockcellarmagazine.com, 05. Sept. 2014]

Yusuf Islam talks about his spiritual memoir, living in Dubai, and new album

The eminent musician and humanitarian Yusuf Islam – previously known as Cat Stevens – has returned to the spotlight with a project that is perhaps his most personal work to date.

In his first book, Why I Still Carry a Guitar, the 66-year-old speaks – powerfully and with some dry humour – of his spiritual journey since converting to Islam in 1977, and tackling the many misconceptions that came along the way.

“There have been too many myths circulating for a long time and I felt it was time to put a few of them to bed,” he says. “I hope to write a more comprehensive autobiography in the future – inshallah. Till then, this book will certainly fill the gap.”

How did the idea for this book take shape?

We were hearing stories about Muslims in certain countries lamenting my return to writing and singing with a guitar again. Some even thought that I had left Islam – God forbid.

Because of the climate of conservatism, which has dominated certain Muslim communities and their perception of Islam recently, I decided to address some of these issues face-on by laying down the principles of Islam and its approach to leisure and entertainment.

The evolvement of the science of Fiqh [Islamic jurisprudence] is a fascinating subject, but it is also not a closed subject. What is halal and what is haram have been stated clearly by Allah and His Prophet (peace be upon him) in the Quran and Sunnah [the sayings of the Prophet Mohammed].

But where there are grey areas, there are allowances for different opinions. During the early days of the Khilafah [early rulers who came after the Prophet Mohammed], Muslims had a much more open and receptive attitude to the cultures they came into contact with. And ijtihad [interpretations by scholars of topics not covered in the Quran or Sunnah] was a major instrument of its ability to progress and deal with new questions or challenges.

Many have to learn that entertainment and music can be socially and intellectually centred and, if used correctly, a powerful means of change.

One of the most interesting features of the book is that it is different from your songwriting voice. While your songs are rich and heavy with metaphor, in the book you have adopted a crisp and direct writing style. Was that a conscious decision to appeal to as many people as you can?

Perhaps I did it subliminally. In music you can use metaphors with ease – if a person doesn’t understand the parable they can still enjoy the melody of the music.

If, however, a person reads a book and misses the meaning of its metaphors, this will be extremely disheartening for both the reader as well as the author.

So, my objective was not to write another song, but to reveal some of the clear thoughts and interesting backgrounds that lay behind the decisions I made in real life. That way everybody gets to understand the basic message of the book – as well as looking at the pictures.

Since your last album, 2009’s The Roadsinger, you have been explo­ring different forms of writing. You wrote and composed the musical stage play Moonshadow in 2012 and now this book. Did you use different creative approaches for the different mediums?

Every medium has its rules. Content dictates form in most cases. Most of my songs in the past and up to today are stories and provide a picture or an emotional scene for the listener to feel, enter and take part in.

The theatre is a world in itself. The possibility for creating experiences that move people is increased many times over. In the end, the best stories are usually about a battle of good over evil – that has never changed.

In the book, you mention the negative media reaction you received when you announced your conversion to Islam. How tumultuous was that period?

I mention this particular point in the book and try to let the reader appreciate how difficult it is to change people’s minds once they have already made them up. It gets harder as people grow older, especially if it helps to secure certain people’s comfort zones.

I suppose in my youth I just had less fear about going places people were told to be scared of. So I took the vilification in my stride and went on doing what I wanted to do. But now this book may help explain my silence and not interpret the silence as guilt.

One of the key themes of this book is that Islam is being wilfully misinterpreted by extremists – both Muslim and non-Muslim. Your book also details some of the steps you have taken to correct that imbalance. In a way, is this one of the goals of the book – to act as a call to action for Muslims to take back their religion?

I believe Islam was truly spread by example. So whatever good a Muslim does publicly will be seen – the same is true for the bad.

Looking at the life of the Prophet and the early followers of his message, you will certainly be able to judge the difference between the great example of the Prophet, who was chosen by God to lead humanity to the height of faith and eternal peace, and those who distort and misunderstand Islam’s noble objectives.

I hope that whatever actions I do are in conformity with the right example. One of the main messages of my book is to explain how important it is to refer to Allah and His Prophet, and not be swept away by the waves and force of calamities that engulf our world.

Allah Almighty says: “Give good news to the patient.”

In the book’s final pages, you mention that you have “become a looking glass, through which the West can see Islam and Muslims can see the West”. For someone who prefers to stay away from the limelight, is that an uncomfortable position be in?

Considering the fact that I have been in the spotlight more or less since I was 18, there is an aspect of normality to my public profile, which I have grown to live with. As much as I would like to disappear into the crowd, my work won’t let me – difficult as it is for my family.

However, if you do happen to see me in a supermarket, please allow me to get on with my shopping.

Nearly 12 years ago, you decided to relocate from the United Kingdom to the UAE. What did your UAE stay offer you, personally and creatively?

The weather, as well as the comforts of Islamic culture and knowledge. The position of the UAE in the world is strategic, especially as the economic power of the East grows.

I hope that the model, which is being built here in the region, can lead the way in showing the potential of Islamic modernity and tolerance and reduce the stereotypical image of the Arab – although camels will forever be beautiful in my eyes.

[thenational.ae, 10. Sept. 2014]

Interview with Yusuf Islam

(formerly Cat Stevens)

Twenty-four years ago Salman Rushdie suddenly found himself mortally threatened by the most unlikely of characters, a one-time hippy and peace protester.

Yusuf Islam - formerly known as Cat Stevens, born Steven Demetre Georgiou - had given up his musical career when he converted to Islam in 1977. Brought up a Catholic, the child of a Swedish mother and Greek Cypriot father, he had grown up to be one of the giants of singer-songwriting; a prolific folk-poet; never cynical; never quite churning it out; the purveyor of melodic earworms that still haven’t passed their sell-by date. Elton John, Dolly Parton and Sacha Distel have sung his songs; Wild World has been covered more than 30 times on record; The First Cut Is the Deepest even more, conjuring memorable comebacks for Rod Stewart and Gene Pitney. If you’re over 30 and given to spiritual or romantic longing, you’ll remember sticking Cat Stevens songs on a compilation tape, somewhere between a sappier James Taylor and a more strident Carole King.

So it was, to put it mildly, astonishing when the gentle composer of Moonshadow, now dressed in robe and skullcap, publicly advocated the murder of Rushdie. In 1989, the Ayatollah Khomeini had issued a death fatwa against Rushdie. A couple of weeks later, during a speech at Kingston University, Yusuf Islam said of Rushdie: “He must be killed. The Koran makes it clear - if someone defames the prophet, then he must die.” In a muddled way, in a television interview and then in The New York Times, he repeated this assertion - the repetition gives the impression that his death-wish was not, as he later claimed, meant as a joke.

He’s never apologised, though it’s possible he regrets the impact his statements had on his reputation. When he did finally speak of the incident in public, he said that his comments had been “stupid” and “offensive”; made “in bad taste” though mitigated by that “well-known British national trait . . . dry humour on my part.” Rushdie had his own thoughts: “. . . he’s not a good guy. It may be that he once sang Peace Train . . . but he hasn’t been Cat Stevens for a long time, you know. He’s a different guy now.”

Stevens, now 66, is more tactful, probably wiser these days. The robe and cap are gone. You’re more likely to see him in smart casual attire, occasionally with shades. He is speaking to me on the phone from the unstarry surroundings of a hotel in Wimbledon.

From the way he’s portrayed, at least in the western press, one imagines he has become a defensive, prickly creature. But here he is, sounding relaxed, phlegmatic, affable - his London accent still intact; his logic, perhaps less so. Does his past - much of it “haram” (forbidden, according to Islam) - c-exist comfortably with his present? “I see it kind of like a history lesson. Or you walk around the British Museum and you see things from the past that relate to the present, to the story of humanity.”

Music is his first love, but Islam is his passion. We are supposed to be talking about his new album and forthcoming tour. Instead we repeatedly stray on to religion, his educational foundation - run by one of his daughters from London - his charity, Small Kindness, run by another daughter in Geneva.

It’s understandable that he might not want to talk about his faith. And slightly amazing that he’s happy to. The Yusuf Islam foundation campaigns for religious education to form a larger part of the curriculum: “We’re living in the most secularised world that has ever existed. And I think education is very, very much to blame. If you ignore the spirit of man you’re going to get the kind of problems we have today. You can’t blame religion for conflicts. There is a great guiding line [in religion] waiting there to guide a lot of people.”

In the early 1980s he set up the Islamia Primary School in Queen’s Park, northwest London. The first Muslim school to receive state funding, it has earned itself “good” Ofsted reports and has occasionally been the object of Islamaphobia (it had to shut down temporarily in the Noughties when teachers received telephone death threats). Next came Yusuf’s Islamia secondary schools - state funding came only gradually, after inspectors had satisfied themselves that the school had abandoned corporal punishment (children were smacked on the hand with a ruler) and that it was teaching the national curriculum. In 1992, he founded the Association of Muslim Schools (AMS). Earlier this year the organisation was investigated by the Department for Education, in connection with the Trojan Horse controversy, amid claims that some of the AMS’s inspectors supported fundamentalism. AMS denies the claims.

Given the Rushdie fallout - Yusuf was banned from entering the United States for a time; the FBI claimed he was a threat to national security - you’d think he would regard his old comments with self-chastisement. Instead, he opts for the nonsensical. Was Rushdie right in his analysis of him? “You’re not going to please everybody,” comes Yusuf’s woolly answer, “but if anyone likes me, they like me for who I am. It’s got to do with the fact that you appreciate a person who makes personal choices.” Such as, one presumes, wishing an author dead?

One might feel frustrated also about how hard it is to pin him down on the subject of the British jihadists who have travelled to Syria. “It’s great now that some of the more extreme things that are happening in this world is creating a stronger middle ground,” runs his non-answer. But what would he say to the young Britons fighting, or planning to fight, in Syria? “Right – there. We can leave it there.” But he doesn’t. “It’s a very dangerous area when you’re really inspired by the new faith you’ve found. But you must constantly continue to refer to the Prophet and his incredibly generous attitude towards making things easy for people and the light of Islam to spread, not to get darker.” British-born jihadists, interpret that as you will.

Back to the good old non-controversial days. His songs always spoke of deep themes - love more than sex; of fathers and sons; even his love of animals (it’s faintly mind-blowing that anyone could write a hit called I Love My Dog). When he became religious, “I didn’t understand where music would play a role in my life any more. After I discovered what I had been looking for, what I had been writing about in so many of my songs. Music took a secondary role. I thought, ‘Where does it sit now?’ I thought, ‘I don’t want be a star any more. I want a life.”

He’d met two women whom he was interested in marrying: a new convert from America; and the daughter of a Surbiton accountant who had grown up in a traditional Muslim family. Both were invited to meet his mother: she plumped for the second, Fauzia Mubarak Ali. The couple married, moved to Dubai, are still married, have five children and several grandchildren. When Yusuf converted, he turned his back on his secular achievements. For years he refused to allow directors to use his songs on their films. He seems to have softened, though - he does not espouse the Islamic hardliner view that music and dancing is haram. Around five years ago his son, Muhammad (as a singer-songwriter, you may know him as Yoriyos) - tactically, one suspects - left a guitar in his father’s house. Yusuf couldn’t help but pick it up. An album, Roadslinger, followed.

Now he is releasing another: Tell ’Em I’m Gone, blues inspired, partly autobiographical (“There was a time when I was bolder . . .”). Rolling Stonedescribed it as “anti-capitalist”. I found it to be somewhat deliberately, and annoyingly, “uplifting”. If Paulo Coelho wrote songs, this is what they would sound like.

He has said that the turning points of his life were first hearing the call to prayer in Morocco; and almost drowning in Malibu in 1976. Today he says the real turning point was in 1969, shortly before he began writing the album Tea for the Tillerman, when he “luckily” contracted tuberculosis. In hospital he reconsidered his life. Jimi Hendrix (whom he had toured with) would be dead within a year. Stevens felt isolated, frightened - the world he inhabited felt out of control. “Absolutely. After one year in that kind of business I had an overdose of pop music. And I fell ill with TB. So that was, in a way, my wake-up call. It was a very important moment because I began to be interested in things beyond our understanding - the things we are told by our teachers, parents and society.” Before his stay in hospital he wanted “love and money. That’s it.” Did he get them? “Probably. But that was the career side within me. The love I was seeking was much more permanent. And the wealth I was seeking was not of this world.”

“Probably,” is an understatement. I remember an aside in Nick Kent’s autobiography in which he recalls his resentful envy of the revolving door of women embarking on trysts with innocent-looking Stevens. Is it true? “Mm-hmm,” he concedes, very reluctantly. “Do we need to go any further?”

We do. He laughs. “That was just a consequence of just who I was and my songs were particularly leaning towards the heart. It was as simple as that. I wasn’t married. Whereas, today I’m a very happily married man.” Backstage, was he known as a champion lover? “You know, that’s part of my history but I think my longing was for something much more than just the sexual aspect of love.”

The search for something beyond big hits was apparent to him even in his twenties, and then his brother, David, returned from Jerusalem with a gift: a copy of the Koran. “Until then I had quite a dim view of Muslims and Islam,” he says. He’d steer clear of the religion and spirituality section in bookshops. While in hospital during 1969, he also wrote some of his best work: Teaser and the Firecat (1971) went gold; a year later Catch Bull at Four became his most rapidly successful album in America. A seven-month relationship with Carly Simon yielded three hit love songs. But the call to Islam meant abandoning drugs, drink, girlfriends and the music business; a career change that most musicians only make inadvertently, by going mad or dying. Yusuf went in the opposite direction: he stopped drinking, stopped writing songs; avoided the excess and alimony payments that have left their mark on the haggard faces of his peers.

There was a prescience in his songs, he says. He wrote I Love My Dog shortly before adopting a stray that he’d spotted on the Charing Cross Road; then in 1970 he wrote Hard Headed Woman “and I think I found her. It talks about how she’s going to make me do the best I can and it’s right on the mark. That’s exactly what my wife does.” He and Mubarak met through mutual friends in 1979. “We fell for each other in a respectful way.” There are songs that he has felt the need to rewrite. “Another Saturday Night - I love that song - but I’ve just changed the lyrics. Instead of making it a guy who’s ‘looking for chicks’ - I think that’s pretty derogatory, to be honest - I’ve turned it into the guy’s looking for a job.” Wouldn’t Cat Stevens have found that a little jarring? “I think he would have thought, ‘He’s very bold. I like him.’ ”

Now he lives in the Emirates. When I suggest that many people in Britain miss him, he laughs: “Don’t lie,” he says. The weather in Dubai is splendid, and it is “very culturally comfortable. They have mosques in shopping malls so when the time for prayer comes, you can do your prayer and after you can go on with your shopping.” In Dubai he feels creative again. Hence the album.

It’s had some good reviews so far but, especially in America, he will, to some degree, always be regarded as suspect. One imagines that he must be on the receiving end of straightforward Islamaphobia. The New York stint of his tour - he was due to play at Madison Square Gardens - has been cancelled, it’s thought due to low ticket sales. It’s not a snub, he says, it’s inflated pricing. But the Americans seem to have cooled: it’s only this year that he’s been admitted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

Do his private beliefs matter? His musical achievements are not in dispute: Tea for the Tillerman, Island records boss Chris Blackwell once said, was the “best album we’ve ever released”. Yusuf Islam is thriving, untouched by addictions, multiple divorces, rehab or the Dorian Gray complex. Has he changed? He’s not Cat Stevens, nor quite Yusuf Islam any more. A hybrid: on Twitter and his album cover he calls himself YusufCatStevens. After an hour speaking to him I can only say that he is a man of extraordinary talent but still indeterminate character.

I never liked his music much even before he reverted. And I think his character is very questionable.

[blazingcatfur.ca, 25. Okt. 2014]

Konvertit Cat Stevens

Der Morgenlandfahrer Yusuf Islam

Der Übertritt zum Islam führt nicht zwingend in den Radikalismus. Der Musiker Yusuf Islam,

der sich früher Cat Stevens nannte,

hat ihm nach langen Irrwegen abgeschworen.

Ein Essay über Konvertiten, Krieger und Erleuchtete.

Yusuf Islam, als Steven Demetre Georgiou in London geboren und als Sohn eines zypriotischen Restaurantbesitzers in Soho aufgewachsen, verkaufte als Cat Stevens in den siebziger Jahren weltweit 50 Millionen Platten. Dann, im Jahre 1977, wurde der Sänger beim Baden im Pazifik im letzten Augenblick vor dem Ertrinken gerettet. Ein Koran aus der Hand seines Bruders öffnete ihm die Augen, wem er dafür zu danken hätte: Allah. So wurde aus dem Folkrockstar über Nacht ein muslimischer Hardliner, der seine Gitarrensammlung bei Sotheby’s versteigerte und – nach einer Weisung des islamischen Rechtsgelehrten Al-Ghazali aus dem Jahre 1111 – jeder von Saiteninstrumenten untermalten Musik abschwor.

Cat Stevens – er tritt am 20. November im Berliner Tempodrom auf – nannte sich fortan Yusuf Islam, gab sein hedonistisches Leben auf und gründete in London Koranschulen für Mädchen. Statt Songs nahm er Koranrezitationen auf, statt nach Kathmandu pilgerte er nach Mekka. Selbst die Fatwa gegen Salman Rushdie und die „Satanischen Verse“ soll er in der ersten, heißen Phase seiner Bekehrung unterstützt haben. Immerhin hat Yusuf Islam den Verkauf seiner Lieder nicht verboten, schienen sie ihm doch Ausdruck einer bereits begonnenen Reise, irgendwo mitten hinein in den hippieesken Sehnsuchtsraum zwischen Carlos Castaneda und Timothy Leary. Vielleicht macht gerade das den unverwechselbaren Cat-Stevens-Sound aus: ein spirituelles Heimweh, das Gefühl, wie auf einer Pilgerreise zu sich selbst zu sein, oder um es mit dem prophetischen Buchtitel Hermann Hesses zu sagen: auf einer „Morgenlandfahrt“.

Sein „Damaskus-Erlebnis“ auf dem Hippie-Trail hatte auch der Stevens-Biograf Hadayatullah Hübsch. Paul-Gerhard Hübsch, ehemals Mitglied der legendären Kommune 1, war ein ausgewiesener Acidhead, ehe er 1969 in der marokkanischen Wüste auf dem Weg nach Marrakesch unvermittelt auf die Knie fiel, die Hände gen Himmel reckte und ausrief „Oh Allah, bitte reinige mich“, um nach einer Irrfahrt durch spanische Irrenhäuser zum Islam zu konvertieren und sich fortan „Hadayatullah“ zu nennen, „der von Gott geleitete“. Hübsch war Imam in der Nuur-Moschee in Frankfurt-Sachsenhausen, gründete den linksalternativen Club Voltaire, verfasste Musikerbiografien und schaffte es, in seiner experimentellen Lyrik den Expressionismus mit der mystischen Poesie Persiens zu verbinden.

Können Yusuf Islam und Hadayatullah Hübsch als Prototypen der Islam-Konvertiten von heute angesehen werden, auch derer, die sich radikalisieren? Wie jener Ahmet C. aus Ennepetal, der binnen weniger Tage sein Facebook-Image aus „Whiskyglas, Marlboros und Smartphone“ zum langen Kaftan und Barte-des-Propheten-Look änderte, um im Juli 2014 bei einem Selbstmordanschlag im Irak einen ganzen Schulbus voller Kinder zu Asche zu verbrennen. Oder Erhan A. aus dem Allgäu, der medienwirksam erklärte, wie sehr er den halbherzigen, angepassten Pseudo-Euro-Islam seiner Eltern verabscheue und dass er nun die Absicht hege, ihn im heiligen Krieg für den sogenannten „Islamischen Staat“ zu überbieten.

Camus hat Konversion als

"Sprung in den Glauben" bezeichnet

Um Wunsch- und Wahnvorstellungen wie diese zu verstehen, schreibt Hadayatullah Hübsch, brauche es neben Sicherheitsexperten vor allem Theologen und Religionswissenschaftler. Denn wenn es auch viele Faktoren sind, die solche netten Jungs von nebenan zu global operierenden Gotteskriegern mutieren lassen, vollzieht sich ihr Einstieg ins militante Milieu doch fast immer über eine Konversion und eine Zeit im Durchlauferhitzer der Salafistenszene, die die Gehirne der jungen Himmelfahrts-Aspiranten weichkocht, wie nur je eine Sekte es vermochte.

Da seit dem 11. September 2001 der Islam und die Gewalt fast reflexartig aufeinander bezogen werden: Die Konversion als „Sprung in den Glauben“ (Albert Camus) kann zu einer kompletten Umstülpung des Menschen führen (einem auf links gedrehten Handschuh vergleichbar). Sie muss aber nicht „Hirnwäsche“-ähnliche Effekte haben, die den Islam – eigentlich eine Religion der liebenden Hingabe an Gott – in Hasspredigten umschlagen lässt und den „Dschihad“ – eigentlich die Überwindung des eigenen Egos – als Rechtfertigung ins Feld führt, alle äußeren Feinde zu töten.

Das Phänomen der Konversion betrifft nicht nur zornmütige Jungmänner und ihre „Gottsucherbanden“ (Bazon Brock), es gibt auch den Kippeffekt from babe to burka. Kristiane Backer, zu Beginn der neunziger Jahre als MTV-Moderatorin vorn an der Londoner Front der Populärkultur, beschreibt in ihren Lebenserinnerungen „From MTV to Mecca“, wie wenig Sinn die dekadente Glamour-Welt ihrem Leben geben konnte: „Ich dachte, wonach ich mich sehnte, sei die Liebe eines Mannes; aber es war die Liebe Gottes.“ Sie trat 1995 zum Islam über.

Das Phänomen der Konversion gibt es nicht nur im Islam. Der Begriff „Damaskus-Erlebnis“ meint, losgelöst von seinem neutestamentarischen Bezug, jede grundstürzende Erfahrung einer Umwandlung vom „Saulus zum Paulus“. Die Tendenz, dass aus Konvertierten Fundamentalisten werden, ist nicht nur eine Versuchung innerhalb der islamischen Welt. Das Wort „Fundamentalismus“ wurde einst angesichts des fanatisierten Sendungsbewusstseins evangelikaler Christen geprägt.

Selbst Bob Dylan begann, als er 1979 Jesus Christus als seinen Messias annahm, Gospels zu singen. Cat Stevens’ Bruder David Gordon, der ihm nach einer Jerusalem-Reise den Koran schenkte, ist selbst fast zeitgleich zum Judentum konvertiert. Dem es ja ebenfalls genau darauf ankommt: das Joch der Tora zu übernehmen und die Mizwot strikt zu befolgen – jene Alltagsregeln, denen allein in den abrahamitischen Religionen die Kraft zugetraut wird, den Menschen von sich selbst zu befreien.

Man darf sich ruhig einmal der Strahlkraft dieses Heilsversprechens aussetzen: Es verheißt, aus der dekadenten Moderne auf den „geraden“ Weg der Orthodoxie zurückzukehren (mit anderen Worten: zu wissen, wo es langgeht). Oder der Faszinationskraft eines streng monotheistischen Gottesbildes zu erliegen, welches der Koran nicht nur mit Attributen der Macht, sondern vor allem der Schönheit versieht. Für den Versuch, zwischen religiöser Begeisterung und pseudoreligiöser Radikalisierung Grenzen zu ziehen, könnten die Geschichten von Yusuf Islam und Hadayatullah Hübsch Vorbildfunktion haben.

Bereits kurz nach dem 11. September hat Hübsch in seinem Buch „Fanatische Krieger im Namen Allahs“ erklärt, in welch tatsächlichem (Nicht-)Zusammenhang dieser Terror mit dem Islam selbst steht. Yusuf Islam, getroffen vom Ansehensverlust seiner Religion nach den Anschlägen und Großspender für deren Opfer, wandelte sich erneut. Der „Mann, der einmal Cat Stevens war“, ist heute kein Hardliner mehr.

Er hat sich der mystischen Strömung des Sufismus zugewandt. Zugleich tritt Yusuf Islam wieder mit seinen Songs auf die Bühne. Als Lokomotivführer seines „Peace Train“ ist er bemüht, den Frieden, den er fand, zu verbreiten. Der Moslem hält Musik nicht länger für unrein. Sie ist eine der großen „Naturschönheiten“, die wir Allahs Schöpfung verdanken.

[tagesspiegel.de, 18. Nov. 2014]

Cat "Yusuf" Stevens ist wieder da

Er ist der berühmteste islamische Konvertit der Welt und gleichzeitig einer der erfolgreichsten westlichen Popstars der 70er Jahre:

Nun tourt Yusuf Islam, besser bekannt als Cat Stevens,

wieder durch Deutschland.

Malibu in Kalifornien: Ein Mann schwimmt vor der Küste. Plötzlich zieht ein Sturm auf, die Wellen schlagen höher. Der Mann treibt ab, kann sich nicht mehr selber aus den Fluten befreien und beginnt in seiner Not zu beten. Sollte er überleben, würde er sein Leben voll und ganz Gott widmen. Kurz darauf trägt ihn eine Welle ans rettende Ufer. Der Mann konvertiert zum Islam und ändert seinen Namen in "Yusuf Islam". Bei dem Mann aus dem Meer handelt es sich um Cat Stevens - mit über 50 Millionen verkauften Platten einer der Pop-Musiker der 70er Jahre. 1979 verkauft er alle seine Instrumente und beendet seine musikalische Karriere.

Oh, Baby, Baby, it's a wild world!

Rückblick: 1967 ist der Londoner Steven Demetre Georgiou 19 Jahre alt. Der Sohn eines Griechisch-Zyprioten und einer Schwedin veröffentlicht unter dem Pseudonym "Cat Stevens" sein erstes Album: "Matthew & Son". Es steigt direkt auf Platz sieben in den britischen Charts ein. Aber schon sein zweites Album "New Masters" wird ein kommerzieller Misserfolg. Als er dann an Tuberkulose erkrankt, scheint seine junge Karriere vorbei zu sein, bevor sie begonnen hat.

Cat Stevens ist an sein Bett gefesselt. Er ist am Tiefpunkt. Doch in diesem Zustand schreibt er über 40 Songs. Nur mit seiner Stimme und seiner Akustikgitarre arrangiert, lassen die neuen Stücke wenig Platz für musikalische Experimente. Das neue, intime Klangbild soll sein Erfolgsrezept und die Basis seiner nächsten Alben werden. Songs wie "Wild World", "Morning has Broken" oder "Father and Son" besiegeln seinen Weltruhm. Stevens ist eine Pop-Ikone. Als er zehn Jahre später den Fluten als Yusuf Isam entsteigt, ist Schluss damit. Nachdem er 1978 zum Islam konvertiert, spielt er noch sein elftes Studioalbum ein, legt seinen Künstlernamen ab und zieht sich komplett aus dem Musikgeschäft und dem öffentlichen Leben zurück. Er gründet in London eine Koranschule und engagiert sich mit den Vereinten Nationen für soziale Projekte.

Negative Schlagzeilen

Dann gerät Yusuf Islam Ende der 80er Jahre in die Schlagzeilen: Als der Roman "Die satanischen Verse" von Salman Rushdie erscheint, wird er von der islamischen Welt als Gotteslästerung empfunden. Der iranische Religionsführer Ajatollah Khomeini verhängt 1989 die Fatwa gegen Rushdie, ruft zum Mord an ihm auf.

Yusuf Islam 1999

Yusuf Islam unterstützt den Mordaufruf im britischen Fernsehen indirekt, indem er sagt, dass er Rushdie nicht bei sich Unterschlupf gewähren, sondern ihn direkt an Khomeini ausliefern würde. Später versucht er seine Aussage zu relativieren, der Journalist habe ihm eine Falle gestellt, es sei von Anfang an ein Missverständnis gewesen. 1996 sagt er in einem Interview mit der Berliner Zeitung, dass "[er sich] zwischen den Radikalen und den Gemäßigten [Muslimen befinde]". Israel sieht ihn damals unter den Radikalen und untersagt ihm im Jahr 2000 die Einreise, weil er Geld an die Palästinenserorganisation Hamas gespendet hatte.

"Alles, was Gutes bewirkt, ist gut, und was Schlechtes bewirkt, ist schlecht."

Mit einem musikalischen Comeback hatte nach über 20 Jahre niemand mehr gerechnet, als Yusuf wieder zur Gitarre greift. Genauso radikal und konsequent, wie er 1979 aufgehört hatte, zieht es ihn nun wieder auf die Bühne. Der Grund: wieder ein bestimmtes Ereignis. "Nach dem 11. September 2001 habe ich beschlossen, dass es Zeit war, wieder für den Frieden zu singen und für das ganz große Mittelfeld, in dem die meisten Muslime leben und wohnen - weit entfernt vom Extremismus."

Bei einem Konzert der Nelson-Mandela-Stiftung steht Yusuf Islam 2003 wieder als Popmusiker auf der Bühne. Er spielt seinen Song "Peace Train". Die Entscheidung, wieder seine alte Musik zu spielen, ist kein Schnellschuss. "Ich habe Zeit gebraucht, um sicher sein zu können, dass ich das Richtige tue. Und ich glaube, ich habe eine Antwort erhalten, die sehr einfach ist: Alles, was Gutes bewirkt, ist gut, und was Schlechtes bewirkt, ist schlecht", sagt Yusuf Islam.

Yusuf Islam 2006

Drei Alben hat er seit seiner Rückkehr veröffentlicht. Die neuste CD "Tell 'Em I'm Gone" im Oktober. Auf der CD steht zwar in großen Buchstaben "Yusuf", aber es klebt auch ein Aufkleber mit dem Namen "Cat Stevens" daneben. Außer dem Namen hat er sich seit den 70ern nicht viel verändert. Sein Bart ist etwas grauer und er trägt eine Brille, aber seine Stimme und sein Gitarrenspiel haben kein bisschen von ihrem Charme verloren. Das Publikum bekommt, was es hören möchte.

Auch in den sozialen Netzwerken ist Yusuf Islam omnipräsent: Ob bei Facebook, YouTube oder Twitter. Am Dienstag (18.11.2014) stellte er ein Foto online, welches ihn vor einem Stück der Berliner Mauer zeigt. Dazu zitiert er seinen Song "Tuesday's Dead": "We must try to shake 'em down... Try to turn the world around... one more time".

"One more time" – "noch einmal" kann man Yusuf Islam ab dem 20.11.2014 in Deutschland sehen. Zum Auftakt seiner "Peace Train… Late Again Tour" spielt er in Berlin. Die Tickets kosten zwischen 75 und 100 Euro und die Fans sind bereit, diese Preise zu zahlen, denn vielleicht ist es ja die letzte Möglichkeit, seine Songs live zu hören. Wer weiß, wann er es sich wieder anders überlegt.

[dw.de, 19.11.2014]

Yusuf Islam's Golden Years: Cat Stevens on Islam and His Return to Music

The former Cat Stevens is still wrestling with his past – and winning

Nobody was expecting much from Yusuf Islam at the 2014 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony. The press had fixated on Nirvana's reunion and the endless soap opera that is Kiss, mostly overlooking the fact that the former Cat Stevens was about to play his most prominent American gig since quitting music in 1978.

After a cheerful acceptance speech that avoided any mention of religion or politics, Yusuf took the stage with an acoustic guitar and delivered a stunning rendition of 1970's "Father and Son" that silenced the rowdy crowd at Brooklyn's Barclays Center. By the time a gospel choir joined Yusuf for a euphoric "Peace Train," it seemed like the entire arena audience was on its feet, singing along to every word. "It was glorious," says Yusuf. "It was great to sing without any barriers, and the choir really made the end very climactic. My son turned me on to Nirvana years ago, and their performance at the end was just explosive."

It's now eight months later, and Yusuf, 66, is sipping tea in a conference room high atop the Sony Building in midtown Manhattan. His ever-present bodyguard, a beefy dude who stands at least six feet four, is perched on a nearby piano bench. Yusuf's 29-year-old son, Yoriyos, is seated and gazing at a laptop. Yusuf's salt-and-pepper hair is saltier than ever, and he's wearing sunglasses, a gray peace train 2011 T-shirt and a stylish blue jacket. More than at any other point since his return to secular music eight years ago, he looks like a rock star.

Yusuf is relaxed and friendly, but everyone else seems a little on edge. His son anxiously looks up from his laptop when the conversation veers from music, and two publicists sit outside the door. Prior to the interview, they urged me to be "sensitive" when it comes to "religion and past controversies."

The conversation starts on solid ground: Tell 'Em I'm Gone, Yusuf's R&B-flavored new LP, his third disc since 2006. Yusuf moved to Dubai in 2010 ("I like the sunshine") but traveled to Los Angeles to cut the album with Rick Rubin. "We did the whole thing in a week," Yusuf says. "A couple of songs were first takes. I don't like hanging around studios. There was a couple of times where he wanted to go over bits again, and I said, 'I've done it, Rick. I don't want to do it again.' "

Yusuf is preparing to kick off his first North American tour since 1976. A show at New York's Beacon Theatre sold out instantly, though he canceled it when he learned that New York outlawed paperless ticketing, causing tickets to sell for hugely inflated values on the resale market. "It just institutionalizes the scalping business, and that's not fair," Yusuf says.

The Beacon cancellation is just the latest bold, principled and (many feel) self-defeating move of Yusuf's long career. He was born Steven Demetre Georgiou in London, the son of a Greek father and Swedish mother. Georgiou came of age just as his hometown was becoming the center of the rock universe. "I was very lucky," he says. "I lived on the same street as the 100 Club, and [Beatles publisher] Dick James Music was four doors down from my father's cafe. Everything was in this small radius in the West End of London."

Hearing Bob Dylan for the first time changed his life. The 18-year-old Georgiou began playing London coffeehouses under the name Cat Stevens and penning future classics like "The First Cut Is the Deepest." A case of tuberculosis in 1968 nearly killed him, but his career exploded in 1970 when "Father and Son" and "Wild World" hit radio. It was the era of the sensitive singer-songwriter, and Stevens fit right in on the airwaves next to James Taylor and Carly Simon.

Even when he became a superstar, Stevens had a hard time enjoying himself – tuberculosis helped see to that. "TB is a very bluesy kind of illness," he says. "I did LSD a few times, but I stayed away from the rock-star life because I was so worried about my health. I became a vegetarian, and I carried around a suitcase full of vitamins and special drinks everywhere I went."

Everything changed one day in 1976, when Stevens went for a swim in the ocean near Malibu. As he tried to swim back to shore, he realized the current was too strong to fight, and after struggling for a time he found himself on the verge of drowning. "I didn't have any strength left," says Yusuf. "There was only one place to go, and that was God. I never doubted God's existence, but I never called on him because everything had seemed all right in my life. This was life-and-death."

He pledged his complete and utter allegiance to God if he'd save him, and suddenly a wave pushed him to shore. Not long afterward, his brother David gave him a copy of the Quran. "This was before Islam was a headline," Yusuf says. "The Iranian Revolution wasn't even on the horizon. I felt like I was discovering something that was an amazing and immense secret."

Within two years, Cat Stevens had become Yusuf Islam. He devoted himself to Allah, deciding all forms of music were against the faith. He walked away from a record contract and sold all of his guitars. His sole income came from publishing, but he gave away royalties from any song he declared anti-God: "Anything that encouraged love without marriage or was too specific in the sexual region went." It amounted to about 40 percent of his catalog. "Take 'The Boy With a Moon and Star on His Head.' You might think it's OK, but the guy makes love to a farmer's daughter on the way to his wedding. So, no. . . ."

Yusuf lost touch with the music world. "I vaguely knew things like Madonna, MTV and Michael Jackson were happening, but I was not interested at all," he says. "As far as I was concerned, the last great record was Stevie Wonder's Songs in the Key of Life." Yusuf focused on his growing family, a series of Muslim schools he founded across England, and Small Kindness, a charity he put together to assist the victims of war and famine in the Third World.

Over the years, Yusuf's children tried in vain to get him to begin playing guitar again. Then, a few months after 9/11, Yusuf found himself holding an acoustic guitar his son had brought home. It was late at night, and his family was asleep. "I just thought, 'Let's have a go and try,' " he says. "I looked for F, and I found it. I don't remember what songs I played, but when it was done I began crying."

Yusuf was conflicted about playing again, but the war in Afghanistan was raging and another conflict was looming in Iraq. Yusuf says that the world needed to see at least one nonviolent Muslim on TV. "There was so much antagonism in the world," he says. "Many Muslims have come up to me, shook my hand and said, 'Thank you! Thank you.' I'm representing the way they want to be seen. So much of the middle ground gets forgotten in the extremities we witness around the world."

Yusuf quietly began gigging around Europe and played a couple of tiny showcases in America. He didn't face a big crowd until Jon Stewart invited him to appear at 2010's Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear. Yusuf was taking part in a hilarious bit – he performed "Peace Train" while Ozzy Osbourne performed "Crazy Train" – but it also reignited a controversy that's been haunting Yusuf for a quarter-century.

After the Ayatollah Khomeini declared a fatwa against author Salman Rushdie in 1989, Yusuf had told a crowd at London's Kingston University that "[Rushdie] must be killed. The Quran makes it clear: If someone defames the prophet, then he must die." Yusuf later partially walked the comments back, but the issue refused to die. When Rushdie heard about Yusuf goofing around with Osbourne, he phoned Stewart in a huff. "It became very clear to me that [Yusuf] is straddling two worlds in a very difficult way," Stewart said two years ago. "I wouldn't have done [the bit], I don't think, if I had known that. . . . Death for free speech is a deal-breaker."

It's still a sensitive subject for Yusuf. When I broach it, his son looks up, concerned. "People need to get over it," says a clearly irritated Yusuf. "It's 25 years ago. I've got gray hair now. Come on. I was fool enough to try and be honest and tell people my position. As far as I'm concerned, this shouldn't be the subject of my life."

That appears to be the end of it, and Yoriyos looks relieved. But Yusuf can't help himself. "I'm a firm believer in the law," he says. "I was never a supporter of the fatwa [against Rushdie], but people don't want to hear that because they keep saying that I believe in the law of blasphemy. All I'm saying is, how can you deny the Third Commandment? It's an Islamic principle that you must follow the law of the land where you reside."

Unapologetic answers like that are what make Rushdie and his many supporters unable to forgive Yusuf, and he knows their feud will never end. "That's the way life is," he says. "I don't want to put myself in this bracket, but if you look at any messenger, there's going to be an antagonist."

One song on Yusuf's new album seems to take aim at the controversy: "Cat and the Dog Trap." "Cat's in a cage," he sings. "Chained to a stone/Empty bowl by his side." Yusuf admits the song is autobiographical, but he refuses to ID the inspiration behind the antagonistic dog, though Rushdie is a likely suspect. "I used to be followed by a moon shadow," Yusuf says when pushed on the topic. "Now I'm followed by all these misconceptions, and they're like a ball and chain. I just want to write music from my heart and give people a message of hope and the search for a better place."

The ISIS threat has brought America to the verge of yet another war in Iraq, but it has made Yusuf oddly optimistic: "The positive side is that it has brought together these factional voices to say in unison that [ISIS] has nothing to do with Islam. Muslims have been subjected to so many tyrants and oppressive regimes. That's what the Arab Spring was about, but the problem comes in trying to direct a revolution."

Tickets for Yusuf's upcoming American shows read "Yusuf/Cat Stevens" – a concession to fans of his classic albums, and the move of a man who has grown increasingly comfortable with his past. "When you've been running for so long, you might realize you've run too far," he says. "There comes a time to say, 'Hang on. I've lost my way a little bit.' "

[rollingstone.com, 13. Jan. 2015]

Cat Stevens stiffed Michigan firm

out of $80K, suit says

The folk-pop artist formerly known as Cat Stevens might be singing the blues over a Michigan lawsuit that paints an unflattering picture of the comeback British star.

It says Stevens stiffed an Ann Arbor website designer out of thousands of dollars, and that he was too picky, demanding and uncooperative to work with.

According to a breach of contract lawsuit filed today in U.S. District Court, Stevens - who now goes by the name Yusuf Islam - owes more than $80,000 to an Ann Arbor firm for website services that were never paid for. The plaintiff - A2 Media Corp., aka ICON Interactive - alleges that in 2013, it entered into an agreement with to build, design and re-launch his website, yusufislam.com.

According to the lawsuit, Stevens felt his current website was "outdated, not straightforward to maintain and does not provide enough ways for fans to interact with it."

So ICON went to work on a new website under a 24-month contract in which Stevens would pay $4,000 a month for a total of $96,000, the lawsuit states. The project got underway on June 7, 2013.

But troubles started to surface. The lawsuit claims that after ICON began performing its services, Stevens "insisted on having work completed that was well beyond the scope" of the agreement. And the project was micromanaged to the point that it made completing it "impossible," the suit stated.

Still, in September 2014, the website was launched.

A month later, Stevens stopped paying ICON's invoices and switched over to another older and merchandise-related website, the lawsuit said. The new website that ICON had spent 15 months working on was no longer accessible to the public.

Four months later, ICON filed a civil suit in U.S. District Court, alleging Stevens owes the company more than $80,000 for unpaid services, plus attorney fees.

This isn't the first source of controversy for the British musician, who in 1977 became Muslim and temporarily abandoned his pop-star lifestyle.

In 2004, Stevens was deported from the U.S. after his name appeared on a no-fly watch list for suspected terrorists. He has since returned to the U.S. on several occasions, most recently in December, when he came back for his first U.S. tour since 1976.

Stevens, who according to the lawsuit lives in Dubai, United Arab Emirates, could not be located for comment. There is no attorney of record for Stevens yet on the court docket.

[freep.com, 23. Feb. 2015]