Listen/read: Pakistani qawwali singer Faiz Ali Faiz, by Arooj Aftab

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It’s 1993 in Lahore, Pakistan. The air is thick with longing. A crowd of people with wet eyes sway together. Despite what a cursory glance might have you believe, this is not a moment of mourning, but rather, one of tender togetherness. It’s a performance that renowned qawwali singer Faiz Ali Faiz will never forget. He was singing at Data Darbar, the shrine and final resting place in honor of the 11th century Persian Sufi scholar Data Ganj Bakhsh, one of his spiritual guides. He remembers it so fondly because he felt that through his singing, he was able to connect with Data Saab on such a deep level that it was as if the saint was there in the space himself. When he recounts the story to me - he is on the phone from Pakistan and I am in my Brooklyn apartment - he describes a feeling of respect for Data Saab so profound that it bordered on intimidation. Because Faiz Ali Faiz was so moved as a performer and a disciple in that moment, he was able to enchant the crowd too, bringing many of them to tears.

“The audiences’ faces are like mirrors,” he tells me. “The music and words will not affect them if they don’t affect me first.”

A good qawwali performance is a slow build towards all-encompassing transcendence for both the performer and the listeners. The harmonium’s drone expands through the room like fog while hand claps and tabla rhythms gallop faster and faster, building excitement. The performer’s voice cascades across octaves as they enter a state of heightened emotion that they invite the listener to feel, too. It’s such an intense experience that qawwali icon Abida Parveen has said that when she performs, she is neither man nor woman, but rather a vehicle for passion.

Qawwali is devotional Sufi music dating back to the 10th century that uses music to express the anguish of being separated from God. In the process of conveying this longing, the musician captures all the beauty and melodrama of being alive. Listen to “Allah Hoo” or “Shahbaaz Qalandar” and you will simultaneously relive the intoxication of first love, mourn all the versions of yourself that now feel lost to you, and be humbled by a fleeting, gorgeous memory of moonlight lighting your late-night walk home.

Faiz Ali Faiz is able to access and convey all this profound emotion when he performs qawwali because the music is central to his very existence. Singing is a spiritual, familial, and even bodily experience for him.

He was born in Lahore, Pakistan into generations of singers, and says, “I couldn’t stop myself from singing as a child, it was just inside me. Just like the milk you drink and the blood in your body affects you, my family background affected me.” Even as we speak on the phone, music pours out of him.

When recounting the moment that inspired him to pursue music full time - performing a Mehdi Hassan track and a song from a film soundtrack in a school play - he joyfully sings a line from one of the songs for me. I can hear him smiling through all the notes.

After that fateful grade school performance, Faiz Ali Faiz and his grandfather convinced his parents to let him pursue music full time. It became his whole life. As a teenager, he would keep ghee (clarified butter) cans next to his bed and would play them at night as a rhythmic accompaniment to the songs he would sing before sleeping. He grew enamored with the music of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (“Nusrat”), the man credited with bringing qawwali to the global stage via his impressive vocal range, effortless charisma, and electrifying, hours-long performances. After hearing Nusrat’s performance of “Shah e Mardan Ali,” Faiz Ali Faiz started his own group, which wove together Nusrat's style with the musical knowledge he inherited from his family as well as his classical music training. It’s an approach that has been highly effective. He is widely celebrated as one of Nusrat’s primary successors. In fact, when Nusrat fell ill before performing at one of the most well-known Pakistani Sufi gatherings, it was Faiz Ali Faiz who he asked to replace him. Listening to the fluorescent ache of his voice on “Mast Nazren Milao Sanam” or the precision with which he engages in a call and response with the chorus of voices on “Othay Amlan De Hone Ne,” it’s clear that Faiz Ali Faiz belongs among the greats.

Throughout his career, Faiz Ali Faiz has pushed the boundaries of what qawwali can be. He has performed with flamenco and gospel musicians to create vibrant, textured music full of left turns. For him, qawwali’s mutability is rooted in its religious and spiritual context.

“Qawwali comes directly from Sufis, and Sufis’ knowledge comes directly from God, so that’s why it can combine with any type of music,” he says. “Because the source of this music comes from God, it can apply to any tradition.”

Yet despite his tremendous success and talent, Faiz Ali Faiz is a humble and exceedingly polite person. At one point in our conversation, he even pauses the interview to tell me that he’s relaxing on the roof and is enjoying answering my questions. All that he’s achieved is in the service of his predecessors and of God. In turn, we the listeners get the benefit of witnessing his genius and devotion at work. He tells me that the strength of his relationship with his spirituality and his family pushes him to continue innovating. I ask him what he’s excited about tackling musically in the future. “My main criteria for taking on new projects is how difficult are they?” he tells me. “When you decide to take on something difficult, your traditions and forefathers give you help. What’s the point of knowing music but not trying to do difficult things with that knowledge?”