Arooj Aftab had a very different record in mind when she started writing Vulture Prince, the follow-up to 2018’s dreamy, ambient Siren Islands. The Pakistan-born, Brooklyn-based composer envisioned an “edgier” and “more fun” update on the fragile soundscapes of her second record, as she recently told NPR. But while she was still in the middle of writing, Aftab’s world was buffeted by tragedy. At home, she lost her younger brother Maher, to whom the new album is dedicated. Outside, a world already embattled with a rising tide of hate and conflict was now struggling to grapple with a global pandemic.
To cope, Aftab reached for the familiar Urdu ghazals and poetry that populated her genre-defying 2015 debut Bird Under Water. The closest thing South Asia has to the blues, the ghazal is a musical form steeped in loss and longing—a subcontinental language of love both mortal and divine. On Vulture Prince, Aftab fuses the ghazal’s existential yearning with minimal compositions that draw from jazz, Hindustani classical, folk and—on one song—reggae to create a heartbreaking, exquisite document of the journey from grief to acceptance.
Intended as a second chapter to her debut album, Vulture Prince takes the airy minimalism and virtuosity of Bird Under Water and strips it down even further. Five of the seven songs here lack any form of percussion, propelled instead by the soft intensity of Aftab’s voice and the delicate cadence of strings and keys. Gone too is the traditional Pakistani instrumentation, replaced by a filigree of gentle violin, harp, double bass, and synths. At the center of it all is Aftab’s powerful voice, suffused in a sorrow so deep that it seeps into your bones.
As if to make this connection—and divergence—explicit, Aftab opens the album with a new interpretation of “Baghon Main,” a mahiya folk song that she first tackled on Bird Under Water. Her original rendition was cavernous in scale, a vast space washed by layers of accordion swells, drum flares, and plaintive guitar. This version is much more intimate. Harp, violin, and double bass brush lightly against each other as Aftab sings of love unfulfilled, a melancholy captured in its opening imagery of empty swings swinging in a garden breeze.
“Diya Hai,” the last song Aftab ever performed for her brother, plunges further into pathos. Over Badi Assad’s arpeggiated guitar, bolstered by the elegiac strings of the Rootstock Republic, Aftab dives into a poem by Mirza Ghalib, one of the subcontinent’s most revered Urdu and Persian poets. Ghalib’s poetry was often obsessed with suffering and loss, a reflection of not only personal tragedy but the political, social, and religious turbulence of his time. Aftab taps into a similar mystic vein of spiritual existentialism, stretching her syllables as if to make space for the overwhelming intensity of her grief.