I am afraid to die. I am afraid of being forgotten. And I am afraid of contributing nothing to the world... or at least nothing of any artistic relevance to anyone. I spend a lot of time thinking about my contribution to music and its history, and I spend a lot of time working on my contribution to music's history. It will be etched in stone, in history, forever, there to be referenced for its successes and failures. I struggle with the idea that what I craft might have an expiry date. I don't know that it doesn't. Who does? No one making a record does. It is not I who decides that, and that is not okay. So I fight that. I make records. I make other peoples' records, but more importantly, I make my own records. The record, after all, is the ticket to that eternal existence, however meagre and inconsequential it may be. No one can take that away from me. It is what I believe, and it is what I do.

Meeting Abdel Karim Shaar in 2011 in my studio was a confusing moment. I was aware of who he was, and I thought I was aware of what he did. He had started his career on Lebanese television in the early 1970s as a young talent. He became known for his unique – though not hugely popular – singing style.

I felt uneasy being with him in my studio, talking about its existence, and about myself and my music. The whole affair seemed foreign or uninteresting to him. He didn't seem very moved by any of it. And why would he be? A man in his sixties who has had a 40-year career, and yet no records to show for it. By his own admission, he had attempted a few sessions that never yielded any albums. We had a warm exchange about music, its disciplines relevant to the Levant, and live performance. He invited me to attend a show of his on my next trip to Beirut, and I of course accepted. We parted ways, but he didn't leave my thoughts.

I was rather confused by his artistic existence. Was he not afraid to die? It didn't seem so. Was he not afraid of being forgotten? It didn't seem so either. And why do I not know of any of his records? It's because he has none. So how am I to know what his music is? Where is this person, this artist's contribution? And how can someone at his age have not made a record? My entire thought process was being challenged and I needed to answer my own questions here. I had once had a similar viewpoint about my music, idealising a musical life that would be exclusively about the »live experience.« Of course, this attempt failed as I have since released recorded music.

I made a point of attending an Abdel Karim Shaar soirée on my next trip to Lebanon. The show was in a dimly lit downtown basement cabaret venue that seated roughly 100 people or so. The stage had its red velvet curtains drawn. I took my seat and anxiously waited for the show to commence.

The lights dimmed and the music started from behind the curtains, and slowly they were opened as the quartet of oud, qanoun, violin, and riq musicians played an introduction to the evening. The power of the acoustic takht was deafening. It was so quiet that it was so loud. Too loud. Moments later, the larger-than-life Abdel Karim appeared on stage to a loud roar from the audience. He took his seat, acknowledged the crowd, closed his eyes and there the night truly began. It was a journey. Two hours of emotional movement. His singing was so powerful, and so full of life. Nothing mattered other than that moment to him. And nothing mattered other than that moment to me. He was conducting me, telling me when I am to sit still in anticipation, and when I am to scream back at him, when to contemplate, and when to stand on my chair with my hands stretched out open. When to close my eyes and when to open them. It was discipline, and I cannot claim to have, nor to have ever experienced it before. Two hours on, and he has concluded his journey with me, where he stands up and exits the stage.

Tears were flowing. I was truly humbled. Humbled not only because of the experience I had just experienced, but humbled because I was challenged beyond my capacity. I had just witnessed this artist get up on a stage and nullify my musical ideology and, to a certain extent, nullify my artistic existence.

It was very difficult for me to come to terms with that. That he has chosen to not record an album became so obvious to me. That he chooses this format for his music was so logical all of a sudden. That he, at this point in his career, chooses to do this completely on his terms, as any other terms would be a compromise to his vision. He has proven all he needs to prove, and in the process, has given me an experience that would be an eye and soul opener.