Abscission; The new EP from Iranian artist Layla Kardan harnessing the strength in the sensuality of Middle Eastern womanhood

Words by Dalia Al-Dujaili

Layla Kardan is moving from strength to strength, evolving at an extraordinary pace to keep up with today’s major Middle Eastern players. Having being named Esquire Middle East’s female artist of the year in 2018, Kardan is gearing up to release her latest EP, Abscission - the term for when a plant sheds its layers.

When I reach Layla in Dubai over Zoom, I’m struck by her immediate warmth. I don’t often compare myself to wildly talented musicians, but on this occasion, I find Layla and I share quite a few things in common. Layla is a third-culture kid, or as she likes to call herself, a C.O.W - citizen of the world. After I had adjusted to calling the singer a ‘cow’, we started discussing how being of mixed-identity is a source of strength and inspiration for us both. Layla tells me that when she’s in Iran, she doesn’t feel Iranian; a very common feeling for us cows. “People might say things like, ‘Oh you don’t know your identity!’”, she tells me. “In a world where we’re all intermixed, we should be more focused on enjoying other peoples cultures”, concluding that being a part of several cultures is “a beautiful way to experience the world”.

But more than cultural multiplicity, it is the strength of femininity that is the driving force of Layla’s work; “most of my work is about the rise of the feminine but not in burn-your-bra kind of way, in a feminine and sensual way.” I tell her that it’s important to differentiate between the two; from her music, there emanates a strong sense of reclaiming feminine energy rather than encouraging women to force themselves into more masculine roles and adopting typically masculine traits in order to elicit strength. “That’s not the makeup of women - most women want to embrace that femininity”. So, does Layla feel like she’s helping other women shed those layers and embrace the strength that lies in their femininity?

“I don’t consider myself a light bearer,” she humbly explains, “but if people can resonate with the music in that way then it serves as that.” But Layla tells me it’s more about her having “the guts to make the music in a community where it’s really not encouraged” which is perhaps more an act of resistance. Her only intention, she states, is to speak her truth.

“One of my best moments performing,” she reminisces, “was in a small intimate gig with thirteen and fourteen year old girls singing my lyrics and I thought, Yeah, I’d rather you sing this than Wet Ass Pussy.” The controversial yet widely loved track has almost assumed the position of mainstream feminist anthem with its reclamation of female sexuality. “How do you feel about the music of Cardi B and Meg Thee Stallion?” I ask.

“I’m not anti, I get down to it - in some ways it’s freeing, power to Cardi for desensitising the subject. But I think it’s still objectifying. Whilst I still believe in celebrating your assets, I don’t like to see ten year old girls twerking to WAP. It’s not a step in right direction.”

I go some way in agreeing with Layla, wondering why women are still defining themselves in male terms or viewing themselves through the male gaze. “As you say, it’s powerful to reclaim that objectification-”, I say - “But it’s still the dance for the man”, Layla concludes.

Discussing these issues with Layla is particularly poignant because of our shared Middle Eastern backgrounds. Middle Eastern women are in a very tense space. On one hand, we have seen a surge in recent years of female liberation in the region, but on the other hand, we also have a harshly conservative approach to sexualising the female body. Everything a woman does and how she looks is about her desexualisation, which consequently renders her as nothing but a sexual object. For example, the notion that you need to cover up but you also need to be completely hairless. This impossible existence is exhausting, we both agree. “I don’t believe we need to cover ourselves so that a man doesn’t become sexually provoked; this is the 21st century, get your shit together”, Layla proclaims. “I respect cultures, respect is important to me and I want to respect the community I’m living in. But we should not be doing everything we can to appease men.”

Layla moves out of the sun that is taunting me viciously as I stare out my window into grey Edinburgh backstreets. As she moves, I tell her I love the drawings behind her - she proceeds to take me on a mini-tour of her living room showing me silhouettes of women in all different styles and explaining each piece and its respective artist - “I love the feminine form”.

This appreciation for the female form in all its complexity is evident throughout Layla’s music videos. ‘You’, the EP’s first track and released in September last year, is a strong visual statement for taking back ownership of our feminine sensuality. The final image of Layla hovering above water Venus-like is particularly visceral. Layla was able to pull off yet another stunningly self-aware video for the latest track ‘Loyalty’, produced by and co-written with Juan Ariza of Dua Lipa’s ‘Pretty Please’, with a tiny crew and within the throes of a global pandemic. I ask her how hard it’s been to promote the EP during this time.

“It’s hard anyway for an indie artist, I’m kind of doing everything on my own.” Layla explains that the most difficult obstacle to overcome has been budgeting - “My money comes from live performances. I had to really scale down but that was great because, in other ways, it encourages you to get creative with the resources you have”. She reminds me that “you can make something beautiful in the most limiting of situations; it’s about intention and the people you work with”. The pandemic has of course been difficult for artists like Layla, but she tells me that she had the time “to sit down and finish everything”, and that it encouraged her to “tell the story in a more stripped back and impactful way”.

Layla is part of what I would call one of many Middle Eastern renaissances. A rebirth of creativity in the region stemming from Millenials and Gen Z has caused a flurry of beautiful production from the region and its diaspora over the last few years. Layla tells me she wishes there was more of an industry here to support these young creatives. Whilst she agrees that the creative boom is inspiring, she admits “it’s still very premature, it will take time”.

So what was Layla listening to in her early days to inspire the signature expressive style we see today? She tells me that she’s always loved the jazzy melodic deliveries of raw female voices. Sade, Erykah Badu, Jill Scott, India Arie, Lauryn Hill. You get it - the woman’s got taste. “The last couple songs on the EP are more pop-y, but that’s what shaped me,” she explains. “That’s the first stylistic instinct that comes out of me - now new artist can touch the grace, elegance and timelessness of someone like Sade.”

“So if I was to ask you now what are your favourite artists are, you would say these women?”

“I really love Shenade Harnett, Cleo Sol, the pseudo-anonymous band Sault, Hiatus Coyote”, Layla confesses.

“Your vocal aesthetic is quite soulful and jazzy and then the tune is -”

“Grungey, yeah. I love dark sounds. I think of myself as quite light, but I love industrial sounds and I love to experiment.” And this blend works in a dynamic way. Bringing together the influences of the women of early 2000s soul, Layla has achieved an inimitable modern pop aesthetic with elements of Middle Eastern music such as distinctive flares, all deliciously wrapped up in the firmness and resistance of sensual feminine grunge.

“What do you want to tell me about Abscission that we haven’t talked about”, I ask Layla, soaking up the energy she emits before I have to end the call.

“Although I grew up able to speak my mind”, she says, “living [in the Middle East] I still hear things like “you should be less opinionated”, or, “don’t challenge him so much”. I fucking hate it.” Layla tells me that although she’s traditional, for example, she enjoys feeding the people she loves, she doesn’t see that as a bad thing - “it’s got nothing to do with being subservient - for a ship to run everyone has tasks, right? But what drives me to insanity is when people say, “be less girly, why isn’t your hair dyed?”, and all these other expectations that women deal with.”

Abscission for me is about not dimming my light for a man to feel comfortable, not dimming my light for anyone else. Being sure of who I am and what I’m saying. I want this to be a takeaway for women; don’t dim your light for other people’s comfort. Come into your power, be your truest and most authentic self, don’t shy away from that.

“Abscission is about shedding the layers, we’ve been taught to be nurturing, patient, kind - we can embrace all of that but that doesn’t mean you have to accept things that are bad for you or be treated like shit to appease a man. If it’s hurting you, if it’s toxic or bringing you down, shed it - goodbye!