Tataloo selfie Emam Reza

At the time I was desperate to get to Tehran. The last bus I was on took off and left me late at night at a remote spot along the border that separates Turkey and Iran. The computers at Iranian customs had crashed and they couldn't process my visa. The officers were very friendly, but there was nothing they could do to help me back on my way. So it was with immense relief that I made it through the night to my destination and I crawled out from under the bus.
Within the first few days after my arrival I met a girl at a cafe frequented by artists. She invited me to a friend’s basement flat that they had converted into a music studio. We were there to watch a band rehearse – a five-piece called Langtunes, who wouldn’t look out of place in Williamsburg with their skinny jeans and month-old beards. They’ve been together for several years and have a solid indie-rock sound with a great cover of Phoenix’s 1901 in their repertoire. They kick off a European tour next week.
On another evening, I’m invited out by another group of people and we end up in the same basement flat where I heard the Langtunes. At this jam session, a drummer, guitarist and a guy on keyboard start playing new sounds that seamlessly weave into a spaced out psychedelic trip. After about half an hour they swap instruments and continue creating new improvised sounds. I settle back into a well-worn couch in the tiny, dark den, padded out with foam and egg-cartons, every so often observing a face sway in and out of a dim light make abstract vocal sounds at the mic accompanying a mellifluous drone.
Later that evening, I join another group of guys who want to go cruising. Up and down north Tehran, we traverse the same roads. The air is still thick with smog and humidity, but much cooler from the relentless heat during the day.