You say you want a revolution? Iran bands rock on

They have been known to stop events mid-concert - even if officially approved - if they felt they were too demonstrative or un- Islamic.

"Hizbollahi have come to my concerts, but they listened, because of the poems I chose to sing about," says Assar between practice sets for the upcoming concert. "Music is not a kind of war, where we [musicians] are fighting [the Islamic Guidance Ministry] and Hizbollahi."

He notes that Iran has "Islamic rules," and that performers "must understand their people. Maybe [Iranians] like heavy metal - I love it - but it is not our culture. To play that, you must know who is listening to you ... and this kind of music has side effects."

The result in Iran is a mixture of musical styles, and degrees of legality, as Iranians explore ways of expression. "People are looking for a new reality," says one amateur musician who first picked up a guitar during high school in the 1960s. "I couldn't find anyone interested in playing with me then, but now it is like a fever."

That fever is spreading. A website called "Tehran Avenue" (www.tehranavenue.com) launched a competition between underground groups last year. The competition turned into a big deal for local bands. Now on the site is a link to "Setting up a performance: A survival guide," that notes potential pitfalls.

Music can have an impact in the political realm as well. A couple of concerts were approved for a popular rock band last June, music fans here say, at a time of antigovernment demonstrations in the streets. The aim, some believe, was to siphon off some of the support for the demonstrations, and distract young people from their grievances in the run-up to the anniversary of the 1999 student demonstrations.

But little of that matters in the practice room for this band, where the walls are lined with decibel-dampening painted Styrofoam and floors carpeted with a tangle of cables. A portrait of Johann Sebastian Bach - an inspiration to guitarist Misikian, who has drawn on some of Bach's classic melodies in his own compositions - hangs from one wall; not far away is a printout of the word "GOD" in capital letters.

Even the window - opened wide between sets, to let in fresh air - has a chunk of Styrofoam glued over it, though Misikian says the neighbors in this Christian Armenian neighborhood of east Tehran don't complain.

Music has come a long way since the first decade of the Islamic revolution of the 1980s and after, when live performances of anything but the most tepid traditional music were forbidden - no singing, whatsoever. Back then, visitors entering Iran were patted down for bootleg CDs; now anything can be downloaded from the Internet.

Surprisingly, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, founder of the 1979 Islamic revolution, played a key role in easing restrictions. While most traditional ayatollahs considered only music used for traditional prayer services acceptable, Mr. Khomeini ruled that not all other music was bad, opening the door to traditional and classical music, and now more.

Still, rock is having to push the limits to make inroads. And bassist Riahipour - who also plays bass in Assar's ensemble - says that changing perceptions and prejudices is part of the job.

He was on tour for six months in the US a couple years ago, with Googoosh, Iran's most most famous singer since the 1960s. (The Persian equivalent of Elvis, she specializes in prerevolutionary love songs and melancholy ballads. She was branded an infidel by Khomeini, and now lives in exile.) The concert was a hit, but many Iranians in America were amazed.

"Some of them couldn't believe we came from Iran," says Riahipour. "They thought all Iranians were bearded [militants] with Kalashnikovs."

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