Let’s talk about Kamal Musallam. To get his story, you have to start with the two things thatpulled him in opposite directions from day one. Structure. Or sound.
He was born in Kuwait City on June 8, 1970. His house was a workshop. His mother was a painter. His father was an architect who spent his nights with Arabic folk charts. You know, the place where art is just the air you breathe. Kamal had a pencil in one hand and a toy instrument in the other by age three. He found the guitar at nine. At seventeen, it stopped being a hobby.
The architecture, his father’s trade, won the first few rounds. He studied it at university. It was a strange double life. A curriculum of mathematics and mawwal, of floor plans and flamenco. His dorm room sounded different day to day. Rock riffs one afternoon, jazz chords the next. The 80s ended for him with a heavy rotation of Pat Metheny, Miles Davis, and George Benson. He had to hunt those records down. No radio spoon-fed him the good stuff.
A Detour Through France, A Hard Choice in Beirut
In 1994, he left for France. A move that opened his ears wide. He collected festival passes like stamps in a passport. Train tickets took him to Lyon, Geneva, and Montreux. In every town, a new handshake. Musicians from all over—Morocco, Serbia, Tunisia, South Korea. He met a quartet and they swapped charts. He found a duo and they jammed on cafe stools till two in the morning. Those jam sessions, which run on coffee and fumes, became his real classroom.
Then Beirut called in 1997. An architect job opened up. He took it. But the music followed him. A handshake with Ziad Rahbani, Lebanon’s musical heavyweight, led to a spot in his ensemble. SoKamal kept up the double life. He drew technical drafts by day. He kept the studio cables warm atnight.
It couldn’t last. One evening by the sea, he closed the design file. For good. A clean break. He chose the longer road with fewer signs—music over maps.
The Label, The Albums, The Questions
He went to France again. A shorter stay this time, but the workdays were more extended. Studio sessions are on the calendar. After that, he made a third move, to Jordan. That’s where he put a name on his operation: K&G, his label.
The first release was On A Jordan River’s Side in 2003. A record tied to a place. A sound wrapped in oud, bass, and melody lines that refused to stay on the grid. He followed it with Out of My City in 2008. Then LULU in 2009, a project with its feet deep in Emirati folk traditions.
Years passed. He put out Songs for Seung-Eun, a tribute album. He released Homemade in Rome, an audio diary. Then came World Peace Trio, an outfit with Dwiki Dharmawan and Gilad Atzmon. A group is held together by its members from different backgrounds. A new collaboration with Billy Cobham and others is being worked on. His catalogue grew with a clear purpose. Each release seemed to ask: What is possible between the written scales and the known rules?
Dubai: The Hub and The Amplifier
Since 2002, Dubai has been his base: his ground floor. A place to work, host other musicians, test new ideas, and release his work. His projects found their way onto regional circuits and European festival schedules. Some were trios. Others were full bands.
Three project names come up most often:
• Kamal Musallam Trio – This is his core unit. Oud, electric guitar, a solid rhythmic foundation.
• LULU Project – This one is rooted in Gulf sounds, with a heavy percussion section.
• EastMania – A cross-continental project. Its members often rotate.
Collaborations fill the spaces between his album cycles. Sea of Strings put him on a stage with Jason Carter and Dominic Miller—Sting’s longtime guitarist. A pretty solid move, right? World Peace Trio moved him between Jakarta, Dubai, and Berlin. The groups change. The names shift. The members rotate. Kamal is the one fixed point.
Six Strings, Quarter Tones, and a Fretless Neck
Musicians need their tools. Kamal needed tools that spoke his specific language. Yamaha offered him the Silent Guitar™. He took it, then rewired it. He picked up Godin’s Multi-Oud. Then he began a conversation with Ibanez. By 2010, he was in the room with their designers.
He drew a fretboard with the ability to produce quarter tones. He named the guitar KMM1. It answered a problem. It filled a tuning gap. Two years later, he asked them for a fretless nylon version, the KMA1. Then came a higher-spec version, the KMM100. These instruments were tools, not fashion accessories. They allowed a musician to play phrases that standard electric guitars couldn’t produce. Maqam inflections, for example, could now come from six strings instead of the traditional eleven. Some players asked him for the specs. Some wanted to test one. He said no. The prototypes are for his use on his sets. And his sets only.
A Geography of Stages
He has played on dozens of stages. A short list gives you the map’s scale:
• 2020
Shindagha Days, Dubai—open sky and oud riffs swirling under minaret lights.
• 2019
Jatiluhur Jazz, Indonesia—steam on water, drums folding inside lake reverb.
Sarajevo Jazz Festival—brass in stone alleys, string heat under Balkans cloud.
Fête De La Musique, Dubai Opera—glass walls, rhythmic flood.
Sikka Stage, Dubai—narrow stage, wide textures.
• 2018
Fête De La Musique, Dubai Opera—second turn, tighter sound, looser wrist.
• 2017
Java Jazz Festival, Jakarta—crowd thick, set loose.
Vienna Jazz Festival—notes bending under vaulted ceilings.
• 2016
YPO, Dubai—private crowd, silent claps.
Mother of the Nation, Abu Dhabi—family stage, speaker towers trembling.
• 2015
Bali World Music Festival—flutes cut through the island dusk.
Jazz @ Kota Tua, Jakarta—colonial stone, urban pulse.
Frankfurt Museum Festival—river wind meeting electric pickups.
Sharjah World Music—overture and oud lines tangling.
• 2014
Volvo Ocean Race, Abu Dhabi—guitars near rigging lines.
Sabang Jazz, Aceh—northern Indonesia, wet air, tight groove.
Asean Jazz, Batam—crossover medley, three cultures on cue.
• 2013
Asian Music Festival, Malaysia—amped fusion, no script.
• 2012
Jeonju Sori Festival, South Korea—field acoustics, bowed notes.
Dubai World Music Festival—rooftop rhythm, bass lines skipping off marble.
• 2011
Abu Dhabi Film Festival—live score, no edits.
Asean Jazz Festival, Batam—loop pedals and batik shirts.
Umbria Jazz, Perugia—rain outside, raga inside.
Du World Music Festival—crossfade sets, blended hands.
Java Jazz, Jakarta—third time, tighter now.
• 2010
Asian Games, Guangzhou—stadium reverb, Olympic timing.
Monju World Music, Bandung—soft intros, sharp exits.
Formula I, UAE—motors cut, downbeat strikes.
Abu Dhabi Film Festival—oud in cinema light.
Vienna Jazz—return visit, settled now.
Cannes Film Festival—soundcheck near the red carpet.
• 2009
Formula I, UAE—opening act, circuit buzz.
Middle East Film Festival, UAE—strings between reels.
Jordan Music Festival—home strings stretched wide.
Java Jazz, Jakarta—fourth layer in.
• 2008
Dubai International Film Festival—early slot, whole floor.
• 2007
Dubai Jazz Festival—opening set, crowd tuning in slowly.
• 2005
Abu Dhabi Jazz Festival—first notes in the capital air.
Dubai Jazz Festival—feedback, follow-up, full sound.
Masqat Jazz Festival, Oman—across the border, downbeat held.
• 2004
Dubai Film Festival—second-year screens, pre-scene chords.
• 2003
Abu Dhabi Jazz Festival—early slot, slow build, long sustain.
• 2000
Jerash Festival, Jordan—amphitheater echoes, echoing back.
Among those were the Dubai Opera, the Abu Dhabi Film Festival, the Sikka Stage, the Cannes Film Festival, and the Asian Games in Guangzhou. Each stage was different. However, the setlist’s core idea was always the same: oud, guitar, regional rhythms, and zero apologies.
The 2025 Window
2025 is just another point on the timeline. First, some Grammy news appeared. I Will Take You To India got a submission for Jazz Performance. For What More (Live) followed. Then Respect LIFE! Showed up on the Alternative Music Album submission list—a quiet nod.
Next, Hans Zimmer. At the Coca-Cola Arena. Kamal composed a piece for the desert. One oud in front of a full orchestra. A moment most people saw through a phone screen, but which stuck in the room’s collective memory.
Then, EastMania had a run of shows. Dubai, then Amman. The stage clips showed a raw, rehearsal-like energy: Rasha Rizk’s vocals, Kamal’s silent cues, and tight musical shifts. No host. No long introductions. Just a downbeat, and the music starts.
Last, some studio footage. Quietly uploaded. No big banners. No names. Just short clips. One microphone. A sketch of a bassline. An overdub idea. No campaign. Just signals.
Kamal Musallam operates without a slogan. He avoids tags. He redraws fretboards. He keeps jazz from getting stuck in its textbook forms. He gives the oud new places to go. He treats structure as a start line, not a finish line.
His music is full of questions. Questions about form. Questions about place. Questions about the limits of a sound.
The answers are never simple. But they are always playable. And they are always live.
