Do you love opera? Whatever your answer — yes or no — the moment we hear that someone is an opera singer there is always a certain fascination. Instantly, questions rush through our minds: how difficult is it to sing at that level? How long have they trained? And, of course, which role is their favourite?

Good news: we recently sat down with someone who can answer all of this and more. Meet Cameron Shahbazi, the Iranian-Canadian countertenor who has travelled the world captivating audiences with his remarkable voice. Acclaimed internationally and the recipient of multiple awards, he is also the artist behind a benefit concert in Frankfurt supporting human rights in Iran — clear proof that great artists often come with great hearts.

So what is the key to winning people’s love? Which project is he preparing to share with us this month? And what ritual does he follow before every performance? All of this — and much more — in our conversation with Cameron.

— I know your parents weren’t from the music industry, so how were you first introduced to music?

— I wasn’t born into a musical family, but I owe everything to my mother. She always said that when she was pregnant, I kicked the most whenever music was playing. From early on she kept us in many activities, and when I was about three or four, she insisted I take piano lessons. My brother quit, but she wouldn’t let me. At first I enjoyed it without thinking much, until one day my teacher heard me humming and suggested I try some scales.

Secretly I had always wanted to sing but never had the courage to ask, and that little moment changed everything. My mother had left Iran on her own during the revolution of 1979, when she was just 16 or 17, and I think that experience shaped her determination to give us every opportunity. She wasn’t musical herself, but she believed in persistence — and I was lucky to have that support. It gave me the chance to discover music.

— And how did this early connection to music transform into the desire to become an opera singer?

— By the time I was five or six, I loved singing and would make my family sit and listen, though I later grew too shy. Through piano lessons, we followed a classical curriculum, and my teacher’s husband happened to work at an opera house. That was my first real exposure to opera — I didn’t know much about it, but it felt structured, like something I could take seriously. By 16, I was getting small opportunities — chorus work, minor solos — and my teachers encouraged me, saying I could make a career of it.

My parents agreed because it was tied to university; they saw it as risky, but with a safety net. A music degree, they thought, could still lead to teaching or other paths. So I studied — first in a lower voice, and later found my true range. In many ways, it felt like my teachers gave me permission to pursue what I had been too afraid to admit myself. I naively thought: if I follow this path, I will have a career. Of course, reality turned out to be far more complex, but that was the beginning.

— And how did this journey lead you to discover your true voice as a countertenor?

— That was almost accidental. In classical music, roles are written for specific voice types, and we usually think of the four main ones — soprano, mezzo, tenor and bass. I started as a baritone, which matched my speaking voice. It was fine, but it never expanded naturally. I had a decent middle range but not many very low notes, and whenever I reached higher, I would switch into what I later realised was falsetto. At the time, I had no idea what a countertenor even was.

I used to practise very late at night, from about 11 pm until one in the morning, partly because I was nervous and didn’t want anyone to hear me making mistakes. One night I tried to imitate a melody I recognised — maybe from “Carmen” or “La Traviata”. Someone overheard me and thought I was making fun, so they told my teacher. She challenged me to sing for her, and afterwards she asked, “Do you know what a countertenor is?” I didn’t. I was still much more into Verdi and Puccini at that time.

I went straight to the library, borrowed recordings, and listened with a friend — one pair of headphones between us. The moment I heard it, something in me said: this is it. The colour of the voice, the harmonies, the mysterious timbre — at first I couldn’t even tell where the sound was coming from. It felt otherworldly.

Then I discovered the repertoire. Many roles were written for characters like Cyrus the Great or King Darius of Persia — figures tied to the Middle East and my own heritage. I thought, these are my stories, ones I can bring something personal to. That was the beginning.

From there I realised the countertenor is, in many ways, the most modern of all voice types. It is rooted in the ancient castrato tradition, but unlike them, my voice comes from my natural speaking register, coloured by my chest voice. It is a completely different instrument, but one that allows me to inhabit this repertoire and explore new music being written today.

The moment I heard it, I knew I would be willing to sacrifice everything just to learn more. That was the start of my journey.

— You have already mentioned the role of mentors in your life. Who have been your biggest influences?

— To be honest, I was never influenced by big names in the usual sense. My influences were always more personal — mentors and teachers who shaped me directly. And I am lucky that my current mentor is someone I admired for most of my career: Dame Ann Murray, the Irish mezzo-soprano. She has sung almost all of my repertoire and more, and now she guides me. I feel incredibly grateful that someone I once looked up to from afar has become such an important part of my life.

My whole life has been enabled by strong women. Always, always strong women who made me feel safe, And when I feel safe, I can really go. My mother was the first — she created that sense of security from childhood. Later, my piano teacher did the same, then my voice teachers, and now my mentors and collaborators. Most of them happen to be women, not because I consciously sought it out, but because that’s where I have felt the most understood.

It is a bit like a child in a playground: if they feel safe, they will play endlessly; if not, they will hold back. That safety has given me the courage to explore, to be curious, and to take risks. Without it, I wouldn’t have dared to go further.

— Let’s talk about the singing itself. Opera is very different from the kind of singing most people are used to. Can we even call it the same thing?

— Absolutely — it is all singing. The difference lies in how the body is used. If you are singing into a microphone, you can afford to leave out some of the ingredients that make the voice carry in a hall. In opera, though, you don’t have that luxury. You need your whole body engaged so the voice can travel over an orchestra and reach the very back row without amplification.

— And what does that require in terms of training? Is it about special techniques, breathing, even physical exercise?

— It is a big question because there isn’t just one way — every singer has their own path. But for me, singing has always relied on three things: body and breath, imagination, and heart. One of my teachers in Amsterdam put it beautifully: the thought sparks the imagination, the imagination sparks the breath, and the breath fuels the phrase. When those three — the brain, the heart, and the lungs — are in sync, sound becomes music. Without that, it is just noise.

On the physical side, Pilates has been invaluable, as has general cardiovascular work. It doesn’t have to mean running — for some it is high-intensity training, for others swimming — but it is about learning how to engage the body fully. I also use a device called AeroFit, designed for athletes, which helps train the lungs. I started using it during COVID and it really sharpened my awareness of breathing without unnecessary tension in the neck.

Opera demands a supported sound — one that is grounded, resonant, and alive. I often describe it as a fountain of water: the breath is the fountain, constantly flowing, and the sound sits delicately on top of that stream, carried into the hall. It is technical, yes, but also philosophical. You are giving to the audience, but you must always keep a little for yourself.

— Do you get nervous before stepping on stage?

— Yes, absolutely. I get particularly nervous when I perform my own programmes, like the Warsaw Sessions, because it feels like reading my diary aloud to thousands of people. With opera, it is different. I may start off nervous, but once I step into the character, I am no longer myself — I am just living their life, and the audience are like flies on the wall.

The transformation process is key. I arrive at the theatre early, I take my time, I often do my own hair and make-up, and that’s how I become the person I need to portray. Nervousness, I remind myself, is very close to excitement. With meditation, preparation, and perspective, I can channel that energy. After all, the audience has chosen to spend their time and resources to be there. That is a privilege, and a responsibility — but it is one that can be embraced, like hosting a dinner party. Once the preparations are done, you enjoy sharing the evening together.

— With so many characters in opera, do you have a favourite role that you feel the most emotionally connected to?

— Choosing repertoire is a very personal process. It is like hosting a dinner — these characters become companions, so you must be selective about who you let into your inner circle. I often take on characters very different from myself, because that is how I learn to empathise. For example, I am often cast as villains. In real life, I am outspoken about humanitarian causes, so playing someone who lacks humanity fascinates me. It allows me to explore how a person can make decisions without seeing the people affected by them.

Recently, I performed Masha in Three Sisters at the Salisbury Festival. She felt incredibly close to me, perhaps because she is fresh in my memory. Masha is a woman who feels stuck, torn between doing something about it or staying where she is. She chooses to act, but things unravel in ways she couldn’t have imagined, and it devastates her. In many ways, she reminded me of chapters in my own life. That connection made her a role I will carry with me.

— And what about the most difficult role you have ever performed?

— Last year in Vancouver I sang the role of the Refugee in Jonathan Dove’s Flight. It was inspired by a true story — an Iranian man who lived in Charles de Gaulle Airport for over sixteen years. The story became a film with Tom Hanks, and also this opera.

The music itself wasn’t hard to learn, but it was incredibly hard to sing. The composer wrote it in a way that reflected the character’s struggles, so technically it felt jagged, restless, unsettled. That was intentional, but I found it difficult because I wanted to show humanity too. Refugees are people with hope, tenderness, humour — not just trauma. I wanted the audience to feel that dimension.

I had turned down the role before, because I knew I needed to be ready for it. When I finally accepted, it was one of the hardest challenges I have faced. But it also became one of the most meaningful, because it forced me to balance technical precision with emotional honesty. The character doesn’t even have a name — he is simply “the Refugee.” Every other character in the opera treats him like an alien. I hated that. It mirrored something I find troubling in life: when someone is struggling, society often looks away, turns its head, or treats them as “other.” I wanted to find the beauty and humanity in him, not play a caricature. That was my challenge — to show he was a human being, not a freakish figure.

Other roles have had their own difficulties. Masha in Three Sisters, for example, was tough because I don’t speak Russian. It meant spending a year and a half working with Russian text. Sometimes the challenge is dramatic, sometimes practical.

— Many of your roles seem connected to humanitarian and social themes. Is that a conscious choice?

— It is not so much a choice as a philosophy. My voice only works if my brain, heart and lungs are in sync — and when I spend time with characters, I can’t help but be influenced by their humanity. Take Cyrus the Great in Handel’s opera: at one point, he faces execution by order of his own father. It is unjust, barbaric, yet he accepts his fate and says he will die for the good of his country.

When I performed that role, I couldn’t help but connect it to the “Woman, Life, Freedom” movement in Iran. Young people were being brought to courts unjustly, even facing execution. How could I spend so much time with Cyrus, sing his words, and not apply some of that conviction to my own life and work? It isn’t political — I am not a politician. It is human. My aim is always to humanise a story, a person, or an idea, and to share that with the audience.

— Was that the moment that led you to launch the “Woman, Life, Freedom” benefit concert in Frankfurt?

— Yes. The movement already existed, but the slogan became widespread then. What shocked me was that my industry had spoken out for other valid causes, but for this — which felt urgent and demanded action — there was silence.

I remembered Cyrus’s aria: “I am destined for death, and those around me are barbaric or silent.” It stuck in my mind. I thought, if no one else will act, I must. So I began reaching out — hundreds of musicians on Instagram, by text, people I didn’t know. I wrote letters. I had no real experience producing, but I went with what felt right.

The result was a benefit concert for human rights in Iran at the Frankfurt Opera House. Musicians donated their time. We raised funds, but more importantly, awareness. The theatre became a sacred place — not religiously, but architecturally and communally. A place where strangers could sit together, feel safe, and reflect. For Iranians in the diaspora, it meant realising their community was bigger than they thought.

We partnered with Deutsche Grammophon to film it, and I insisted it remain free to watch. For me, it was proof that music can lower people’s guard, help them hear a story differently, and build empathy.

— It sounds like that experience reshaped your view of your work. How did it affect you personally as an artist?

— It made me realise that singing isn’t about me. When I first started, I sang because I loved the sensation — the sound, the stage, the dressing up. That was fine in my teens and twenties. But with time, you break down and rebuild yourself again and again. And you realise the point isn’t just your own connection to the music, but the connection you create with others.

There was a moment when I completely lost my voice — my heart was broken for my country, for my family, for the sense of exile so many Iranians live with. Technically I could still sing, but my voice wasn’t alive. I regained it with the help of my collaborator and friend Sophia Muñoz. Together we created what became “The Warsaw Sessions” — a programme built on everything we believe in: cross-cultural collaboration, community, and vulnerability.

— Tell me more about “The Warsaw Sessions”. What makes it so personal?

— Every song in the programme is an arrangement of an arrangement — so by the time I sing it, it feels like a chorus — I feel that I am not alone. That sense of community is in the music itself.

We address a lot of social issues, the situation in Iran, the power of optimism. Rehearsing it was like reading a diary — exhausting but cathartic. One night in Kosovo, rehearsing at 1am, I was so tired I sat on a stool and just sang through it. It felt raw, vulnerable, like a fly on the wall. I thought: why couldn’t this be the concert itself? No gloss, no performance mask — just honesty.

That became the idea of “The Warsaw Sessions”: to record and film it as if the audience were in the room with us. It’s not the way I was taught to programme music, but it is true to me, to Sophia, and to what we wanted to share. We even infused Iranian music with Chopin. It is deeply personal, cross-cultural, and, above all, human.

— Your new project sounds fascinating. Where will people be able to hear it?

— It will be released at the end of September. What is important is that it will be freely available on YouTube. For me, it was essential that it is accessible, not hidden behind a paywall. We will also be sharing teasers throughout September, and the individual songs will be on my website too.

— Finally, for those who feel opera is difficult to understand, what is your best advice for approaching it?

— Think of it like developing a taste. When I was younger, I didn’t like olives — now I love them. Sometimes you are simply not ready for certain sounds, and that is fine. Opera is a huge umbrella, with many different genres, but the common thread is that it is live and unamplified. Imagine hundreds of people devoting their lives to a craft, working together purely to tell a story, with no microphones, no technology — just human effort. That is extraordinary.

It can be overwhelming, I know. My advice is to do a little bit of homework: read a synopsis beforehand, choose a story that resonates with you, so you don’t feel excluded. Afterwards, give yourself a few quiet minutes before discussing it with anyone else. Ask yourself what stood out, what moved you. Then talk it over — discussion is part of the experience.