Omar Souleyman: from wedding singer to the world

 A team of poets who write lyrics on the spot and an electronica twist help singer from war-torn Syria go global

 Bank notes rain down on Omar Souleyman. Beautiful women in silk gowns dance around him. Backed by music of hypnotic intricacy, he runs through a series of rabble-rousing party chants. It's a decadent wedding bacchanal, but currently one that's only available on YouTube. Souleyman is now in exile, his native Syria wracked by civil war. "All I want is for it to stop and for everyone to go back to their normal lives," he says. "When I see hungry people, or dead people, it saddens me. Sometimes I no longer feel like singing."

Souleyman is talking to the Guardian from Turkey, where he's living reluctantly after his home town, Ras al-Ayn, became uninhabitable following battles between Kurdish separatists, the Syrian army and rebel forces. One trip from Beirut to Turkey through Syria necessitated him dodging bandits and corpse-laden taxis; bombs exploded around him and machine-gun fire filled the air as he dashed to make a flight to an American gig.

 This should be a triumphant time for Souleyman. He's about to release his most high-profile album, having gone from local pop star to world music curio to sharing a label with the Arctic Monkeys, leaving a trail of bounding dancers in his wake. His music thumps with an incessant 4/4 rhythm set against syncopated cymbals and digital simulacra of traditional Syrian instruments, with Souleyman himself hollering plaintive entreaties to women who have captured his heart. It's like a speedy Arab take on dancehall, heated by the same friction between beats and shifting melody that once made acid house so powerful. "I have a good voice, and am interested in music; every person wishes that he was famous and has money and connections and can go visit other countries, and meet people," he says. "So this was my dream."

Souleyman is a Sunni Arab, but the melting pot of north-eastern Syria feeds into his music, which riffs on a variety of traditional styles. "My music is from the community I come from – the Kurdish, the Ashuris, the Arabic, they're all in this community. Even Turkish because it's so near, it's just across the border. And even Iraqi." He and his band started out using traditional instrumentation but switched on to synths and drum machines, the freedom from the physical effort of such fast drumming helping to catalyse their rampant style. "It used to be slow, but when the keyboard came into this music, every year we made it faster, until we reached what we have now," he says. It's a style of music that's built for live performance. "The fast music is a kind of sport, it makes you move – it's like any sport where you jump or run. And it's the same for the audience as well, they tend to dance even more to the fast music." Keyboardist Rizan Sa'id's synth lines imitate reedy woodwind at anaerobic intensity, while Souleyman delivers lyrics written by him or by poet collaborators. Even in translation, the mournful lyricism spools out beautifully: "You're like a high hill that every time I climb I count my steps", "My small heart is struggling because of your love". One poet, Hassan Hamadi, even feeds him fresh lines live as Souleyman performs. "This guy is really talented; within seconds he writes a paragraph ready to sing, during a concert," says Souleyman.

In essence this is roughneck folk music – an update of a style called dabke, a dance based around constant stomping on the ground – and there has been some grouching from Syrian musicians who say it doesn't represent the richness of their country's output. "If one or two people said that, it's their opinion; I can't argue with that," Souleyman says. "Maybe it's jealousy, maybe it's something else. This traditional music [blended] with popular music is the way forward; everyone is listening to it."

Originally a labourer by trade, Souleyman pursued music as a sideline, forging his reputation by performing at weddings. Each time he would present the bride and groom with a recording, which means that he now has over 700 albums to his name, with songs that sometimes last over an hour. During a trip to Damascus, Californian musician Mark Gergis heard a Souleyman tape blaring from a market stall and started bulk-buying his work, eventually compiling his best tracks for the Sublime Frequencieslabel, a process that brought Souleyman to western audience. Soon he started performing occasional dates in small London venues, graduating to festival sets and his current deal with Domino.

Since crossing over, he's collaborated with Björk on a remix for her Biophilia project and recorded his new album with Kieran Hebden AKAFour Tet. However, Souleyman still has doubts about capturing his essence in a recording studio. "When I go into the studio, I have a fixed programme I have to go with; I don't have the luxury of making mistakes, of singing what I want. Live, even if I do make a mistake, no one will judge me for that." His recent globetrotting exploits haven't really altered his approach; the new tracks are still a pounding, rapidly syncopated miasma, with Souleyman's yelped pronouncements sounding as if he's trying to catch the eye of a woman glimpsed in a crowd. "My music has no influences," he says. "Instead of singing in Syria I'm singing in Tokyo, Hong Kong, the US, Europe – but the music is still the same."

As he has taken dabke to a global audience, however, his country has descended into the mire, making it harder and harder for Souleyman to sing. "The fact that no one knows what tomorrow will bring is a depressing fact in itself," he says. "There is no music in Syria any more, everything has stopped. Even if there is a musician who is willing to do music, he's not doing it like he used to do it before, with joy, with a real will to do it. After all this killing and destruction, it's really hard to make music. It's affected everyone, especially me. But I'm not into politics, I don't know any solution."

Stomp, stomp, stomp: where once the dabke rhythm was about unfettered release, it's now hard not to hear something sadder and more frustrated in its relentless pounding.