It was the sort of greeting fit for a king – not a humble Jewish boy from the Midwest whose greatest claim to royalty was that my great-great-grandfather Mordecai was once a notable rabbi in one of Poland’s most prestigious shtetls. After all, the last time I had visited the Middle East was a bus tour of Israel for my bar mitzvah. So when my eight-hour flight from London landed in the middle of the night at Bahrain International Airport, it was with some trepidation. My paranoia only mounted when, after we touched down, a solicitous stewardess invited me to be the first to leave the plane before any of the other passengers disembarked. Something wasn’t kosher here, I thought. My family back home (like most Americans, utterly ignorant of the Middle East) had warned me about taking on this plum assignment to interview a member of the Bahraini royal family.

I was met at the cabin door by two smiling gents dressed in traditional Arabic haberdashery, pristine, flowing robes – otherwise known as thobes – with white headdresses. They asked me to follow them as they walked me straight through customs with a simple nod to the guards. I soon found myself sitting in a luxurious waiting room reserved for foreign dignitaries, and my memories of Heathrow dissipated. As I settled into a gilded sofa, a white-jacketed waiter greeted me with Turkish coffee, accompanied by a long-awaited cigarette, which a representative of royal protocol, Bader al-Rowaie, duly lit with his gold Cartier lighter. I remembered I had luggage; al-Rowaie was assuring me that it was in good hands when his mobile rang. “It is for you, kind sir,” he said. “His Highness wishes to speak to you.”

Sheikh Abdullah bin Hamad al-Khalifa, the second son of the King of Bahrain, was on the line to apologise for not being there to welcome me himself. He inquired about my flight, asked if I was being properly cared for, and hoped I would find my accommodations adequate. He insisted that if there was anything I needed while in his country that I shouldn’t hesitate to ring. I thanked Prince Abdullah. “Call me Abdullah,” he said.

My first brush with royalty and we’re already on first-name terms? But then again, Sheikh Abdullah is not your typical prince. He is the rock’n’roll sheikh. He loves Led Zeppelin and worships Bob Marley. He treasures his vintage Gibson guitar. He pilots a Harley around town. His idea of a good time is driving his own, personal semi-truck across the desert to Dubai (he eschews private planes). And he wants to change the world through music. For the affable 32-year-old prince is a producer and songwriter. He stays up through the night writing pop ballads, and now he is on a mission to change the perception of the Middle East by establishing a music industry hub in Bahrain, a tiny kingdom located off the eastern coast of Saudi Arabia (it’s a mere 665sq km). There he has built a luxe, state-of-the art recording studio – complete with spa, gym and movie theatre – in the grounds of his palace to lure the biggest names in showbiz and to produce albums for up-and-coming Middle East artists. Muslim hip-hop. Is it as bizarre as it sounds? “People have this perception of us Arabs that the Middle East is only about guns and bombs,” he says. “I want to change that. Music is a healer: a powerful tool, a universal language that everyone understands. It can show that different cultures and religions can all be harmonious together. It can be very effective as – how can I say? – an alternative diplomacy.”

There’s arguably a lot of that kind of thing going around in the Gulf. The Qataris have obvious cultural ambitions, from their English-language Al Jazeera through to a world-class, I.M. Pei-designed museum; Abu Dhabi is planning to open branches of the Louvre and the Guggenheim museums; while Dubai, hardly a place to get left behind, is chipping in with its art fair. Perhaps Sheikh Abdullah’s music hub is best seen not so much as a rich man’s toy, but as part of a pattern in which the wealthy, West-leaning monarchies of the Gulf are seeking to establish a relationship between us and the Islamic world that isn’t about oil or about terrorism.

Thus, the following morning, a sleek black Mercedes whisks me through the palm tree-lined boulevards of this oil-rich island nation – where thousands of hedonistic Saudis flock each weekend to party at Bahrain’s nightclubs and McMansion-like villas. I first meet Sheikh Abdullah at his new recording studio, situated inside a compound used by the royal family. But I feel more like I’m in the East End of London (apart from the stifling 104-degree humidity) when a motley crew of tattooed, multipierced young Brits in ragged T-shirts and sneakers give high-fives and a bear hug to His Highness. They turn out to be technicians working in the studios. But in any case, Abdullah quickly shoots down the suggestion that they are the equivalent of a princely posse. “Any member of a royal family who travels with an entourage, or takes up a floor in a hotel because they’re so-and-so, is unacceptable. You’re just asking for attention. You call me ‘Sheikh’ and I’ll call you ‘Sheikh Jeffrey’,” insists His Royal Humbleness as he settles into a plush, velvet sofa in the studio’s nicely appointed sitting room and fires up a Dunhill cigarette. “Just kick back and relax.”

Although he attended Bahraini secondary schools, the British-born sheikh has lived in both America and the UK. He was raised in Bahrain by his British nanny, Emily (aka “the General”), who now oversees the upbringing of his own children, Isa, 8, Nora, 7, and Sulman, 4 months (he also has six half-brothers and sisters, including one brother who is a motor-racing enthusiast and brought Formula One to Bahrain). For as long as Sheikh Abdullah can remember, he was smitten by Western music, listening to everything from the Bee Gees to the Beatles. He fondly recalls how his father would pick him up at school and crank up James Brown in the car. He later attended the American University, Washington DC – where, he makes a point of saying, he did not live in “some lush villa” off-campus, but with other students in everyday dorms. “I remember at university parties, people would be jumping around and dancing,” he recalls. “But I would always be sitting next to the DJ. It was fantastic.” He went to the School of Oriental and African Studies at the University of London (for a masters degree in international relations), where he met his wife, Hessa, who is also Bahraini – and they lived in Kensington for the next seven years. The young prince hung out at Phil Collins concerts and liked nothing more than weekends tending sheep at his mother-in-law’s country cottage in Devon (Sheikh Abdullah is an avid naturalist, whether it be camping in the desert or deep-sea fishing for tuna in his 30ft boat).

“I don’t want to get into politics,” he declares, but then continues: “Three hundred million Muslims have been sadly painted by a brush intended for 3,000.” “What these people have done is very offensive to both Muslims and me. People look at me and say terrorist and that’s totally not true. I’ve been called that and it hurts.”

It is just the sort of insult that compelled him to create 2 Seas Records – and to be that rarity among Arab princes, someone who speaks out about the conflict in the Middle East. “There’s a huge misconception of the Arab world,” he says. “I’m not saying that songs can heal the world, but they can definitely bring the world closer together, because everyone understands music. We could be the hub of Arabia.” Sheikh Abdullah hopes to mix Arab sounds (such as with a lute) and traditional Western rhythms. The blend, he says, “just works. It sounds damn good.

“I’m not in this for the glitz and fame,” he insists. “I’m already a so-called ‘somebody’. If I wanted to be seen, then I would have made a point of it, y’know?” And unlike “cut-throat” Western music companies, he plans to allow his artists to own the majority of their own work, while relaxing in his sumptuous studio complex, laden with luxe living quarters, a swimming pool, private beach and sauna (which may be a stretch in this heat). “They’ll find nothing here but privacy,” he foresees. “It will be very exclusive. Their own little magical haven. It will definitely help the muse.” The Black Eyed Peas’ will.I.am and Pink Floyd’s Nick Mason are two of the stars who’ve already sampled Sheikh Abdullah’s massive analog sound board. He has recently completed a track with Sheryl Crowe using Arabic vocal, instrumentation and Arabic rhythms, and is preparing for a collaboration with Ziggy Marley.

Then of course, there was Michael Jackson – clearly a pop musical genius, but surely a shaky start for Sheikh Abdullah’s plan to change the world, quietly, through music, and a quixotic choice of guest for someone aiming to promote understanding between Islam and the West. For two years ago, Abdullah became the mystery man who granted a bolthole to Michael Jackson, following the pop icon’s trial for child molestation (Jackson was acquitted). Sheikh Abdullah welcomed Jackson for a reportedly all-expenses-paid year, shielding him from the tabloid reporters who stalked his every move – until, that is, he found palatial refuge in a magic kingdom thanks to his deep-pocketed patron and pal. After the sheikh reportedly flew the moonwalker and his family to stay with him, the pair collaborated for a year together on a Hurricane Katrina charity single I Have a Dream and 2 Seas announced an exclusive record deal (the single was never released). Meanwhile Sheikh Abdullah kept frustrated reporters at bay while Jacko reportedly skipped around town in a black robe, or abaya, and a scarf covering his face, an outfit traditionally worn by conservative Arabic women. In a Muslim monarchy, it’s hard to know what anybody here really thinks of Sheikh Abdullah and his Western friends, but Michael Jackson stirred some controversy in Bahrain and even in Dubai (where he entered the ladies room in a shopping mall and applied make-up). “He should keep his concerts and his effeminate manners away from us,” said Bahraini conservative cleric Adel al-Maawda. “We don’t want him turning Bahrain into Las Vegas.” Or as one ordinary Bahraini, Hani Bucheery, a security company manager, put it: “I’m not against him being in Bahrain – but against him using Bahrain to run away from his problems.”

Jackson eventually became enough of a royal pain to prompt Sheikh Abdullah to sue him in the High Court in London, alleging that Jackson moonwalked right out the door to Japan and Ireland, breaching their contract, a case that is still ongoing. “All I will say is that Michael is a dear friend,” says Sheikh Abdullah. “It is a business problem. It is not personal. But let me tell you: Michael is not at all weird or bizarre. He is one of the most down-to-earth, sweetest guys I’ve ever met.”

As I listen to him, I find myself staring at the vast sand dunes and my mind wanders to a time when music did change the political landscape. After all, music is about emotion and part of a culture that speaks to the youth of the world. What if Sheikh Abdullah hosted a secular concert for peace in the Middle East, à la Live Aid or Live 8? The result could be mind-blowing: instead of radical youths blowing themselves up, there could be daisies in the muzzles of their guns. That’s not such a bad thing. But while I bid so long to Sheikh Abdullah, I can’t help but wonder if it’s all just a delicious dream. There’s no doubt that this earnest man is determined to do the right thing, but it seems like something of a fanciful folly, so I remain sceptical. “I’ll prove you wrong,” he says, donning a pair of black aviators and speeding off in his Bentley coupé. “I know I can do it.”

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