Here and There

North and South, West and East, the cities of New York and Madras would appear to have nothing in common. And indeed, the ways in which they differ are too numerous to list here, and would serve perhaps as a useful exercise to while away time on a rainy day. Yet, both these places, founded as early-modern colonial cities within a few years of each other (New York came into being around 1624, as New Amsterdam; Madras, in 1639), can proudly claim to be among the most culturally vibrant and diverse in their respective countries. And I, resident of one in body and the other in spirit, am the happy beneficiary of this.

Let me share with you a few of the wonderful music and dance experiences I have enjoyed in these, my favorite cities (which is what I feel about them when I am in a fondly contemplative mood and not enveloped in a white-hot rage over parking spots, traffic jams, pot holes, transportation, aggressive drivers and pedestrians, the weather, the noise, the expense, the rudeness, the stress-inducing fast-pace and the just-as-maddening plodding slowness, the love-hate yo-yoing that is an affliction inseparable from strongly felt emotions). From there, I will veer to a discrete but related topic, musicking. No, you will not find this word in a dictionary, it is yet to merit an entry in Wikipedia, and in spite of the scalloped red line my word-processing software has chosen to ornament it with, I assure you that this is a word, and concept, that really does exist.  

An evening of Spanish music in Manhattan, New York.  Going for this, I only had the barest inkling of what the concert was about: just that it included the music of the well-known nineteenth-to-early twentieth century Spanish composer, Isaac Albeniz. I had never heard his music before, and went with my mind awhirl with stereotypical notions of “Spanish music”.  I imagined sunny Mediterranean streets, bright white piazzas, twirling, fast-paced flamencos, the thunderous roar and passion of the bullfighting ring and the matadors, the toe-tapping rhythms of clicking castanets, haunting and soulful Moorish and Arabic melodies, and the lovely sounds of the Spanish guitar. So, I was mildly taken aback to see the traditional symphony orchestra on the stage, no different from that for a performance of the music of Beethoven or Mozart or any other classical western composer.  The only nod to Spain was in the percussion section, which included castanets, two concave shells joined together with a string that when hit against each other produce a clicking sound.   

The lights dimmed, and the orchestra fell silent.  A few seconds later, the conductor walked onto the stage, to thunderous applause. The Albeniz piece was called Suite Espanola. This piece, which is divided into several movements, each named for a region of Spain, is supposed to evoke the mood, character, musical styles and dances of those regions. The music ranged from fast-paced and vibrant to slow, melancholy and mellow, from war-like sounds with strong rhythms to plaintive, eastern-sounding melodies, with many changes of pace and mood. The clicking beats of the castanets added a very definite Spanish touch to the music. It was an evening of beautiful music.  

Across the East River to Brooklyn, New York. Arjuna’s Dilemma, a chamber opera, with a cast of performers spanning several musical traditions: classical North Indian (Hindustani), classical Western, and Jazz. And with singing in two languages, English and Sanskrit. Wow.   Arjuna’s Dilemma is based on the Bhagavad Gita, and depicts Arjuna’s anguish and confusion as he stands at the battlefield along with his charioteer, Lord Krishna, surveying the forces massed against his men: not strangers, but his own close family and childhood playmates, cousins, uncles, teachers and others he has known all his life.  

For this production, there were musicians from three genres:  a string quintet, a piano, and a flute in the front, which was the western classical part; behind them, a jazz saxophonist and the percussion section; and off to one side, on a slightly raised platform, the North Indian classical (Hindustani) musicians: a tabla player and a singer. There was also a women’s chorus of five singers.  

The performance began with the stage in darkness, and Arjuna and Krishna appeared, Arjuna with his bow and arrow, and Krishna behind him steering his (imaginary) chariot.  Slowly, light suffused the stage, as the day dawned, and Arjuna surveyed the scene before him. Strange, discordant sounds filled the air, symbolizing the confusion in Arjuna’s mind.  

The women’s chorus appeared next, and they provided the voice(s) to Arjuna’s thoughts, in English. Their style of singing was chant-like, and it reminded me of the Gregorian chants of early Christian music. It was also like the Greek choruses of early Greek theater, because they kept repeating the same phrase (“Stop my chariot!”) over and over again, to powerful effect.  Humayun Khan, the Hindustani singer, replied in Sanskrit, with a lot of beautiful improvisation.  The jazz saxophone also added its sound, and somehow, the three types of music sounded quite lovely collectively, blending seamlessly together.  

For the most part, Krishna and Arjuna did not sing, but they acted out their parts with movements that were a mix of martial arts and ballet. This, again, worked very well, as a way of suggesting the conflicting emotions within Arjuna.  

The music beautifully supplemented the action and the story line. A sprightly, fiercely rhythmic, improvised piece on the tablas was a brilliant way to highlight the battle raging within Arjuna. As the argument between Arjuna and Krishna went back and forth, a rope shattered and re-formed itself repeatedly on a screen behind the stage, another symbol of the vacillating emotions churning through Arjuna. The haunting chants by the 5 women of the chorus also accentuated the agony of his dilemma.  

The opera was loosely divided into seven short sections, and in each successive one, Arjuna became a little more convinced, came a little closer to Krishna’s view of things.  

I loved this performance. It was an unusual and innovative multimedia exploration and interpretation of the Bhagavad Gita. The dilemma and emotions faced by Arjuna are universal ones, and it was apt that this was conveyed by music from around the world. It is not possible to describe or pigeonhole the music into any particular category. It took some of the rhythmic patterns and melodies from Hindustani music, the instrumentation and harmonies from western classical music, improvisatory approach from both the Jazz and Hindustani traditions, and blended them all together beautifully.  

Back in Manhattan, for a profoundly moving and exhilarating performance of singing.  The singer was Thomas Quasthoff, a German bass-baritone.  I must confess that I was driven to attend this concert more by ghoulish curiosity than anything else, since I was hugely intrigued by his story of being a Thalidomide victim, and by his strength and determination to overcome the obstacles he faced as a result. Of course, I had also read glowing reviews about his singing, which only further fueled my interest.  

Quasthoff’s program consisted of three Mozart arias: “Mentre ti lascio”, “Per questa bella mano” and “Rivolgete a lui lo sguardo”.   There was a gasp from the been-there, done-that, seen-it-all New York audience when Quasthoff walked onstage.  His physical deformities were startling, and nothing was or could be done to conceal them. It was a testament to Quasthoff’s charm, charisma and musical virtuosity and talent that the first things you noticed about him, the glaring effects of Thalidomide, were also the first things you completely forgot about.  Such was the power of his music and his personality. Once on the stage, Quasthoff stepped up to a podium on the front-middle of the stage, leaned back onto a sort of chair, and began to sing from that position. And from then on, the music took over.  

The first song was “Mentre ti lascio, o figlia”, a sad, pathos-filled lament, sung by a father who is bidding farewell to his daughter. It starts off at a slow pace on a low register, but, as the father’s anguish builds, the pace picks up, as does the pitch of the notes. Quasthoff held the audience spellbound as his rich, deep voice conveyed the emotions of the song perfectly.  The next song, “Per questa bella mano” had a different mood altogether, in which the singer promised his eternal love and fidelity to his lover.  It had an unusual solo accompaniment by the orchestra’s double-bass.  Powerful, throbbing notes in the lower register had a thrilling effect, and this song was the perfect vehicle to showcase Quasthoff’s technical perfection, vocal control and dynamic variety. The third aria, the rollicking “Rivolgete a lui lo sguarda” was my favorite. Here, two men try to seduce the other’s fiancée as a test of their fidelity, and Quasthoff captured the impish, playful quality of the song perfectly. The brisk and sprightly orchestral accompaniment was the perfect foil for the singing. With his crystal-clear diction, the aria’s lively, toe-tapping rhythm, and the sheer joy and spirit with which he sang, Quasthoff brought the audience to its feet at the end.  

I could go on. About the breathtaking group of musical geniuses and prodigies at a performance by Zakir Hussain and his group, a concert where the filled-to-capacity hall of music lovers from all corners of the earth sat rapt, forgetting politics, religion, race, gender, all those stupid barriers we erect from our fellow humans. Or about a recital by a robot Gamelan orchestra along with psychedelic light effects. Or about watching the inimitable Luciano Pavarotti caper about, the sheer beauty of his singing making one forget the ridiculousness of the spectacle of an overweight, middle-aged man playing the role of a lovelorn teenager.  

No, let’s move on to Madras, and I’ll give you a sampling of just a few performances that I attended there. I will try to be brief, as I’ve already rambled on long past what constitutes a decent blog post’s length. And I really do want to get to musicking!  

Some years back I enjoyed a wonderful symposium, complete with dance and music demonstrations, on sensuality in music and dance. It was wonderful that, in staid, old-fashioned, malli-poo and diamond-bedecked maami filled Madras where to this day rumors fly like bits of garbage in a high wind if a boy and girl are seen just talking to each other, this topic (complete with that S word, sex) was discussed intelligently and thoughtfully, without a trace of coyness, awkwardness or uneasiness. The range of themes and stories covered made me marvel at how one word – sensuality – evoked so many diverse responses and interpretations: divine, carnal, sad, funny, bitter, exalting, exasperating, passionate, mythical, real-life based, literal, abstract, exaggerated, subtle. And all within the frameworks of Carnatic music and Bharata Natyam!  

Many, many years back I remember listening to a “fusion” recital in Madras, where L. Subramaniam the violinist performed Vedic chants to the accompaniment of a western orchestra. It was my first exposure to any type of fusion music, and I was enchanted. Most of the Madras audience was stiffly disapproving, and the recital ended with the barest smattering of applause. Things have changed a lot in the quarter century that has passed, and we are now much more eager to embrace something that cannot be cleanly slotted into the traditional concert format. It was heartening to see a large and enthusiastic turnout when France’s Sun King, Louis XIV, along with his identical iron-masked twin, and the three musketeers, Aramis, Athos and Porthos, made their way to Madras in Kalakshetra’s dance theatre narrative Man in the Iron Mask.   

This production had generated a buzz of excitement through Madras – mostly positive, some skeptical, a scattering of the downright scornfully dismissive, but at least, it got people talking and thinking, which is one of the things art is meant to do (and it was funny to hear people holding forth with assurance and aplomb about the French Revolution – surely more than a few of them (myself included) had surreptitiously brushed up on their facts courtesy Google!).  

I was blown away by how much effort had gone into this show. For a first-time production it was polished and flawlessly executed. The dancers were amazing – after vigorous, impeccable dancing, they broke into dialogue, barely out of breath, speaking their lines with passion and fervor. The dialogues were in beautifully poetic sounding, high-level Tamil which, I am sorry to confess went, in large part, way over my head. Above all, it was marvelous to see how this story, a classic from a completely different place and time, could be successfully and satisfyingly adapted into the contours of Indian music and dance.  But in the end, I felt it went on for too long, explored the various aspects of the story in too minute and too literal detail. The music, a mélange of Carnatic and Western classical styles, and light and film music type sounds, did not always feel right. Unlike the music in Arjuna’s Dilemma, which I described earlier, the blending of styles here, I felt, did not feel like a natural or appropriate fit.  

Again, I could go on for pages longer, but I will spare you. And now finally, I will write about what you, dear reader, have no doubt been waiting for with bated breath (!): musicking!  

So, what is musicking?  I first came across this term when I read an excerpt from a book by a musicologist called Christopher Smalls. He said that a musical activity is not a static event or thing, but rather, an experience, an action, in which everyone and everything – music, composer, performer and audience – participates and has an impact. It is the web of relationships of everything and everybody involved in a musical activity. So, every one will have a different musicking experience, and of course, it varies hugely from place to place. Musicking in New York is a wildly different experience to that in Madras.  

So, just for fun, I decided to make a note of all the goings-on at a recent Carnatic music recital – my version of musicking - at one of the so-called “good” sabhas in Madras.  

When I arrived at the sabha about a quarter of an hour before the performance was due to begin, I found that my seat was already occupied. It was all very casual – the usher simply made me sit in the neighboring seat, thus setting up a domino effect of seat changes that took place for the first half-an-hour of the recital. The sabha was air-conditioned, but the side doors were kept open most of the time, with people wandering in and out. People took this in their stride, meekly letting others get to their seats right when a song was in progress.  

The stage curtains were up when I arrived, and the musician and his orchestra were already there. They were busy tuning the instruments, and they largely ignored the audience.  The audience for its part did not pay much attention to what was going on on stage, until with a crisp three beats from the mridangam the signal was given that the performers were ready to start.  

Immediately, the audience members sat up, and there was a pleasant sense of anticipation. For most Carnatic music recitals, there is no written program handed out before the concert, so there is a wonderful sense of expectation and mystery. This is in total contrast to a Western concert where every item is noted in assiduous detail, and where there is no deviation from the script. At a Carnatic concert, there is usually no announcement made at the start of a song either. The performers have a good deal of respect for their audience, and expect them to be able to figure out the raga and other details of the song.  The audience rises to the challenge with great zest and enthusiasm. The musician enjoys a certain amount of flexibility with the concert’s repertoire. Gauging the audience’s reaction, the musician picks a heavier or a lighter song, a faster or a slower pace, or accommodates requests for particular items.   

The singer started his recital with a varnam “Viriboni” in the raga Bhairavi, one of the best-known and most melodious of the varnams, and also one of the more technically challenging ones. Everyone sat back, pleased: this varnam is universally well-liked, and soon, many members of the audience were beating the talam, or the rhythmic beat, of the song. Many mouthed the words. It felt as if everyone in that hall was participating in the performance. There was perfect accord between the singer, the violinist and the mridangist. The three of them would smile and nod at each other, each appreciating the other’s contribution. Thunderous applause followed the end of this piece.  

Next, following some retuning of the mridangam and the violin, came another very popular song, “Vatapi Ganapathim Bhajeham”, that has been rendered innumerable times in Carnatic music concerts.  This was sung at a brisk pace, and again, many in the audience kept beat with the talam.  The singer added his own innovative twists to the song, showing off his vocal dexterity and control, and the violinist followed suit, and a friendly competition between the two followed, each vying to outdo the other in the complexity and beauty of their efforts. Shaking his head vigorously, the mridangist performed wonders with rapid-fire movements of his fingers. All three musicians were very obviously enjoying themselves thoroughly, and this infectious joy in the music spread through the audience, which let out gasps of “aahs!” "besh!"and “saabash!" This song also ended with prolonged applause from the audience.  

Throughout this second song, which began about 20 minutes into the concert, a stream of people walked into the auditorium, stepping over toes and feet on their way to their seats. Everyone was quite patient and tolerant about this, and nobody seemed annoyed at the momentary distraction. The musicians were mostly oblivious to the movements of the audience.  

Then something quite funny happened. While the singer was engrossed in a particularly long and vocally convoluted phrase in Vatapi, a middle-aged man walked in, dressed to the nines in a shimmering silk kurta and dhoti, his obviously dyed jet-black hair sleeked back with a generous amount of oil, fingers glinting with several rings, followed closely by a sidekick talking animatedly on his cell phone.  

This gentleman walked right in front of the front row and stood immediately below the stage, his arms raised above his head in salutation. The sidekick stood next to him, continuing to talk on his cell phone.  They stood there for at least a couple of minutes, a buffoonish pair, waiting to be seen and acknowledged by the musician. I saw the singer, who had his eyes tightly shut, but who was nonetheless quite aware of what was going on, sneak a quick peek with one eye, which he quickly shut closed again. On and on he sang, his eyes firmly shut, clearly deliberately avoiding looking at the two sycophants for as long as possible, while the glittery one stood with his arms raised and a rapt expression and the sidekick continued his energetic conversation. I almost burst out laughing.  

What I found astounding was that nobody in the audience objected to these men blocking their view. They just moved to one side to view the stage from around them. Eventually, the singer opened his eyes and cursorily acknowledged the glittery man – it was obvious that he was not some major patron, as he would have received a much warmer greeting (I have seen this at other concerts, where the performer practically leaped up to acknowledge a patron).  Once acknowledged, the man placed his palms on his heart in a gesture of rapturous delight and moved on to find a seat, trailed all the while by the sidekick on the cell phone. I was amazed that all of this was accepted with complete equanimity by the audience. Another aspect of musicking that is acceptable in Madras, but never in New York!  

Later in the concert, the singer embarked on a ragam-tanam-pallavi in a ragam that nobody in the audience was able to figure out. There was a palpable tension in the air as heads swiveled around, people whispering to their neighbors or down the line, “do you know what ragam this is?”   Numerous possibilities were discussed, and then discarded. People were only half-listening to the music, and would not relax until the name of the raga was deciphered.  Evidently, the singer was aware of this. He suddenly stopped his singing, and gestured to his violinist to stop as well. He then cleared his throat, and started speaking. First, he stated that he had the greatest respect for the music audiences of Chennai, that in all his years of performing all over the world, he had not come across a more knowledgeable and appreciative audience. He then went on to say that he was sure that many in the audience knew what ragam it was that he had been singing, but perhaps there were a few who did not know what it was, and for them, and them alone, he wanted to say that the name of the raga was “Sunada Vinodhini”, a very rare, but very beautiful raga.  He said that some people did not like these rare ragas, but the words of the pallavi that he was going to sing had been composed by none other than the great Muthuswami Dikshithar, and if he had composed in this rare and beautiful raga, surely he meant for it to be sung to audiences? He then sang the notes of the raga so that the audience would be able to learn and identify it.  

It was a brilliant speech, because it provided the information the audience had been seeking in a manner that flattered them, that acknowledged his respect for their erudition, yet at the same time justified singing a rare raga by invoking the name of one of the most beloved of the Carnatic music composers. It was a feat of great diplomacy, and it worked. 

Chennai audiences do not like to be patronized and they are proud of how well-informed they are. They do not like their ignorance to be exposed. The singer took a gamble by trying a rare raga, but his charm, charisma and fame allowed him to get away with it. Once more, a far cry from the rigidly structured concerts of New York!  

The ragam-tanam-pallavi was a great success, and was thoroughly enjoyed, both by the audience and the performers. At the end, the mridangist got his opportunity to display his skills in the tani avartanam, a solo mridangam piece that is completely improvised. But, soon after the applause died down from the  pallavi and the mridangist started on his solo, large numbers of the audience began to walk out.  

I have observed this at so many other concerts, and I find it very rude and puzzling. Rude, because many people don’t even bother to listen to a few minutes of the tani avartanam but trip over themselves to go outside, and puzzling, because the tani avartanam  is an extremely scintillating and pleasurable part of a concert. There is no intermission in a Carnatic recital, so the tani avartanam  is when people go out to stretch their legs, get some coffee, use the bathrooms, check cell phone messages. A small core of the audience remains, however, keeping the rhythm by beating the talam on their thighs. This was the case at this recital as well, and a significantly shrunken audience kept time, along with singer and the violinist who kept time for the mridangist, shaking their heads in appreciation of his efforts. I felt sorry for the mridangist, but since this is so common, perhaps he has resigned himself to this behavior.  

That’s it for today! I have kept you here long enough, and if you did make it so far, thanks! This post, all 4000 words and 19,700 characters of it, is my way of showing what I think of Twitter and tweeting!