These days, it is customary for musicians to talk about their long lineage all the way back to the Big Bang. In doing so, reference is often made to the so-called Guru Shishya Parampara (the classical method of teaching music where the student lives with the Guru).
The modern day Guru Shishya parampara is a myth. Gurus (especially from the older generation) are usually illiterate, one dimensional people, who try to get as much money and/or free labour out of their students. Most gurus are too busy promoting themselves and their kids to help younger musicians out anyway. I have a feeling that even gurus from the older generation were probably not much different.
My word of advice to aspiring musicians is: Don't waste your time on undeserving masters. Follow the Ekalavya technique of training yourself up. With basic training done, it's time to start working on one's own style instead of simply copying your guru. (Clones do not make it big in any field - don't be your guru's clone).
Saturday, October 31, 2009
The challenges of being a professional musician
I have met many musicians over the years who have joined the profession from non-musical families. After talking to them, I have often felt like telling them " You need to get out of this profession now!" as I feel most confuse their love of music with the completely different scenario of making a living out of it.
A profession is much more than the skill and knowledge of the person concerned. In case of classical music (indeed, for all the arts), the business of making a living from the art form is tough. The constant marketing is not for the faint hearted. I've observed many senior musicians and seen their insecurity, complaints against organisers, rivalry with their fellow artistes, ego clashes etc.
I refer back to some priceless words of advice given to me by Abhik Sarkar, one of the seniormost disciples of Ustad Amjad Ali Khan " Do not ever take this up as a profession. It's not worth it".
The days of the state as patron are gone. There is jockeying for corporate sponsorships, which are decided by non-musical people. Various platforms are controlled by groups who refuse access to non-gang members. Senior musicians are foisting their musically besura offspring on indifferent audiences. Classical music is fast turning into fast food - uniform, homogenous and boring. (not to mention the instant gratification!)
In this context, deciding to make a profession out of classical music is risky business.
A profession is much more than the skill and knowledge of the person concerned. In case of classical music (indeed, for all the arts), the business of making a living from the art form is tough. The constant marketing is not for the faint hearted. I've observed many senior musicians and seen their insecurity, complaints against organisers, rivalry with their fellow artistes, ego clashes etc.
I refer back to some priceless words of advice given to me by Abhik Sarkar, one of the seniormost disciples of Ustad Amjad Ali Khan " Do not ever take this up as a profession. It's not worth it".
The days of the state as patron are gone. There is jockeying for corporate sponsorships, which are decided by non-musical people. Various platforms are controlled by groups who refuse access to non-gang members. Senior musicians are foisting their musically besura offspring on indifferent audiences. Classical music is fast turning into fast food - uniform, homogenous and boring. (not to mention the instant gratification!)
In this context, deciding to make a profession out of classical music is risky business.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The rise of the Internet "Bhadralok" (connoisseur)
I am very much encouraged to see a new group of music lovers across the world. I call these people the Internet Bhadralok (Internet gentry) in the field of Hindustani Classical Music. They like their music and also provide interesting feedback about the art and its practitioners.
Hindustani music discussion tends to be dominated by an unwritten rule of hyperbole where musicians are never criticised constructively. If a great maestro performs, then none of the so-called professional critics will write anything objective, except writing praise in meaningless flowery language.
That's where the Bhadralok step in. They are not afraid to dissect a performance and call a spade a spade. In an era of ageing masters and (largely) intolerable star children devoid of talent and tayyari (musical form), they are a refreshing breath of air, calling performers to account and busting this long held rule of treating musicians like demi-gods.
However, the key trap that the Bhadralok suffer from is "analysis paralysis". Coming from quantitative professions like IT, law and commerce, they enjoy the intellectual challenge of analysing something inherently emotional. However, their day job skills take over their passion, and the net result is that musical analysis is overcomplicated, and often dry. In trying to maintain the same rigour that goes into writing a case, report or presentation, the net result can often be quite dull and dry.
However, overall, these people are doing a great service to this magnificient art form and I'm very grateful for their presence.
Hindustani music discussion tends to be dominated by an unwritten rule of hyperbole where musicians are never criticised constructively. If a great maestro performs, then none of the so-called professional critics will write anything objective, except writing praise in meaningless flowery language.
That's where the Bhadralok step in. They are not afraid to dissect a performance and call a spade a spade. In an era of ageing masters and (largely) intolerable star children devoid of talent and tayyari (musical form), they are a refreshing breath of air, calling performers to account and busting this long held rule of treating musicians like demi-gods.
However, the key trap that the Bhadralok suffer from is "analysis paralysis". Coming from quantitative professions like IT, law and commerce, they enjoy the intellectual challenge of analysing something inherently emotional. However, their day job skills take over their passion, and the net result is that musical analysis is overcomplicated, and often dry. In trying to maintain the same rigour that goes into writing a case, report or presentation, the net result can often be quite dull and dry.
However, overall, these people are doing a great service to this magnificient art form and I'm very grateful for their presence.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Can Hindustani music be learnt/taught outside India?
Having lived in Australia for a long time, I've come across many talented musicians who have taken up Hindustani music (mainly tabla players). I've often wondered if Hindustani music can actually be taught or learnt fully outside India's cultural influence?
In my personal case, I find that living in Australia has given me the following benefits: (a) a much quieter environment - I remember my flat in Andheri in Mumbai where there was an incessant background noise. Here, I have absolute silence, which is great - (b) I have much more time to spend on riyaz - in India, the daily commute was killing my music and (c) genuinely interested (albeit niche) audiences. ( By the way, I believe that the hardcore music audience in India has dwindled significantly, and risks becoming extinct -major metros are largely free of such people)
I have the advantage that I learnt music in Varanasi, where walking on to the steps of the Ganga gives an environment where ragas can be visualised. The constant chanting of Sanskrit shlokas from the numerous ashrams provide a cultural backdrop to the music. So, I can close my eyes and go back to the ghats in Varanasi, which helps me in my raaga elaboration.
However, imbibing the "true essence" of Indian music in a Western city is quite difficult. I see many musicians here who are immensely talented and passionate, yet, they miss the heart of the raaga. On the other hand, I wonder if the situation is different in major urbanised centres in India - disconnected from the roots of the music, how will the musician visualise Malhar, Darbari or Yaman sitting in a flat in Delhi or Calcutta? (with irritating background noise as well)
Hmm, seems like there is no simple answer to my question. Gaining musical insight requires exposure to the culture of the music, and while that might be difficult in New York, Melbourne or Paris, I have a feeling that New Delhi, Kolkata and Mumbai are not that different at all.
In my personal case, I find that living in Australia has given me the following benefits: (a) a much quieter environment - I remember my flat in Andheri in Mumbai where there was an incessant background noise. Here, I have absolute silence, which is great - (b) I have much more time to spend on riyaz - in India, the daily commute was killing my music and (c) genuinely interested (albeit niche) audiences. ( By the way, I believe that the hardcore music audience in India has dwindled significantly, and risks becoming extinct -major metros are largely free of such people)
I have the advantage that I learnt music in Varanasi, where walking on to the steps of the Ganga gives an environment where ragas can be visualised. The constant chanting of Sanskrit shlokas from the numerous ashrams provide a cultural backdrop to the music. So, I can close my eyes and go back to the ghats in Varanasi, which helps me in my raaga elaboration.
However, imbibing the "true essence" of Indian music in a Western city is quite difficult. I see many musicians here who are immensely talented and passionate, yet, they miss the heart of the raaga. On the other hand, I wonder if the situation is different in major urbanised centres in India - disconnected from the roots of the music, how will the musician visualise Malhar, Darbari or Yaman sitting in a flat in Delhi or Calcutta? (with irritating background noise as well)
Hmm, seems like there is no simple answer to my question. Gaining musical insight requires exposure to the culture of the music, and while that might be difficult in New York, Melbourne or Paris, I have a feeling that New Delhi, Kolkata and Mumbai are not that different at all.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The Temple and the Stage: Dilemma for Indian Classical Musicians
The title of this post is inspired by the famous software engineering essay: "The Cathedral and the Bazaar" which has nothing to do with Indian classical music.
The key dilemma in Hindustani Music is that artists have to struggle with an art form which started in temples and courts and balance it against the demands of the current stage, where people come looking for a spectacle (in 2 hours or less).
Most raagas demand slow, detailed exploration of the notes and the nuances of the raag. At the conclusion of this exploration, an equally leisurely vilambit bandish commences, where the raag is explored in some more detail - paths are developed, notes examined, movements composed. The focus is on the raag, not the musician.
At this point in time, current audiences start getting bored or fall asleep. It is hard to go along with the journey being weaved in front of them - that requires focus and mental stamina. It is equally hard for the musician to avoid repetition and find newer "angles" to explore (most musicians can't, which is why they wisely conclude the alaap or gat as the case might be and move on to faster compositions).
The musicians glance at their watch, and know that they've used up 45 minutes - time to move on to the drut and engage in circus tricks. This is the split between the temple and the stage. The previous raag is discarded, and the focus moves on to the musician, not the raag. He/She now needs to entertain the crowd. Out come the pre-planned chakkardar tihais, the sawaal jawabs, the hyperdrumming and the frantic jhaala. The audience applaud, much like at the circus. The musicians finish with a bang - the audience break into applause - what a concert ! The raag, frightened by all this noise, disappears into the ether.
The key dilemma in Hindustani Music is that artists have to struggle with an art form which started in temples and courts and balance it against the demands of the current stage, where people come looking for a spectacle (in 2 hours or less).
Most raagas demand slow, detailed exploration of the notes and the nuances of the raag. At the conclusion of this exploration, an equally leisurely vilambit bandish commences, where the raag is explored in some more detail - paths are developed, notes examined, movements composed. The focus is on the raag, not the musician.
At this point in time, current audiences start getting bored or fall asleep. It is hard to go along with the journey being weaved in front of them - that requires focus and mental stamina. It is equally hard for the musician to avoid repetition and find newer "angles" to explore (most musicians can't, which is why they wisely conclude the alaap or gat as the case might be and move on to faster compositions).
The musicians glance at their watch, and know that they've used up 45 minutes - time to move on to the drut and engage in circus tricks. This is the split between the temple and the stage. The previous raag is discarded, and the focus moves on to the musician, not the raag. He/She now needs to entertain the crowd. Out come the pre-planned chakkardar tihais, the sawaal jawabs, the hyperdrumming and the frantic jhaala. The audience applaud, much like at the circus. The musicians finish with a bang - the audience break into applause - what a concert ! The raag, frightened by all this noise, disappears into the ether.
Friday, October 9, 2009
In praise of maestros
I was reading an article on an interesting blog called Debating Shastriya Sangeet, which contains some very interesting and well thought out articles - I highly recommend it.
In one post, there was mention made of maestros such as Pt Shiv Kumar Sharma, Pt. Hariprasad Chaurasia and Ustad Amjad Ali Khan and how they allegedly may have compromised their music to enhance their popular appeal.
It made me think about the subject of popular appeal, and why the trio above have been favourites for years. In my opinion, the quality of these musicians is the main reason why they emerged as maestros in the first place - this translates to their unique offer.
In Pt. Shiv Kumar Sharma's case, the crystal clear sound of his santoor and the meticulous preparation of his raaga overwhelms any misgivings I have about the santoor's limitations - the sound is so appealing (especially earlier recordings), it can soothe "the heart of a beast".
Ditto in case of Pt. Chaurasia. His simplicity and elegance says it all. He does follow a common set of rules in all his raaga development and after a while, it is possible to predict the next "stanza", so to speak, but again, he conquers all with his unique "sound". When listening to him, I can close my eyes and "float" without encountering "bumps" brought about by some technical jargon thrown into the composition.
In case of Ustad Amjad Ali Khan, I consider him to be the most aesthetically pleasing sarod player ever born - his sound is absolulely crystal clear (no wooden muffled strokes), and he manages to traverse octaves without the tell tale change of volume across string changes (I don't know how he does that). He also prefers simplicity and elegance. I remember his Durga composition, which is based on a Khayal masterpiece. (Sa-Sa Re Pa Pa Dha Ma Pa Dha Dha, Dha Pa Ma Re), which loosely fits (Jai Jai Durga Mata Jai Bhavani, Bhavani).
I also remember the stock standard sarod Durga composition, which is full of complicated bol baanta, (Da-dir-dar da da -ra da ra, Da diri diri diri Da ra da da) and doesn't sound appealing at all. In fact, while the "deluded" sarod player is congratulating herself on having "bashed" the "dara diri" out of the poor instrument, the audience simply do not understand and do not care, because it doesn't sound better in the first place.
In case of all three, there is an inherent attractiveness in their music. Fundamentally, their music is "karna priya" or "sounds good". I believe that in music as in other arts and even in science and engineering, the simple elegant solution or offering is always the best. There is no need to wrestle with complicated compositions, raagas and taalas. If you want to do that, go study science or law or something analytical.
This sense of balance is usually missing from most musicians, rendering their offer inadequate. The greatest maestros seem to have this awareness "built in". Lesser musicians miss this point altogether.
Simple raagas, elegant (and original) compositions, popular taalas and music played from the heart - that's all that's required to win audiences over. It sounds simple, but is not very easy. That is why maestros like Pt Sharma, Pt Chaurasia and Ud Khan are not that common.
In one post, there was mention made of maestros such as Pt Shiv Kumar Sharma, Pt. Hariprasad Chaurasia and Ustad Amjad Ali Khan and how they allegedly may have compromised their music to enhance their popular appeal.
It made me think about the subject of popular appeal, and why the trio above have been favourites for years. In my opinion, the quality of these musicians is the main reason why they emerged as maestros in the first place - this translates to their unique offer.
In Pt. Shiv Kumar Sharma's case, the crystal clear sound of his santoor and the meticulous preparation of his raaga overwhelms any misgivings I have about the santoor's limitations - the sound is so appealing (especially earlier recordings), it can soothe "the heart of a beast".
Ditto in case of Pt. Chaurasia. His simplicity and elegance says it all. He does follow a common set of rules in all his raaga development and after a while, it is possible to predict the next "stanza", so to speak, but again, he conquers all with his unique "sound". When listening to him, I can close my eyes and "float" without encountering "bumps" brought about by some technical jargon thrown into the composition.
In case of Ustad Amjad Ali Khan, I consider him to be the most aesthetically pleasing sarod player ever born - his sound is absolulely crystal clear (no wooden muffled strokes), and he manages to traverse octaves without the tell tale change of volume across string changes (I don't know how he does that). He also prefers simplicity and elegance. I remember his Durga composition, which is based on a Khayal masterpiece. (Sa-Sa Re Pa Pa Dha Ma Pa Dha Dha, Dha Pa Ma Re), which loosely fits (Jai Jai Durga Mata Jai Bhavani, Bhavani).
I also remember the stock standard sarod Durga composition, which is full of complicated bol baanta, (Da-dir-dar da da -ra da ra, Da diri diri diri Da ra da da) and doesn't sound appealing at all. In fact, while the "deluded" sarod player is congratulating herself on having "bashed" the "dara diri" out of the poor instrument, the audience simply do not understand and do not care, because it doesn't sound better in the first place.
In case of all three, there is an inherent attractiveness in their music. Fundamentally, their music is "karna priya" or "sounds good". I believe that in music as in other arts and even in science and engineering, the simple elegant solution or offering is always the best. There is no need to wrestle with complicated compositions, raagas and taalas. If you want to do that, go study science or law or something analytical.
This sense of balance is usually missing from most musicians, rendering their offer inadequate. The greatest maestros seem to have this awareness "built in". Lesser musicians miss this point altogether.
Simple raagas, elegant (and original) compositions, popular taalas and music played from the heart - that's all that's required to win audiences over. It sounds simple, but is not very easy. That is why maestros like Pt Sharma, Pt Chaurasia and Ud Khan are not that common.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Hindustani Music: Why I don't go to concerts more often
I'm getting to the point where I do not go to most classical concerts. The last one that I attended in full without walking out mid concert was a santoor recital by Pt. Shiv Kumar Sharma and Rahul Sharma over 2 years ago. Since then, I've either not gone to concerts or have walked out at the first available opportunity, as I've found the music pedestrian and uninspiring. In one recent case, I was dying to get out because of the heinous violence being unleashed upon that grand old raaga - Raga Darbari by a leading member of the Sham Chaurasi gharana (which counts Ustads Nazakat and Salamat Ali as members). Never have I seen such musical violence on stage, with the venerable raaga literally being torn to shreds systematically. To add to that, the singer kept increasing the volume to the point where it was comparable to a rock concert's decibel level.
It reminded me of a conversation between Dr. Rajendra Prasad, the first President of India and Ustad Hafiz Ali Khan, in which Ud Hafiz Ali wanted a law passed to ban people from taking liberties with Darbari. I fully support such legislation, given my traumatic experience. I had to listen to Ustad Amir Khan's Darbari to clear the pollution from my ears that night.
The concerts are becoming routine, and pretty much everyone tends to play the same raagas: Bageshri, Puriya Kalyan, Yaman etc.
Other gripes include the gradual electrification of music - the sight of musicians walking on stage with pick up leads hanging off their instruments, over the top tabla playing and long winded stories of how the musician goes back 200 generations.
Young musicians are also caught up in this and most of them are clones - there's nothing new in their performance which I haven't heard before. Listened to new comers such as Anuradha Kuber and Manjari Kelkar - all good, but no spark, no charisma - simply regurgitating what they've learnt from their teacher. No emotion in the music - nothing to touch the heart.
Reminds me when I first heard Rashid Khan at the Dover Lane festival in the late nineties. I had not heard of him and he came on stage at 1 am. I was looking to go outside and get some tea, as the announcements were being made introducing the musician. I left my seat and as I was walking to the exit, I heard the opening notes of Malkauns -and I was transfixed. I turned around and went back to my seat, such was the power of the voice.
I witnessed the same effect he has on overseas audiences. At the Melbourne Arts Centre, the worry was that this was the first time a Hindustani vocalist was being invited, in contrast to instrumentalists, who seem to be more popular with overseas audiences. Rashid Khan opened with Puriya Kalyan, and you could hear the power of his voice take over the hall. When he finished, there was thunderous applause. He did not say a word, did not even mention the raga he was going to sing - yet the sheer power of that voice said it all. Shubhanker Banerjee provided excellent tabla accompaniment. I was told that he had performed earlier at Womadelaide, and at the second performance, over three thousand people stood in the rain to hear him sing. That's the power of music - that's what I'm missing.
It reminded me of a conversation between Dr. Rajendra Prasad, the first President of India and Ustad Hafiz Ali Khan, in which Ud Hafiz Ali wanted a law passed to ban people from taking liberties with Darbari. I fully support such legislation, given my traumatic experience. I had to listen to Ustad Amir Khan's Darbari to clear the pollution from my ears that night.
The concerts are becoming routine, and pretty much everyone tends to play the same raagas: Bageshri, Puriya Kalyan, Yaman etc.
Other gripes include the gradual electrification of music - the sight of musicians walking on stage with pick up leads hanging off their instruments, over the top tabla playing and long winded stories of how the musician goes back 200 generations.
Young musicians are also caught up in this and most of them are clones - there's nothing new in their performance which I haven't heard before. Listened to new comers such as Anuradha Kuber and Manjari Kelkar - all good, but no spark, no charisma - simply regurgitating what they've learnt from their teacher. No emotion in the music - nothing to touch the heart.
Reminds me when I first heard Rashid Khan at the Dover Lane festival in the late nineties. I had not heard of him and he came on stage at 1 am. I was looking to go outside and get some tea, as the announcements were being made introducing the musician. I left my seat and as I was walking to the exit, I heard the opening notes of Malkauns -and I was transfixed. I turned around and went back to my seat, such was the power of the voice.
I witnessed the same effect he has on overseas audiences. At the Melbourne Arts Centre, the worry was that this was the first time a Hindustani vocalist was being invited, in contrast to instrumentalists, who seem to be more popular with overseas audiences. Rashid Khan opened with Puriya Kalyan, and you could hear the power of his voice take over the hall. When he finished, there was thunderous applause. He did not say a word, did not even mention the raga he was going to sing - yet the sheer power of that voice said it all. Shubhanker Banerjee provided excellent tabla accompaniment. I was told that he had performed earlier at Womadelaide, and at the second performance, over three thousand people stood in the rain to hear him sing. That's the power of music - that's what I'm missing.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Welcome to My Sarod Blog
I've been meaning to start up a blog for ages, now finally getting around to do it.
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