PICTURE PERFECT
An impressive coffee-table book on Carnatic musicians may leave you quibbling about some of the text â but oh, the photographs!
FEB 11, 2007 – SLENDER FINGERS CARESSING THE BODY of a hollow piece of wood, lips pursed at its one extreme, eyes focused on an infinite beyond, the forearm and the instrument and the upper torso constituting the familiar triangle â the picture could be that of any flautist. Then you see how the photograph is lit, consigning its subject to a netherworld of light and shadow, as if to reflect an all-too-familiar struggle between genius and eccentricity â and you know at once this isnât any flautist. Itâs âFluteâ? Mali. Even the angle is off-kilter, giving the impression that the player exists in a dimension thatâs just this little bit counterclockwise to our own â and God knows Mali didnât walk with the rest of us. This is one of those pictures that doesnât just speak a thousand words; it conjures up the person, his career, his life. Is it any wonder, then, that the accompanying text feels almost redundant?
Itâs photographs like this one that make a must-read â or at least a must-see â out of the beautifully-produced Voices Within (Carnatic Music: Passing on an Inheritance), the first coffee-table book (filter coffee-table book, perhaps?) on the classical music of the South, written by Bombay Jayashri and TM Krishna, with Mythili Chandrasekar. Your first instinct may be to run your hands over the velvety black of the cover, and as you flip it over, the back cover is dotted with attributes that elevate a person beyond the level of a mere mortal: To listen to the urge of the inner voice, to recognise the gift within, to go where dreams beckon, to see what others donât, to dare to change the context, to try to stand for something, this is to have realised The Self. These phrases add up to seven â perhaps a pointer that this number is a theme, for inside lies a tribute to seven wonders of the art form, seven pioneering Carnatic musicians: the singers Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar, Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer, GN Balasubramaniam and MS Subbulakshmi, the nagaswaram vidwan TN Rajarathnam Pillai, the mridangam maestro Palghat Mani Iyer, and, of course, TR âMaliâ? Mahalingam.
Such listing exercises are always interesting, for they always stir up a debate along the lines of, âBut why not…â? But why not… DK Pattammal? But why not… Maharajapuram Viswanatha Iyer? But why not… someone representing another instrument, say, Chowdiah? And this is good because anything that gets people talking about art is good. The authorsâ reasons for sticking with this specific septet are their own â and thatâs justification enough. Each musician is discussed in a chapter that breathlessly skims through biographical information and anecdotal quips and highlights of what made the music unique. Perhaps aware of the âwhat can be said of these geniuses that has not already been said beforeâ? trap, the authors prepare us: âVoices Within is to be read not for information but for perspectives.â? And this is just as it should be, for if we wanted mere information about, say, Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar, weâd pick up the biography by LRV (simply titled Ariyakudi). And itâs the perspectives of these greats â especially through the eyes of two contemporary singers â that would make this exercise worthwhile.
And there are perspectives â in asides labelled âFrom the heartâ?, which are quotes from the authors describing the emotional effect these artists have had on them. A particularly evocative instance of this is a description of Palghat Mani Iyerâs playing, â… like a lion on the prowl. Itâs almost like he is eating into everybody elseâs musical presence.â? The metaphor is startling â yet strangely right. Only a musician, perhaps, could have made us think about the predatory manner in which the sounds of percussion loom over the other sounds in a concert â but which musician is saying this? TM Krishna? Bombay Jayashri? None of these confessions are attributed to one or the other, leaving you curious about whose heart these from-the-heart revelations are really from. And I know Iâm getting greedy here, but I also wish there had been a top-ten for each of the seven artists, compiled by the authors. It would have been a subjective list, of course, but it could have set readers off on their own voyages of exploration into this music.
Thatâs one of the ways Voices Within leaves you asking for more. A more exhaustive timeline of the life of the musicians, perhaps? More captions for the pictures, perhaps? More consistency in style, perhaps? (Even if you get past the mildly florid prose â â…he was the Channel G (NB) of his time, with special reverb effectsâ? â you may balk at the raga being spelt as âkambhojiâ? in the GNB section and âkambodiâ? in the Semmangudi section, or at the fact that within the same sentence, âshankarabaranamâ? and âshanmukhapriyaâ? are italicised, while âkalyaniâ? and âthodiâ? arenât. The subjects of this book strived for nothing less than perfection, so surely itâs not all that much to expect that in the authors too.) Besides, in a flip-through volume of this nature, did we really need the information that Ariyakudi was miserly or that TR Mahalingam had an appetite for racing and gambling or that there were psychological underpinnings to the latterâs eccentricities? In an all-out biography, these topics would be pit-stops on the course to greatness, where weâd pause and ponder that they were human too, but when the point of the exercise is primarily an overview â why?
Then again, you canât miss the ambition in Voices Within â as if it wants to be more than just an overview, more than just a coffee-table book where the text is merely a footnote to the photographs â and this creates its own set of problems. We are told that Rajarathnam Pillai was âthe first to tame the suddha madhyama, which had till then eluded the grasp of nagaswara vidwans.â? A newcomer to Carnatic music may just register this as an accomplishment and move on, but others â who know the music but do not especially know the history â may wonder: Why couldnât the earlier nagaswara vidwans tame the suddha madhyama? After all, itâs just a note, and if they could play the lower sa and the upper sa, thus encompassing the octave, why did the ma in-between prove a particular problem? Has this got to do with the fact that Rajarathnam Pillai was âthe first to play the bari nayanam, a longer pipe?â? So the earlier players who used the shorter pipe, if they couldnât get a handle on the suddha madhyama, did that mean they couldnât get a handle on the first 36 melakarta ragas either, all of which are based on the suddha madhyama? So no nagaswara vidwan before Rajarathnam Pillai could correctly belt out a Thodi or a Mayamalavagaula?
But given the non-academic nature of the book, itâs more useful to dwell on whatâs been done well â and more often than not, the basics of the masters are brought out in a clear, concise style. (Of GNBâs raga development, for instance, we are told that his âstair-like approach was in contrast to the free-flowing style that was the norm till then… The insight into a raga shifted to a more note-based approach.â?) And if it were not for archeological efforts such as these, how many of us from newer generations would know â say â that TR Mahalingam once claimed, â… I believe I am better at violin than what I am on the flute.â? More such information comes from the pages titled âThose were the days,â? that appear between the chapters on the seven musicians. These are time capsules of the era these artists lived in, and these unexpected detours into Devadasis and wedding kutcheris and the Tamil Isai movement serve as charming non sequiturs in the midst of a particularly serious conversation.
And then thereâs this bookâs stunning reason for being â the photographs. A concert at a wedding in movie mogul SS Vasanâs family, featuring an all-star lineup of musicians that could rival anything in the producerâs blockbusters. (Ariyakudi; TN Krishnan on the violin; Palghat Mani Iyer on the mridangam; Palani Subramania Pillai on the kanjira; and the students sitting around, the likes of KV Narayanaswamy, Rajam Iyer and Palghat Raghu.) GNB and Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan posing in front of a rock sculpture in Mahabalipuram. TR Mahalingam on the flute, accompanied by Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavathar on the violin and Maharajapuram Viswanatha Iyer on the mridangam. (And what a rare performance that must have been!) A programme sheet from an Ariyakudi concert in 1943, sponsored by Hamam and Oriental Balm, with a listing that begins with varnam (Vanajakshi in Kalyani) and ends with disclaimer (âsubject to alterationâ?).
But these are merely memories â golden memories, yes, but merely reflections of events, happenings, things past. The real photographic treasures here are the insights into the artists. A sheet of notepaper with Kambodi varnam notations interrupted by the 12-year-old Semmangudiâs attempts to scrawl his signature. A speech written in English, with certain words transliterated in Tamil, indicating MSâ attempts to get the pronunciation just right. A few lines of verse from GNB, the poet, scrawled in his handwriting: âIs light within us or is it without/We are forever torn in doubt.â? Thereâs something unbearably touching about being witness to other peopleâs innermost moments. Itâs like running your hands over the armour of a great warrior and suddenly locating a chink â a tiny testimony to the fact that these unbelievably public people had their private selves too. If thereâs one lasting legacy of Voices Within, it may be this â that it celebrates its subjects as both gods and men.
Copyright ©2007 The New Sunday Express
Sagarika
November 3, 2007
I’ve heard it said before but am now experiencing first hand that the writer’s chemistry (or lack thereof) for his subject unmistakably comes through to the keenest of his/her readers. I say this with the caveat that chemistry of any kind (except one that happens inside a lab) is something one has no “concious control” over. It’s there or it isn’t. But the job at hand is very much there for you to do (meaning, “gosh, I’ve got ONLY two days to write this darn thing up with my writers block and all” or “wow, TWO FULL DAYS to luxuriate in and immortalize the memory of this experience in words”). And what a job you’ve done with this one!
Forget about the subject. When you write something like: “…attributes that elevate a person beyond the level of a mere mortal: To listen to the urge of the inner voice, to recognise the gift within, to go where dreams beckon, to see what others don’t, to dare to change the context, to try to stand for something, this is to have realised The Self.” how can one not relate, even if they were a dumbass as far as the subject being discussed is concerned?
Reviews like this one are what keep me coming back for more…thank you!
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brangan
November 3, 2007
Sagarika: Thanks. However that passage you quoted is from the book (the back cover). Not my words. The rest, however, are 🙂
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Sagarika
November 3, 2007
Well, then I must give it to you for placement, because those words were indeed a fantastic segue to what you go on to say and, more importantly, what I took away from it: “These phrases add up to seven – perhaps a pointer that this number is a theme..” It is indeed a theme, this number seven. Oh seven…the year that set out to evoke the best in Baradwaj, as far as writing goes, is what I came away thinking. 🙂
In any case, had I got hold of this book, my “first instinct” would definitely have been “to run [my] hands over the velvety black of the cover, and as [I] flip it over, [see] the back cover…dotted with attributes that elevate a person beyond the level of a mere mortal.”
p.s: And I did get the perspective vs. information message (and took it as your response to my post-SS-post conundrum) from your: “..if we wanted mere information about, say, Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar, we’d pick up the biography by LRV (simply titled Ariyakudi). ..it’s the perspectives of these greats that would make this exercise worthwhile.” Indeed. And I’ll remind myself to come to these ICM review/interview pieces with an open mind. 🙂
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