Balamuralikrishn-AH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Another version of this review appeared in The Hindu on January 29, and can be accessed at http://www.hindu.com/fr/2010/01/29/stories/2010012951390800.htm).
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At 79, he is still Balamuralikrishn-awe!

The ‘event’ that took place on Sunday, January 17, 2010, at Nungambakkam Cultural Academy--it can be called a ‘concert’ only in a technical sense--was actually a Festival of Manodharma, its glory enhanced by the low frequency of the great singer’s performances.

The numbing spell that Balamurali binds his audience in was palpable from the pin-drop unbearable silence that engulfed the hall when the curtains went up. It was as though the audience was waiting to catch the first move of some gladiatorial sport.

The silence was broken only when Balamurali, as though with careful deliberation, opened up with several low gurgles of omkarams, like you hear in temples. And then, anchoring himself in his base sruthi and signaling to the sound technician to raise volume, Balamurali took off.

The voice was strong as a rod of steel, which made Veeraraghavan’s ‘vocal support’, ridiculously irrelevant.

Kalaimamani Dr S Natarajan, the General Secretary of Nungambakkam Cultural Academy, had placed a request for an all-Tamil concert (a point that Dr Shanmugasundaram of Tamil Isai Mandram, who keeps complaining that the world of carnatic music ignores Tamil, needs to take note of).

The concert with an alapana of Hamsadhwani. Balamurali style is said to be one of obscure, teaser alapanas, that leave the audience guessing its identity. But that style was not the one he used that day. Hamsadhwani shone clearly and presently the alapana made way for ‘pirai aniyam perumanai’, a Balamurali composition. Balamurali then tailed it with lots of half-avarthana swaras and it was in this infinite variety that the singer’s powerful manodharma shone. Here, I must mention violinist Akkarai Subbulakshmi’s enthusiastic support.

The next component was another Balamurali-composition, ‘varuga varuga maa mayil yeri’ in Panthuvarali. Again, it was an out-of-the-world alapana where the vocalist spanned the all the three octaves with obvious ease, going right up to the second upper sa. The composition as well as the swaras that followed were rendered practically without gamakas – which brought in a touch of Hindustani – and perhaps it would therefore be appropriate to call this Kamavardhini, rather than Panthuvarali. (Some experts say that both are the same raga except that Kamavardhini is Panthuvarali sans gamaka. However, when I asked Dr Balamuralikrishna if I should call it Kamavardhini or Panthuvarali, he said his composition ought to be called Kamavardhini, though not was because it was gamaka-less. He said the difference between Kamavardhini and Panthuvarali goes deeper than that, the latter being a derivative of the former. It was a brief conversation on the phone and did not offer scope for an elaborate discussion, and therefore, I'm unable to present, at the moment, the nuances of Kamavardhini and Panthuvarali as according to Dr Balamuralikrishna. But do keep an eye on this post, for I shall sooner or later catch up with the singer and obtain the necessary amplification on the subject.)

A Mohanam followed. After a brief alapana came ‘Aya kalaikkellam arasiye’ yet another brilliant Balamurali creation. At the end of this piece came a thoroughly enjoyable tani by percussionists Harikumar (mridangam) and Karthik (ghatam).

The concert then swung into a bunch of ‘light classical’ pieces, notable of which was ‘appa naan vendudal kaetarul puridal vendum’ in Vagadheeswari, a Ramalinga Adigalar Thiruvarutpa piece. Thyagaraja swami’s Seetha kalyana vaibhogame brought the curtains down.

It was an excellent concert, befitting the great musician's stature, but yet one shortcoming needs to be pointed out. Throughout the concert, there was no niraval. Niraval singing has its charm and it is not fair on the part of any artiste to deny his audience the pleasure.

In fact, this was the disappointing feature of the singer's concert at the same venue two years back (a review of which appeared in The Hindu and can be accessed at http://www.hindu.com/fr/2008/02/08/stories/2008020850550300.htm).

Comparing the two concerts (of January 2008 and 2010), I felt that the 2008 concert was a trifle better. Maybe this impression arises out of the tillanas. The current concert featured a tillana in Dwijavanthi; the previous one had Balamurali's own creation, in Garudadhwani. The Garudadhwani tillana was just celestial. It was so, so good that the audience just could not stop applauding.

Interview: Madurai G S Mani

Comedian Chandrababu would dance in the studios as they recorded his songs. T S Balayya loved singing kalpana swaras. Dale Carnagie abhorred imitation. Kambodhi’s ‘ri’ differs from Sankarabharanam’s in the swings…….

King Gilpin’s horse could take off in five different directions at the same time. Talk to Madurai G S Mani, you find the conversation much the same. Information pours like a waterfall, in multiple cascades.

The man is a genius! His music is one of pure manodharma. On-stage innovation is his hallmark. The music comes straight from the heart, pours straight into the soul.

But singing is only one of his several musical talents. He has composed hundreds of songs, scored music for thousands of Tamil films, acted in a few, created plays, taught music all over the world.

Madurai G S Mani spoke to me about his past a couple of years ago. The interview was submitted to The Hindu, but – I can only blame it on my fate – only a mutated version of it appeared in print.

Here is the ‘full’ version:


What are your recollections of your days with M S Viswanathan ?

Very pleasant memories. Apart from the pleasure of working with a great music director and being a part of some immortal hit songs, the several years I worked with him (from 1957) put me in touch with many great personalities of the Tamil film world. Although I was personally acquainted with people like MGR, Sivaji and Kalaignar, I would name two film personalities as my very good friends—Chandra Babu and Kannadasan. Of course, P B Srinivas is a very dear friend of mine, he still comes to many of my concerts.

How did you happen to stray into film world ?

Well, I met MSV by accident. We both happened to be waiting in B S Ranga’s office. A conversation started and MSV asked me who I was. I said I had come to Madras for a All India Radio recording, which
had been aired that morning. Apparently, MSV had heard the concert on the radio, for he said, “they announced (the singer’s name) as Madurai G S Mani ?” I said I was the singer and MSV asked me if I
would like to join his troop. That was it.

How was it working with M S Viswanathan ?

It was great. I must say that I’ve never seen a bigger workaholic than MSV. He would work day and night without a word of complaint. He was a great composer.

I remember, when we were setting music for ‘nilave ennidam nerungagadae’ (film: Ramu)—in just under half an hour MSV produced at least ten different tunes. The tunes simply kept coming off his harmonium. Each tune was so wonderful and it was difficult to select one. Finally, when we were trying out the Bhagyasri tune, P B Srinivas said, “edi chaala bagundi” (this is very good).

MSV and Kannadasan were prolific. Just as MSV would compose music in a jiffy, Kannadasan would produce songs in no time.
You must have seen Kannadasan in action. How was it to work with him?
Of course. Once, they were doing the music for Ambigapathy. Music director G Ramanathan had set the tune. Pattukottai Kalyanasundaram was asked to compose the lyrics. When he heard the situation and the music and declared that nobody but Kavignar (Kannadasan) would be able to compose lines for the music.

All were in a fix, because the producer of the film was Kannadasan’s brother, A L Srinivasan and the brothers were not on good terms with each other. Yet there seemed to be no choice. Somebody went to Kannadasan and impressed upon him that as a poet he should not refuse to compose lyrics. He agreed and came to the studio. Ten minutes—that was all he took to compose the song. Without a word, ALS
handed him a blank cheque. Without a word Kannadasan accepted it and departed.

There was so much respect for art those days.
Yes. No matter how personal relations were, professionals appreciated excellence in others. For instance, once I complimented K V Mahadevan over the hit song, Mannavan Vandanadi in Tiruvarutchelvar. “Mama, you’ve produced such a wonderful Kalyani,” I said. Mahadevan replied, “Maybe, I did. But look at G Ramanathan. He has produced such a great Kalyani using lower notes,” he said, referring to ‘Sindanai sey
maname’ (Ambigapathy).

They were so dedicated to art. For instance, T S Balayya took up tavil lessons for two months from Tanjavur Venkatesan in preparation for his role in Tillana Mohanambal.

Tell us about Balayya.

Oh, he was a wonderful man. He could sing carnatic music well. In shootings, between shots, he would make me sit with him and listen to his kalpana swaras in various ragas.

How was the atmosphere in the studios ?

Very friendly. Chandra Babu, for instance, was such a playful person with an affecting cheer. In the studio, he was like the bull in the china shop. During recordings, he would sing the chorus and as the background music would be going on, he would prance all over the studio, pat somebody on the cheek, slap someone's back but get back to the mike in time to sing his lines. A fine man, I still miss him.

How was it composing music for legends like T M Soundarajan and P B Srinivas ?

TMS used to takes our lives out, because he was a perfectionist and would not stop until he was satisfied even if we okayed a take. As for PBS, I have not known a person who could touch up a song like he could.

Example ?

Well, take the song 'Kalangalil Aval Vasantham'. Listen to the swirls at the ends of each line: paravaigalil aval mani puRA, kanigalile aval MangaNI. Those were his innovations. He could embellish the composition of the music director so well. And he would pick up the music in a snap.

Did you not aspire to become a playback singer or a music director yourself ?

I did, but it did not happen mainly because the star actors always had a say in the choice of the music director or the playback singer for the film and they always preferred established directors and singers.
Coming to carnatic music, who did you learn from?
I learnt progressively from my mother, and then from Jalatarangam Babu Iyengar who was a grandson of Poochi Iyengar, the nadaswaram vidwan Iyyempattai Venu and finally Mazhava Raya Nendal Subbarama Iyer, the 1943 Sangita Kalanidi awardee. It was Subbarama Iyer who taught me many nuances of carnatic music.

Such as ?

Well, for example, he would demonstrate how to bring the essence of a raga in one single note. One day, he
asked me to sing Sankarabharanam and Kambhodi without going beyond panchamam. When he saw me
perplexed, he asked me to sing Ennduku Peddala. No sooner than I had started to sing ‘enn..nnn….’ he waved me to stop. Just the one note, ‘ri’, note sufficient to bring the swaroopa of Sankarabharanam. Subbarama Iyer used to say that not just each raga, but each note has an ascent and descent. For example, each note in Sankarabharanam swings upwards, whereas the same notes in Kambhodi glide down.
In that nuance lies the personality of the raga.

Then, you seem to have picked up music from very diverse sources—a jalatarangam artiste and a nadaswaran vidwan—apart from a vocalist ?
Not only that, I have imbibed music from several other sources such as Harikatha exponents too. For
example, there used to be a Harikatha expert called Tiruvayyar Annasami Bhagavatar. The ragas he would
handle used to be so beautiful that senior artistes such as Ariyakudi and Maharajapuram Viswanatha Iyer
would sit in the front rows and listen. The Bhagavatar would frequently ask them if his singing was okay.

I have also drawn substantially from North Indian music. I lived in Delhi for three years from 1954, when I
listened to dozens of Qawali concerts. Begam Akthar once took me to the red light area in Delhi, near
Qutub Minar. In the house that had the biggest number of courtesans, there would be music and dance
programmes between 7 pm and 9 pm on Saturdays I would sit there and listen to the music. At round 9 pm, when it would be time for 'other' things, they would tell me, “Panditji, you may go home now.”

In your concerts you display a penchant for singing rare ragas.

Well, Dale Carnagie once said, “imitation is suicide”. Isn’t carnatic music a huge ocean ? There is so much to explore, so many ragas that could be presented. Why ignore them ?

Sometimes I tell our upcoming musicians, “why do you borrow phrases from GNB or Ariyakudi ?” After all, they did not imitate each other.

You have also composed songs?
Yes, I've composed over 400 songs under the mudrika 'Raja poojitar' and some 30 varnams. Nearly a third of them are in Sanskrit.

Heard in the Halls: Sesha's comeuppance!

A senior vocalist told me of this incident. He told me this some five years ago, so this must have happened quite some time back.

In this, there is a lesson for organisers. Choose carefully the person who handover the mike to.

Once someone was felicitating Seshagopalan at the end of his concert. After praising Sesha to the high heavens, the man added one kind thought:

“I wish you climb higher and higher and come up in life like Unnikrishnan!!"

Heard in the Halls: What name thy house?

Main artistes ought to be generous in remunerating accompanists. If not, they are in for caustic comments.

Take for instance, the case of this vocalist of great renown, who died in the early 1990s. He had a big fan following and perhaps because of that he believed he was doing accompanists a favour by giving them an opportunity to play with him. Wasn’t this ‘favour’ compensation enough? Ought he also pay them?

Well, accompanists who make a living by their art, were never amused with this line of thinking and naturally, this vocalist-of-great-repute earned himself a bad name among them.

Days passed, until one day…..

This great vocalist had built a house and had invited a whole lot of musicians, to the house warming ceremony. In the post-lunch chit-chat, the vocalist said he was wondering what name he should give the house.

There was one violinist, whom we know after the incident, was an acerbic-tongued orator.

He said: “Why don’t you name this ‘pakka vadya bhavan’?” - implying that the house was built out of moneys pooled by short-changing accompanists!

This is a true story, though I doubt if the violinist made the remark to the vocalist’s face.

How could you, Tiruvarur Bhaktavatsalam, be there at 7 pm?

It was well over half-an-hour past the scheduled time – 7 pm – when mridangist Tiruvarur Bhaktavatsalam turned up for the concert, huffing and puffing. All the while, the vocalist of the evening, T V Gopalakrishnan, sat apologetically in front of the mike, saying once in a while that the drummer was expected any moment and the concert would take off.

Well, you know, you have to take a sympathetic view of things, I said to myself. After all, in this goddamn Chennai traffic, to reach Besant Nagar Varasidhi Vinakayar Koil from anywhere in the city is one has to navigate his way through traffic snarls.

Bhaktavatsalam also started playing nice and soft, TVG was in his elements and the concert was really progressing well and, what with we Chennai’ites having Ukridge’s ‘big, broad, flexibile outlook’, Bhaktavatsalam’s late-coming was almost forgiven, forgotten.

But the way nature works is rummy.

If the mridangist had not picked the mike, had he not broken-off into a yappy commercial about TVG’s genius, he would not have blurted out the truth about why he was late.

Turns out that he had an earlier accompanying engagement—a concert of T V Sankaranarayanan at Narada Gana Sabha—which was to end at 7 pm.

Tiruvarur Bhaktavatsalam had undertaken to play at two concerts on the evening (of December 29), the first of which was to end at 7 pm and the second to begin at 7 pm and the venues were at least 45 minutes away in the thick evening traffic!

Eloquent and expansive, Bhaktavatsalam told the audience in his unsolicited and unnecessary ‘speech’ that TVS was so reverential of TVG, that when he (Bhaktavatsalam) told TVS about his (Bhaktavatsalam’s) next programme, TVS was kind enough to end his concert fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

In doing this, the colourful and cheerful mridangist revealed his disservice to lovers of carnatic music—he not made the audience at TVG’s concert wait for him for half an hour, but also deprived rasikas of TVS of 15 minutes of music.

I brought this up in my review of TVG’s concert in The Hindu (7th January 2010), but the Hindu editorial Desk deleted the all references to the incident, retaining only a mention of the fact that the drummer came late by half an hour. The Desk felt that my candour would earn me a bad reputation and overruled my submissions that I did not care much about reputation.

Off late, Bhaktavatsalam has also developed a bad habit of seizing the mike and breaking into speeches in praise of the main artistes in the middle of concerts, a trend that perhaps owes its birth to Umayalpuram Sivaraman.

I have nothing against Tiruvarur Bhaktavatsalam, whom I do not know personally and whom I consider one of the most gifted mridangists of our times. But it helps nobody to shut up when we ought to speak up. We rasikas are partly to blame, because we give so much of blind adulation to the artistes that some of them begin to believe they are above reproach.

We have to tell them that while we love them and respect them, they can’t take us for granted.

The Return of Ramani

(Another version of this review appeared in The Hindu (http://www.hindu.com/fr/2010/01/08/stories/2010010851190400.htm) on 7th January 2010


I was just coming out of the concert of Dr Prapancham Sitaram at Indian Fine Arts, when Ashok Ramani, who was to sing next, met me in the corridor.
“Anna,” he said, (that is how we greet each other), “I would like you to stay on for my concert..” I told him whether to stay on or not depended upon what he intended to sing.
“What do you want me to sing?”
“Dharmavathi?” I said, after a moment’s thought.
“Sure. I’ll sing Dharmavathi,” Ashok Ramani said, with the easy confidence of a master.

It turned out to be a superb concert. I always go to concerts with my two other friends, Sivaramakrishnan (of Tafe Ltd) and Govindarajan (Karur Vysya Bank). My only regret that day was that Govinda could not make it to the concert.

Ashok Ramani sang that day as though he was possessed. I submitted a review of the concert to The Hindu the next day, which appeared in the paper on 8th January, 2010. The following is an expanded version of that review. Read on……..


Perhaps inspired by a rasika’s choice expressed just before the concert, Papanasam Ashok Ramani produced a thrilling Dharmavathi. Discerning lovers of carnatic music have long held Ashok Ramani to be a fine musician in terms of depth of knowledge, but for some years the vocalist’s performance was a duel between a recalcitrant voice and a compelling manodharma. Fed on a diet of manodharma, rasikas were prepared to wait for the return of Ramani. Since the last one year or so, singer’s vocal strength has steadily improved. The Dharmavathi showed that the wait was not in vain.

It was a superb Dharmavathi alapana and it is a regret that only a smattering of audience was there to listen to it. What was impressive was the consummate ease with which he delivered the alapana – he sang it as though he had been practicing it for that concert for several weeks. Mysore Vasudevachar’s Bhajana Seyarada followed an equally good follow-through by violinist M S Varadarajan. Ashok Ramani took the line ‘niravadhi sukha dayaka’ for niraval and swaras.

The swara sequences landed in the nishadam, which was a bit unwise because it resulted in an inevitable whiff of Kalyani. The vocalist would have done better ending the swara chains in either ‘ri’ or ‘da’, both being defining notes of Dharmavathi. Dr Prapancham Sitaram was sitting next to me and I asked him if a nishadham-ending was appropriate. The veteran flautist agreed with me that ‘da’ would have been a little better, the note being one of the jeevaswaras of Dharmavathi. But this minor blemish did nothing to rob the rendition of its beauty. Also notable was the violinist’s brilliant support.

Then came a nice, relaxing Nalinakanti (Manavyala of Thyagaraja). Here again Ashok Ramani’s manodharma shone. Once while on a karvai on the word ‘sri’ in the line ‘ghanulaina sri ramachandruni’, sruthi deserted him, but except for that, the Nalinakanti was a charm.

Earlier in the concert, came a sprightly Sindhuramakriya (Sudha Madhurya of Thyagaraja) and a Khamas (Idadu padam of Sivan). To the singer’s right sat a master drummer, Srimushnam Raja Rao, who had no difficulty in meshing with the vocalist.

Skill Gurucharan

The opening note – a ga – was born in the abstract region between chatusrudhi rishabham and sadharana gandharam, and since it also kissed the low ri, you would have bet your last shirt that a Varali was beginning to emerge from the stage. But presently the course of the alapana diffracted into multiple directions – as though into six different paths – and questions marks hung all over the audience. Gurucharan’s voice was clear as a crystal and as the alapana sparkled as one, the mystery around its identity was quite a teaser. At ga and ri it resembled Varali and at pa-da-ni, you would have sworn upon burning camphor that it was Vachaspathi. When the last notes dissolved into silence and most of the audience was no wiser than at the beginning, Gurucharan announced the name of the raga, in a rather low whisper, as though apologizing to the cognoscenti.

Shadvidhamargini! This is the 46th melakarta raga, the pratimadhyamam counterpart of the 10th melakarta Natakapriya. A familiar name to everyone, but heard very rarely in concert halls, certainly a raga that offers “ample scope for elaboration” (as Gurucharan did, God bless him) and it is one of the most enduring mysteries of our times as to why our musicians practice apartheid towards most of the ragas on the table.

Violinist Sanjeevi responded quite well. Presently, Thyagaraja swami’s Pahirama rung through the hall. It was a sweet, feature-rich rendition, complete with niraval and swaras. From start to finish, the Shadvidhamargini was a hit. Gurucharan’s ‘ma’ and ‘ni’ appeared in a downward sloping curve, like an eagle swooping upon fish.

It was a ticketed concert and with just the Shadvidhamargini the rasikas got multiple returns on their investment.

That it was going to be a successful concert was evident right at the outset, when Gurucharan sang the Bangla piece, Giriraja sutha tanaya, adorning the composition with a brilliant plume of kalpana swaras.

The concert was under the auspices of Asthika Samajam, where the accent on Bhakti. Bhakti bhava is an important component of music and if that is not there, there is little point in waking up early, taking a dip and smearing oneself with holy ash! The High Priests of Ritual and Form – what do they know of the bliss of bhakti. Thyagaraja swami said this, and Gurucharan said this, in the saints words. Teliyaleru Rama Bhakti maargamu……was brilliant.

Enter, the central piece. True to this ‘central’ slot, it was ‘Madhya’mavathi. The opening phrase had the raga’s signature. It was a long, detailed alapana, delivered with due flourish and some touches reminded the listener of Sanjay Subramanian. Then came Thyagaraja swami’s Rama Katha, duly niravalled at Bhamamani Janaki. Trivandrum Balaji and T V Vasan played a brief tani, after which the concert tailed off into a Tiruppavai (Andreyum ulagam in Sindhu Bhairavi), a Vruttam that flowed through Madhuvanthi, Behag and Karaharapriya which segued into Nilakanta Sivan’s Navasidhi Petralum and a tillana in Bageshri.

Sikkil Gurucharan. If you were a stock, I’d put all my money into you.

TVG sparkles

Half the fun of being at TVG’s concert comes from his music, which is a product of his eclectic talent. The other half comes from his affecting cheer. Happiness just exudes from the colourful artiste and engulfs everyone. The nonchalant stroking of his long locks, the up-extended arm that indicates the place of a swara, the roll of his shoulders in rhythm with the tala, the effusive praise showered on accompanists, the unfading smile on his face – all these weigh so much upon his concerts to make them a success.

Not that his music is any less compelling. TVG has a heavy, a rather non-mellifluous voice, much like his Guru, the venerable Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavathar, but the voice suits his emphatic style of singing. His concert comprised three major elements – Vasantha Bhairavi, Bilahari and Kalyani. The alapana of Vasantha Bhairavi was breezy and had obvious touches of Balamuralikrishna, whom TVG has accompanied on the mridangam innumerable times. Thyagaraja’s Nee Daya Raada was the song chosen and was delivered without any loss of the composition’s devotional import.
The kalpana swaras that tagged the composition ended in ‘ni’ rather emphatically, like the sharp ring of a bell, and that made the listening even more fun.

After a quick Kannadagowlai (sogasu chooda tarama), came the Bilahari alapana. The alapana was neat, though unremarkable, but it was in the song that followed – Patnam Subramanya Iyer’s Parithanamichethe – that TVG’s affecting mannerisms had a telling bearing on the listening experience. The jampa tala composition is generally delivered in a speedy gait, which is very appropriate for the style of play of mridangist Tiruvarur Bhaktavatsalam and as such the Bilahari piece came out very well.

After Bilahari, TVG offered a Syama Sastri composition in the raga Kalagada, a derivative of the 13th Melakarta Gayakapriya. The raga uses a vivadi note, sudha nishadam, and sounds a bit like Bowli. TVG’s rendition of Parvathi Ninnu brought memories of D K Jayaraman who used to love singing the song in his concerts.

The main piece of the concert was Kalyani. The alapana featured unmistakable signature phrases of his guru, Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavathar, which TVG produced with closed-mouth and sideway-jerks of the lower jaw—an interesting style of singing.

Prince charms with a Hamir Kalyani

(Another version of this review appeared in The Hindu on 7th January 2010. http://beta.thehindu.com/arts/music/article77508.ece)

Take any standard text book on carnatic music, you will come across references to ‘minor ragas’ that “do not give much scope for elaboration”. That is hogwash. While most musicians hide behind the ‘lack of scope’ argument to cover up their incompetence, imaginative musicians have picked such ragas for detailed treatment.

In his concert for AIMA, Prince Rama Varma proved this very point. The musicologist, Dr S Bhagyalekshmy, in her book ‘Ragas in Carnatic Music’, describes Hamirkalyani as “a minor raga which is sung towards the conclusion of a concert”. Well, Rama Varma sang it plonk in the middle of the concert and it was brilliant.

Prince Rama Varma, a scion of the Travancore Royal family and a disciple of K V Narayanasamy and Balamuralikrishna, has a light voice that gently flits over the musical notes. Hamirkalyani was eminently appropriate for his voice and style of singing. Prince Varma gave away the identity of the raga in his opening phrase, using the signature combination of ‘ma-ri’. It was a sweet alapana and the violinist, Dr Hemalatha, did a good job of following it. The singer chose his ancestor Swathi Thirunal’s Gangeyavasana dhara.

Once notices a few interesting features in the Prince’s style of alapana singing. He plays a lot around the lower octave notes for a splendid bass effect. There are not too many brikha sequences, nor does he stress on long karvais on each note. Phrases are short and clipped. All these were evident in both Hamirkalyani and the previous piece, Saveri (Barayya Venkataramana of Purandhara Dasar).

Clearly, swara singing is Prince Varma’s strong forte. He sings a lot of single tala cycle (ekaavarthana) swaras – a fading trait that is today only with a handful of elderly musicians. In fact, the swaras for Saveri ended with some ten ekaavarthana rounds. For the Hamirkalyani piece, the singer used the prathi madhyamam as the landing point for his sequences during koraippu.

Earlier, Prince Varma sang Dikshithar’s Siddhi Vinayakam in Shanmukhapriya and it was here that the lack of ‘weight’ in the singer’s voice seemed to be a handicap.

Barayya Venkataramana was rather an odd choice. The dasar kirtana is popular among ‘namasankirtanam’ music and to select that was rather unwise, considering that a Hamirkalyani was to follow. Both are slow-moving and consequently, the concert suffered a ‘drag’.

Wedged between the Shanmukhapriya and Saveri was a Nalinakanti (Manavyala of Thyagaraja). Swaras again were brilliant.

Mridangist Seethalai Ananthakrishnan extended the ‘Hamirkalyani mood’ with his feather-touch play and did a good job of giving percussive support.

Sri Ranjani and Dharini

Sixteen years ago, when they had barely learnt to speak, they shared a prize for music. The silver went to both of them and that year, no one got the gold. The Ananda Vikatan magazine, which held the music competition, ‘mazhalai medaigal’, put their pictures side by side.

As though the shared prize touched off a habit of sharing, carnatic vocalists Dharini Kalyanaraman and Sriranjani Santhanagopalan share many things today. A bench, for instance. The girls sit next to each other at MOP Vaishnav College, where they are doing their bachelors in commerce. They share a passion for carnatic music and a desire to scale the summit of the art. Above all, they share an abiding friendship and are great admirers of each other.

In 1993, when Ananda Vikatan held that signal competition, the musical prowess of the little girls, barely four years old then, left the audience, which included me, awestruck. (Those days, Dharini’s family and mine were neighbours and the little girl used to insist that I give her motorcycle rides all the time.) As Dharini struck bulls-eye unfailingly each time judge Rajam Iyer hummed a tune and asked her to identify the raga, actor K S Gopalakrishnan, standing among the audience, kept exclaiming ‘my God!’

When her turn came, Sriranjani sang a sterling Saveri, varnam, sara suda, cutely nodding her head with each gamaka. Neyveli Santhanagopalan, who had stormed into the music world only a few years earlier, stood there, regarding his daughter with a stern look, as though waiting to catch an error.

From that day, Dharini, daughter of Srinivasan Kalyanaraman, an employee of Ashok Leyland, proceeded to make waves in the field of music, devouring all the prizes and awards from competitions that came her way. Sriranjini, for years, kept a low profile and it appeared as if she was lost to the world of music. But she has come back as though with a vengeance. Today, Sriranjini is regarded among the most promising stars of carnatic music.

Not only Dharini and Sriranjini are great fans of each other, the mutual admiration extends into the families too. “She’s just brilliant; she sings so effortlessly,” says Dharini’s grandmother (and her first teacher), Lakshmi, of Sriranjini. And Neyveli Santhanagopalan, who was once the Chief Guest at one of Dharini’s concerts at VDS Arts Academy, is always full of praise for Dharini’s music.

Spitfire Santhanagopalan

Neyveli Santhanagopalan’s cathartic fulmination upon spotting me among the audience points to how deeply he has been hurt by my review of one of his earlier concert in The Hindu (http://rameshsaregama.blogspot.com/2009/12/neyveli-santhanagopalan-is-not-artiste_17.html ) Despite my requests to calm down – his outburst came mid-way through a Begada alapana – he carried on his harangue. I had to say something in response, which I did by pointing out that I expected better music from an artiste of his caliber. A few other members of the audience lunged-in, some voicing their opinion about reviewers, some asking us end the debate, and the result was boisterous pell-mell, something rarely seen in concert halls.

This remarkable incident happened on January 2, 2010, at Sastry Hall, where Santhanagopalan was singing for the G K Foundation. Sitting with him were Delhi Sundararajan (violin), Tiruvarur Bhaktavatsalam (mridangam) and H Sivaramakrishnan (ghatam). While Sundararajan and Sivaramakrishnan maintained quiet, the mridangist took the mike (as is his wont) and after a word about how pained the reviewers leave the artistes, added an absurd question: ‘what do they know about mridangam’? This truly got my goat and I retorted, rather sharply I must say, with a counter: ‘What do you know about writing?’

That silenced him. Bhaktavatsalam has a peculiar and unpleasant style of playing his instrument. When a singer takes a note, say upper shadjam, for a karvai, his usually thins his voice for good effect. At that time the mridangist ought to play along—a few low gummikis or some gentle nadai taps would nourish the music. Bhaktavatsalam would pick exactly on this point to produce a loud rumble. The cause is not deficient talent, but mindset. One can only infer that Bhaktavatsalam wants to bring himself and his performance to the fore, rather than support the concert. This was what happened at the Neyveli Santhanagopalan concert for Nungambakkam Cultural Academy and the inevitable comment in the review was his own comeuppance—I’m scarcely to blame.

Now, coming back to Neyveli Santhanagopalan, there was a little pell-mell with some among the audience standing up and asking us to pipe down. There was once spectacled chap who told me, rather curtly, to stop and I screamed back at him telling him to shut up. (He obeyed). The exchange between me and Santhanagopalan went on for sometime, he telling me that I was wrong in writing what I did “while being a friend”, and me telling him that what came out as my review was only the outpourings of an anguished fan.

The turbulence did impact his Begada a bit and it was evident from his demeanor that he was still seething within. That is understandable. To ease up the situation a bit, I gave him a request-slip, asking him to sing Sadananda Tandavam (Bahudari), which he did after a brief word with the violinist. It was a brilliant Bahudhari. Here is a tip to the world of rasikas—Santhanagopalan performs better when he is angry and aggressive. (We have seen this before. Last year, he got delayed by traffic and hence arrived aggressive to the concert and what a concert it was!)

Well, at the end of the concert Santhanagopalan made up with me. I reasoned with him, pointing out that we as rasikas come to his concert with great expectations and he disappointed us. I asked him how come he did not have time to do a niraval on a kirthana like ‘upacharamu’, but had enough time to indulge in garrulous praise of the accompanists. I told him it was about time he stopped singing Nalinakanti, a raga worn away by over use. He seemed to agree with me.