Sumanesa Ranjini dazzles in Ustad-Bhagavathar's melting tones

Wah Ustaad !

Isn't this how we usually greet our Tamilian Bhajan singer O S Arun?

There was a time when some friends and I would let our eyes lightly flit over O S Arun's name in programme sheets, dismissing him as a kind of a Vittal-Vittal-Panduranga bhajan-wala, who is good at what he does, but not necessarily worthy of intellectual note. Such foolish arrogance on our part was lowered into its grave a few years ago, when we listened to the creamy imagination of pure carnatic notes even while singing bhajans with a strong North Indian fragrance.

When he sings the Marathi ‘Ha Raghava!’ it is not some channa masala Bhoopali that splashes against our ears, but the dazzling notes of the old-familiar, the Mohanam—and how! Strings and strings of notes in newer and newer cocktails.

Or when he sings a tender Malayamarutam (Karpaga Monohara) or Valaji (Koovi Azhaithal) in his own loud-and-hard style, like the running of a herd of wild buffaloes on the face of a large tabla. Dum-dhum-dhama-dhum-dhum.

Respect for Arun goes up.

Namaskaram, Ustaad !!

Several concerts—both bhajans and carnatic kutcheri’s—later, the image of O S Arun is still that of a Hindustani ghazal singer, who can also sing carnatic. The don of the kurta and the Jeetandra hair-style (though parted on the right side) underscores and highlights the Ustaad aspect of Arun.

We had to wait until the curtains were up on his Narada Gana Sabha concert of December 2012 season. It was one bloody good concert, so powerfully carnatic in style and the Karaharapriya (Thyagaraja’s Idu Bhagyamu) that we were treated to was perhaps the best I have heard in the last 30 years. We, the lovers of carnatic music, expect the vocalist not to lightly flit over the notes, like a hovercraft, but dwell hard on them, like a road-laying machine.

‘Azhutham’ we call it in Tamil—the ‘pressing’. No Azhutham, no carnatic, and it is any slip-up on this singular aspect that sometimes even geniuses like Jesudas lose their sway over the audience.

But of Arun’s sooooperrrb Karaharapriya, which can march with its chin up alongside with T M Krishna’s or Sanjay’s, we shall say nothing further in this blog post. Suffice to say that it was a great one.

The space belongs to the melancholy rare that Arun melted the heart of his audience with.

Sumanesa Ranjini. Wow, what a raga!

It is (I later learnt) what you get if you replace the lower madhyama in Suddha Dhanyasi to the upper madhyama. Then, the raga could also be remembered as Amritavarshini with the lower ‘ga’. However, when you hear it, you neither think of Suddha Dhanyasi nor Amritavarshini. You see the resemblance more with Chandrakauns. Clearly, the emphasis is on the lower ‘ga’, which gives the raga a melancholy touch, and the sharp ring of the upper ‘ni’.

A quick ‘review of existing literature’ shows that Sumanesa Ranjini has had to contend with a ‘minor raga’ tag. Arun changed it. It was quite an elaborate alapana that brought a melancholy pall. After Mullaivasal Chandramouli’s commendable reply (the violinist is playing extremely beautifully these days), Arun rendered a Tamil composition, ‘Tamadamaen’—a composition of Dr Rukmini Ramani, the daughter of Papanasanam Sivan (and not to be confused with the Sivan’s famous Todi piece beginning with the same word.) It was a heart-rending composition on Goddess Saraswathi. The only pity was that Arun did not sing swaras.

Sumanesa Ranjini appears to have been used pretty well in Tamil film of those days. The Susheela Smash-hit ‘malai pozhudin mayakkatile naan’ of the film Bhagyalakshmi is in this raga. So is the other hit, Oru Naal Iravu Pagal Pol Iravu, from the movie Kaviya Talaivi.

Superb raga, this Sumanesa Ranjini. I’d recommend rasikas prevail upon O S Arun at every opportunity to make him sing this.

After this tear-jerker, the vocalist did the smart thing by bringing in a thundering Atana alapana, followed by Thyagaraja’s effervescent composition Chate Buddhimaanura, with swaras on the pallavi line. The mood of the hall was by then well annealed to receive the muscularly carnatic Karaharapriya.

Wah, Bhagavathar! What a concert !

A giant of an artiste and a lovable man: T V Gopalakrishnan

(Another (edited) version of this article appeard in The Hindu on February 17, 2012, and can be accessed at http://www.thehindu.com/arts/music/article2874905.ece )

“This,” said Tirupanithura Viswanatha Gopalakrishnan, pointing to a tall, ornate kuthuvilakku standing conspicuously in a corner, “was given to me in Bombay by Shanmukhananda Sabha,” and it was impossible to miss the metaphor. The object at which our attention was directed so remarkably resembled the man directing the attention in a metaphoric sense: tall in every meaning of the word, shining, swanky and pleasing to the eye. The Sabha had just given him a lifetime achievement award, instituted in the name of Sankaracharya. “It arrived here yesterday; and today I got the Padma.”

You can’t separate sentiment and a carnatic musician. The ‘Padma’ alluded to was the Padma Bhushan award, and TVG’s linking of the ‘blessing’ with the award was not just understandable—it was inevitable. As he waved me a seat, the parallelism between the lamp and the man became almost tangible. There stood the blessed lamp, a harbinger of national recognition, so flashy but so pure in its unlit virginity and TVG, flamboyance dripping from his garb and gait, yet affable and down-to-earth to a fault.

TVG—a Carnatic and Hindustani vocalist, mridangist, violinist, an everything-ist when it comes to music, a highly revered guru to a shipload of budding and blossomed musicians, both classical and filmy—stands tall among his peers as much for his musical prowess as for his legendary large-heartedness. A man at peace with himself, at ease with others.

TVG begins the conversation with a remark on how another journalist, who had managed to steal an earlier moment of his attention just a little while ago, asked him for the most memorable anecdotes from his life. “I am almost 80 years old; how could I possibly pick up any memorable events of my life. There are so many of them,” he said, pouring a bucket of cold water on my first question.

“Sir, I wanted to ask you the same question myself,” I said, fearing that in a spirit of candidness, TVG might be prompted to mouth the adage that ‘fools never differ’, but fortunately, he only smiled and obligingly took me on a tour down the memory lane, deep into the past, leapfrogging a full century and landing in 1896, the year in which his guru, the redoubtable Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavathar was born. Juicy anecdotes, plucked out of history like juicy cherries, fell all around in bunches.

I volunteer to prompt him with the mention of a concert. “Sir, do you remember the concert of Dindugal S P Natarajan, some time in 1985—with MSG on the violin and you on the mridangam?” I ask. At the mention of S P Natarajan TVG’s eyes light up. “Yes,” he says with some force. “You should speak about that.” That concert, he says, was one of the very best.

“I would rate Natarajan a notch higher than Mali,” he says. Poor Natarajan—he was not lucky. “After the concert that you mention (Bhairavi was the main piece), I arranged for him to play at Music Academy,” says TVG. “They gave him only 2.30 pm concert.”

“And he refused?”

“No. He agreed to play. But the day he was to play there, he fell off his scooter and fetched up at the concert badly bruised.” Consequently, the concert did not click.

Not many years after, Dindugal S P Natarajan died.

Anecdotes, memories burst forth. Kutcheries, ragas….politics.

But my job was more than chronicling TVG’s fond memories. The task on hand was to peer into the personality of the man who had so recently become a Padma Bhusan. He makes it easy for me, giving telling hints. “I have always been very flamboyant,” he says with disarming openness, in a strong Mallu accent, with an air of cheer and satisfaction but not a trace of conceit. He always had two cars, he said, while recalling his job of having to drop back his Hindustani guru Krishnanand home after each class. That was a part of the deal. Krishnanand first refused to teach TVG, putting it bluntly that he never taught carnatic musicians, who would only discontinue after the first six months. When TVG persisted, Krishnanand’s terms were “Rs 10 per class, six months’ fees paid in advance, and a drop-back home after each class.” This was back in 1969. When the word reached Chembai about his disciples Hindustani foray and the guru was first very disapproving, but later not only approved, but also predicted that TVG would become an accomplished Hindustani musician.

TVG’s ancestry of musicians gave him a genetic leg-up. His grandfather was a violinist (a fact that TVG would recall years later when challenged by Dwaram Venkatasamy Naidu’s son, Sathyanarayana, that he (TVG) couldn’t possibly become a violinist). His father was a musician in the Royal Court of Cochin and Chembai, therefore, knew their family quite well. In one of his visits to Thirupanithura, Chembai asked TVG, then a stripling of a boy, if he was up to playing the mridangam for him. An aghast father protested, a la King Dasharatha to Valmiki, at such a daunting task, but the young Gopalakrishnan was almost insouciantly at ease. After the concert, Chembai told TVG’s father, “dai Viswanatha, send your son along with me to Chennai. There aren’t many to play the mridangam and those who are in the field, are old.”

But the father would have none of it. TVG was the eldest of their nine children and he was keen that his son studied well, and got himself a government job. (That TVG did. He got his B.Com degree and then worked in the Accountant General’s office for a few years.) It was only after he completed his studies that Viswanatha Bhagavathar gave his consent for TVG to join Chembai in Chennai.

When TVG met Chembai in Chennai in 1951, the old man said: “You have come now, when I have lost my voice.” Chembai had lost his voice while singing in a concert on January 2, 1951 (accompanying Chowdaiah continued the concert as ‘solo’ violin, with C S Murugabhoopathy on the mridangam) and it was not until eight years later, Chembai would regain his voice, in the Guruvayur temple.

Those where tough days. In a field ridden with competition and politics, it was Dwaram Venkataswamy Naidu who lent him a helping hand. The first opportunity came when a scheduled mridangist could not come and someone suggested TVG’s name to Dwaram. Could T V Gopalakrishnan be auditioned? “No. Never do that” said Dwaram. “Never test an artiste. Ask him if he has heard me play. If he has, he can accompany me.”

TVG remembers Dwaram as a violinist who played with a “bell clear tone” whose musical extravaganza contrasted with his parsimony when it came to paying an accompanist. Though a man of no small means, Dwaram compulsively saved up for his later years, recalls TVG. But after the first concert that TVG played for him, Dwaram played the young mridangist a memorable compliment: “Mani, Palani and you”, he said, bracketing TVG with the other two all-time-great percussionist.

TVG recalls another memorable encomium, this from the legendary music critic, Subbudu. “You have a perfect hand, you will go a long way,” Subbudu told him very early on in his career. Of course, TVG’s guru, Chembai, had a lot of praise for his principal disciple. These compliments were the inspiration, “telling me that I was son the right track”, that helped TVG shaped his career.

Shifting to Madras was a right move, or else TVG might have ended up like his father, Viswanatha Bhagavathar. “My father never left our village,” recalls TVG. Viswanatha Bhagavathar always performed along with his father, violinist Gopalakrishna Bhagavathar, and after Gopalakrishna Bhagavathar died, Viswanatha Bhagavathar practically gave up singing. “Who will play fiddle?” he would say and I would tell him “let somebody play, what is your problem. Don’t you want to hear yourself sing?” but to no avail.

For a boy whose musical career began at an age of six when he played on the mridangam in the Cochin palace in the presence of Viceroy Linlithgow (in 1938), making a mark for himself was no big deal. Interestingly, TVG began his career on the twin tracks of vocal and mridangam—his first vocal concert was when he was about 14.

For six decades from the early 1950s, TVG has sung, played, conducted orchestras, taught, spoken music. Today, upon the receipt of Padma Bhusan, one can detect a slight, almost indiscernible rankle that the award took its time to come. But then, my guru also got the recognition very late, rationalizes TVG.

While any national recognition is something desirable, TVG perhaps cherishes his status as a guru more than anything else, for it is from that platform that he has served the art the most. His disciple list, including those who consult him from time to time, reads like a who’s who of carnatic music—interestingly, right across the spectrum. For instance, he has given his moulding touches to Yesudas and Unnikrishnan (to name just two) in vocal, Kadri Gopalnath (Sax), Varadarajan (violin), V Suresh (ghatam). Vidyabhooshana, the ex-pontiff of Subramanya Mutt, too is a disciple of TVG. “I helped him come out of sanyas,” says TVG, obviously pleased with having done so. Presently, a Caucasian walks in. “This is Sieg, he is learning mridangam from me,” says TVG. Siegmund Kutterer is a percussionist from Switzerland.

Inevitably, the conversation veers around the state of carnatic music. Why don’t we see vivadi’s taking a major space? Why is it that some ragas are the darling of musicians, some consigned to oblivion? Music, says TVG, is all about nostalgia. What evokes nostalgia is what people want, but he agrees that musicians must not lose the spirit of experimentation. He recalls Madurai Mani Iyer once telling him that in his (Mani Iyer’s) early days he was singing many rare vivadis. Musri Subramani Iyer advised him not to do that if he wanted to make a name for himself. “Still people come to my concert to listen to my Kaapali and Kaana Kan Kodi Vendum,” said Mani Iyer, a man whose name has been inextricably associated with Jyotiswaroopini, Umabharanam, Kannadagowlai and a host of other rare’s, to TVG.

TVG stresses on the need for keeping the purity of notes. Yes, gamakas are the hallmark of carnatic music, but they should be kept to the point. Needless swirls whereby one note encroaches upon its neighbour’s territory is abhorrent to TVG. He sings a clutch of ragas—Nattakurinji, Hindolam, Todi, Sudha Dhanyasi and Nasika Bhushani—in “the manner in which they should be sung” and in the way they are sometimes sung today, to demonstrate the difference. “Why do people still remember M D Ramanathan”, TVG poses a rhetoric, and loses himself into a MDR’ish Kedaram. To a lay listener, the limited-gamaka “pure note-way” is clearly more pleasing to the ear.

“The survival of carnatic music depends upon whether or not musicians keep the purity of notes,” he says, pointing out that if light music is so popular today, it is because the notes are in their pure forms.

Pure notes not only gives longevity to the art itself, but also to the singer. “Today, if (R K ) Srikantan (who is 86 years old) is still able to sing, it is because he sings pure notes,” says TVG with the force of an evangelist. “Why, take me, for instance. I am 80 years old and can still sing,” he says.

Bio sketch of TVG

Tirupanithurai Viswanatha Gopalakrishnan (born 11 June 1932 in Thripunithura, Kerala) is a Carnatic and Hindustani musician fromChennai.
Gopalakrishnan hails from a family of musicians, spanning over two centuries; his father was a court musician for the Cochin Royal Family. He is a vocalist, plays the violin and is also an exponent of the mridangam. Gopalakrishnan started playing the mridangam at the age of four and had his arangetram at the Cochin palace at the age of six. He is a disciple of Chembai Vaidyanatha Bhagavathar.
His students include , Ilayaraja, A.R.Rahman, Sivamani, Kadri Gopalnath, Vidyabhushana. He has also collaborated with drummer/composer Franklin Kiermyer on live performances.
Gopalakrishnan was given the Sangeet Natak Akademi Award in 1990. He has been awarded the Padma Bhushan by the Government of India in the year 2012.

O S Arun, the Raja of Talvi

The bespectacled, lissome lady, looking 45-ish, apparently of a nature that has bestowed upon her a nonchalant disregard for everything and everyone around her, did something that all the rest of us there were itching to do, but could not, fettered as we were by a misplaced sense of antipathy towards public display of emotion. She danced. Bending to her left, clapping, bending to her right, clapping, again bending to her left this time almost to the point of a stoop, and clapping…..not a dance that was a product of years of strict training into an art, but much higher in worth, the dance of a woman in trance, held in a spell by the mind-buoying music of a master-of-the-game, a master musician called O S Arun, the Raja of Talvi.

The photographer rushed to her vicinity to get a close shot of the unusual spectacle. Click-flash. The lady didn’t care. She continued her bend-stoop-clap gyrations regardless, apparently in a grip of bhakti. From the stage sprang forth the spell. “vittala, vittala-vittal, vitol-vitol-vitol-vitol,” sang O S Arun putting his hands together, and the audience, half of them with an eye on the dancing lady, clapped in perfect sync, resulting in a discrete thunder. Presently, Arun increased the speed of his ‘vittal-vittal’, the words pouring fast, and faster still, until it became talvi-talvi-talvi-talvi.

That the lady did not collapse in a swoon was a testimony of the mercy of Lord Vittal.

Wah, Arun! Wah, Ustaad! What music he produced today, the 22^nd day of January, 2012, at the Krishna Gana Sabha auditorium!

It is a pointer to how well Arun connects with his audience that even before the bhajan concert began, began the stream of request-slips. A smile at the contents of the slip, a nod of acknowledgement to the requestor, Arun would accede to the demand and plunge into business. A little into the concert, they began shouting their requests. “Panduranga, Panduranga…please” screamed a voice from the rear. “Ha Raghava”, shouted another from the front rows.

The concert began with a chant of Jaya Ram, Krishna Hare—practically a niraval of the four words in Behag.The next treat was a brief alapana that rode over the word 'shyam'. One could make out ri-ma-pa-ni sequences. What would it be? Brindavana Saranga? Hindi lyrics flowed: aaj aayo shyam mohana. The rendition was so soothing, so mellifluous, notes wafting in the air gently, leisurely. Aaj aayo shyam mohana.

I admit it. I could not place the raga. It left me nonplussed. I asked Arun the next day what it was. Shyam Kalyan, he says. Wow! Where had you been hiding all this while, Ms Shyam Kalyan (a raga is supposed to be feminine, right?). I google up Shyam Kalyan, and a surprise springs on me like a wily gorilla warrior from the bushes. From the time of Thyagaraja, I jump to the time of Ilayaraja. Movie: Kamala Hassan's immortal 'Nayagan'. Singers: Chitra and Mano. Song: Nee oru kaadal sangeetham. Pure Shyam Kalyan, yes, unmistakably. Turns out that Aaj Aayo Shyam Mohana is not some avadhi composer of yore, but our own Swathi Thirunal. If I had my way, I'll ask Arun to sing this every single time he sits on the stage across an audience that includes me. Wow! Incredibly wow!

Soon after came another name-chant, “Govinda Gopala” in Sahana. Arun is a trained carnatic music (and son of Mr O V Subramanian, a reputed carnatic teacher) and not surprisingly, it was a great Sahana, slow and peaceful, very, very carnatic, in contrast with many other elements of the concert. Then came an equally superb Maand, a rare kriti of Vadhiraja Swami, a saint who lived half a millennium ago in Karnataka. ‘Bhega baro, bhega baro neele megha varna’ is a song that one has heard in bhajana paddhati in raga Madhyamavathi, and therefore the Maand was a welcome surprise. Maand has a folk appeal, and Arun’s handling of it sounded like a cheery farmer singing his heart out in thanks-giving at harvest. The bouncy, springy Maand made for a nice contrast with the previous mellifluous Shyam Kalyan and Sahana and if there was one thing that was common between them, it was the spirit of bhakti.

Then came IT. The devilishly beautiful Ha Raghava. This, as mentioned before, was at a request, as had been the case in a previous concert a couple of weeks earlier, reviewed by me for The Hindu and reproduced in this blog. The Abang in Mohanam is simply out of the world, and here is where the Vittala-Vittala-Vittal-vitol-vitol, occurs, the devotion-dripping words that impelled the lady to dance. It was a mesmerizing Mohanam, as in the previous concert, Mohanam with a light and Hindustani touch, taking one back to the Golden days of Hindi film music – to Latha Mangeshkar’s Pankh hoti to udu aati re (Sehra, 1963), and the relatively more recent Bhupen Hazarika soul-stealer, Dil Bhoom-bhoom kare (Rudali, 1995). The Marathi Abhang Ha Raghava flowed on these lines, but suddenly, as though reminded by a pinch, Arun let forth a mighty brikha, starting from the upper notes and swirling all the way down, in a very very carnatic manner. Not only did the rendition transcend from Hindustani to Carnatic, and back, but it had that transcendental meditative quality, that mystic calm. Ha Raghava ! Wah Raghava ! Wah Ustaad !!

This was followed by a Panduranga, Panduranga rendition, and presently someone wanted Vishamakaara Kannan. It was the only Tamil piece of the concert. Somewhere here, Arun sang the immortal Yamuna Kalyani piece, Krishna Nee Bhegane Baro, and it was the second ‘bhega baro’ of the concert, it was as though that the singer had made the entreating of Lord Krishna to “come soon” as the leitmotif of the concert. Another brilliant piece, that. Arun ended the 2-hour concert with another vittala-vittala chat in Bindu Malini.

Music apart, what is worthy of note in Arun’s concert is his endearing demeanor, pleasing stage manners, a smile for everyone, a waving encouragement of the audience to join-in, become one, for in a bhajana, matters such as musical prowess become mundane and redundant, like the remnants of the ore after the gold has been taken out, and the only thing that matters is the bhakti.

Well done, Arun, the Maharaja of Talvi.

Neyveli Santhanagopalan sparkles with manodharma

(Another version of this review appeared in The Hindu on January 13, 2012)

Sitting in front, in full view of the men on the dias, there was easy eye-contact between me and Neyveli Santhanagopalan, a friend of mine couple of decades (and indeed one of the extremely few artiste-friends, because I assidiously keep away from artistes so as to keep my independence in judgement shielded from influences, friendly or otherwise.) It also helped that I happened to be sitting next to Papanasanam Ashok Ramani. Since Santhanagopalan caught my eye and acknowledged my presence with a nod, it was easy to communicate. When it was time for the central piece of the concert I therefore had no inhibitions in screaming to the singer that I liked him to take up a vivadi raga--any vivadi raga. "Tell me what you want" insisted, Neyveli, but I held my ground. The raga must be his choice, not mine. As long as it was a vivadi, it was ok by me. I am a vivadi junkie. I cant help it.
This is the background to the splendid Vagadeeswari, the 34th Melakarta raga that Neyveli treated his audience to at Kalarasana on December 30, 2011, the majestic dive of its signature shatsruthi rishabham providing a soul-filling calm.
It was a superb sketch of the raga, but it must be said that violinist Delhi Sundararajan's essay was a whisker better than Santhanagopalan's. In this, Sundararajan sort of made-up for his 'average' follow-up of the previous Lathangi, the brilliance of which vocal alapana the violinist could not quite match.
Tyagaraja's ‘Paramathmudu' followed the Vaagadeeswari alapana as expected, which was tailed by some imaginative swara sequences. I know that Neyveli Santhanagopalan is fond of this raga. Elsewhere in this blog, there is description and review of another rendition of Neyveli Santhanagopalan's Wah!gadeeswari. Vocalists generally seem to prefer this to other shutshruthi rishabam ragas--we dont get to hear Jyothiswaroopini or Nasika Bhushani or Rasikapriya, or for that matter, even Nattai, much. I would have preferred Nasika Bhushani, but having left the choice to Santhanagopalan I could do nothing but sit back in acceptance.
But indeed it was a brilliant Vaagadeeswari indeed.
For Latangi, it was Papanasanam Sivan's masterpiece, ‘Pirava Varam Taarum.' Santhanagopalan is in fine form. The Latangi and Vagadeeswari alapanas in the Kalarasna concert, as well as the enchanting Purvikalyani and Sankarabharanam in his concert for Parthasarathy Swamy Sabha, rich in manodharma as they were, clearly showed him to be a class apart.
Neyv eli Santhanagopalan is a superb artiste. If you regard the world of carnatic music's performing artistes of today as a straight line, the left end representing preference for bhava and aesthetics even to the point of sacrifice of manodharma, and the other extreme representing the opposite, viz., a 'bhava-be-damned, it is the imagination that matters' stance, you could probably think of Aruna Sairam and Sanjay Subramanian as the ambassadors of the two extremes. The moment you bring Neyveli Santhanagopalan into the model, the line bends into a circle, the vocalist standing on the point of contact of the two ends, standing for best of both bhava and manodharma. A remarkable artistry, with few parallels in the contemporary world. (The problem with Neyveli, however, is his reluctance to reach out to the rare, and it has been my regret that for two decades I have been trying in vain to get him sing Simhendra Madhyamam for me.)
The manodharma aspect came to the fore particularly in the niraval and swaras of Purvikalyani piece, ‘Deve Deva Jagadiswara' of Swati Tirunal. ‘Vaanara Parivrudha' was the point chosen for swara singing and Santhanagopalan heaped dozens of single-avartana swaras. The eka-avartana swara singing is perhaps becoming a defining feature of Santhanagopalan's singing, for it was sumptuously present in the Latangi piece too.
The Sankarabharanam (Tyagaraja's ‘Enduku Peddala') came out fine in all its features —alapana, song, niraval and swaras (at the traditional point, ‘Veda Sastra'). It was a thoroughly enjoyable Sankarabharanam, even if it was lacking in an element of novelty. Pretty much the same could be said of the Sriranjini peice ‘Bhuvijidasu' of Tyagaraja, which Santhanagopalan sang at Kalarasana. In fact the only blemish of the two concerts was the hurried RTP
in Sama. There was too little time left and the choice of Sama was unwise, because it is a raga that needs leisurely treatment. Santhanagopalan's Sama raga as well as the tanam were too brisk for comfort.
(In contrast, the Kannadagowla piece, ‘Orajupudu' of Tyagara, rendered at Parthasarathy Sabha, was surprisingly slow.)
A line from a Dikshitar composition was chosen for pallavi in the Sama RTP, ‘Parameswaram Rameswaram Meswaram Easwaram.' That it was partly in honour of the mridangam accompanist, Mannargudi Easwaran, was clear by the way Neyveli waved towards Easwaran, and I unabashedly admit that I felt chuffed when he waved towards me too, at the mention of 'Rameswaram'.
Regrettably, the pallavi was hurried through, in the interests of time. Santhanagopalan is an expert pallavi singer and one has heard him do complex, multi-raga pallavi's with ease. A decade hall, in this very hall, he did the 4-raga pallavi, 'Sankarabharanai Azhaithodi vadi Kalyani Darbarukku' in a manner that could only be described as superhuman. The RTP of December 30, 2011 was, therefore, sub-prime.

A note on rights of a performer and the audience

In law, rights of the creator are recognized and protected. These rights take

precedence over custom, audience and social requirements. In IPR, size of the

creator or the violator is of no significance II.

INTRODUCTION The Copyright Act, 1957 defines 'performer' as an actor,

singer, musician, dancer, acrobat, juggler, conjurer, snake charmer, a person

delivering a lecture or any other person who makes a performance.

Performance, in relation to performer’s rights means any visual or acoustic

presentation made live by one or more performers.

III.

RIGHTS OF A PERFORMER Where any performer appears or engages in any

performance, he has a special right known as the “performer’s right” in relation

to such performance. A performer's right includes his consenting for sound

recording or visual recording of the performance and for reproduction of such

recording. Whoever records a live performance without the performer's

consent might be liable for infringement of such performer's rights.

IV.

TESTS FOLLOWED BY COURTS In Garware Plastics and Polyester Ltd. and Ors.

etc. vs. Telelink and Others, the Bombay High Court followed the below

criteria:

AUDIENCE TEST: The character of the audience - whether it could be

considered as private or public is the first test to decide whether the

performanceis a private performance or performance to thepublic.

RELATIONSHIP TEST - is the relationship between the owner of the copyright

and the audience. If the audience may be described as the "owner's public",

then in performing before that audience, he would be exercising the legal right

conferred upon him. Any one who, without his consent, performs the work

before that audiencewould be infringing his copyright.

VALUE TEST: The impact of the performance on the value of copyright or the

loss of profit which would otherwise have accrued to the owner of the

copyright ifthe same audience had watched the performance on payment.

V.

LEEWAY The Copyright Act, 1957, while recognizing the special rights of a

performer, has also envisaged a leeway where certain recordings would not

amount to violation of performer's right. A performer's right is not deemed as

infringed if such recording is for private use or solely for bonafide purposes of

a review, reporting of current events, teaching or research. The use of

recording such live performance has to be consistent with fair dealing of such

artistic or musical works.

VI.

A performer has the right to refuse his performance to be recorded. Even

when the performer consents for recording his performance, the Performer

can stipulate/restrict the purpose for which the consent is given, e.g. for non-

commercial private use only. Performer's or show organizers can print the

terms and conditions in the ticket issued to attending audience/ at the

Auditorium that 'no camera, audio-visual recordings are permitted during the

show' with 'All Rights of Admission' reserved b y the Performer/ event

Organizer. Such printed terms would become binding contract between the

performer/ event organizer and the audience. Any violation of such terms

would amount to breach of contract and violation of rights.

VII.

FUTURE In India, performers rights are not recognized as per the

internationally accepted principles. India is yet to sign the WIPO Performances

and Phonograms Treaty (WPPT), 1996, that grants three kinds of rights to

performers, apart from recognizing moral rights, in respect of their unfixed

(live) performances viz., (i) the right of broadcasting (except in the case of

rebroadcasting); (ii) the right of communication to the public (except where

the performance is a broadcast performance), and the right of fixation i.e., the

right to determine embodiment of sounds, or of the representations thereof,

from which they can be perceived, reproduced or communicated through a

device. A Bill to amend the Copyright Act, 1957, incorporating these

internationally recognised principles and rights is pending promulgation

before the Parliament for the last couple of years. With the amendment, the

performers will have better economic and enforceable rights in respect of their

performances which would be valid for fifty years since the performance.

VIII.

CONCLUSION To conclude, copyright is a bundle of rights which includes

economic rights and moral rights of a performer or an artist. A simple thumb

rule regarding such performances is 'whatever can be exploited, has to be

protected'. No doubt a symbiotic relationship exists between a performer and

the audience. But, it has to be borne in mind that what the audience pays for is

only an 'entry pass' for listening and seeing the performance at a convenient

place or seat within the venue and not for recording or commercial

exploitation of a performance. Recording such live

performances without consent of the performer or the event organizer though

might amount to violation of rights of the performer and/or the event

organizer, such live performances can be recorded by the audience solely for

the purposes of private use, research, teaching and reporting current events.

Such fair dealing may not transgress rights of the performer and/or the event

organizer.

O S Arun, the sorcerer

(This review was published in The Hindu on January 13, 2012)

“Let us enter the New Year without any inhibitions,” said O.S. Arun to exhort his audience to sing – rather chant – along with him and his rasikas gladly obeyed. Presently, ‘Narayana, Narayana' rang out, heads swayed and a couple of hundred pairs of hands clapped to the beat of the mridangam player J. Vaidyanathan. While the frenzied audience chanted in unison, the sorcerer who held them spell-bound sang Narayana in 50 different ways—a fitting adieu to 2011.

No person who was present in that Bhajan Sandhya (‘Bhajan evening') of O.S. Arun at the sabha would remember 2011 more than this for that evening. It started with a lovely Hamsadhwani piece in praise of Lord Ganesha. Loud and boisterous, Arun stormed his way into the hearts of his audience as he presented bhajans gilded with Hindustani touch, taking them through ragas such as Mohana Kalyani, Hamir Kalyani, Madhuvanti, Karnaranjani and Mohanam. Wedged somewhere between them was a Nadanamakriya, but it was a bhajan alright, in the devotion-soaked words of Bhadrachala Ramadas (‘Garuda Gamana Ra Ra').

The Hamir Kalyani piece was a bunch of verses from Krishna Karunamrutam on Krishna as a lad that ended with the words ‘Balam Mukundam Manasa Smarami.' It was preceded by a sloka in the raga and embellished by some brilliant chip-in by violinist Mullaivasal Chandramouli. Perhaps because it was a bhajan and the accent was therefore on the bhava, Arun's pronunciation of the key words was expressive - for instance, when he sang the words ‘Visaala Netram,' the vowel ‘aa' went on for what seemed to be forever. The effect was stupefying. The piece ended in a chant of ‘Govinda, Govinda' and the Lord's name was probably chanted around 500 times.

It was in the Madhuvanti piece that followed ‘Sesha Saila Vaasa Narayana' and a Sai Bhajan that Arun pulled everybody into business. The opening lines began in the depths—the ‘pa' of the lower octave, taking the notes ‘pa-ni-sa-ga,' dripping with bhakti, and it was only fitting that the audience deliriously joined Arun in chanting Narayana.

The next offering, Nadanamakriya, was a quick one and just then Arun received a request-note—and Karnaranjini made its appearance and the words ‘Yamunai Nadiye, Kannanai Kandayo,' by Appa Rao, added a Tamizh flavour to the fare. But the highlight of the evening was the Mohanam piece, ‘Ha Raghava,' an abhang. It must rank among the finest Mohanam ever sung and the Sanskrit verse segued into ‘Vittala, Vittala,' where again the audience joined, clapping to the beat.

T M Krishna: Tilting at the windmills

1. 
   
   When I sent this (http://www.thehindu.com/todays-paper/tp-features/tp-editorialfeatures/article2797164.ece) review for publication in The Hindu, I was sure I had done a fair job, giving a true picture of his performance. I thought it was positive, and deservedly so, because although it was not among his very best, it was still pretty good.
   
   But a few days after the publication of the review, T M Krishna, wrote a looooong letter to Mukund Padmanabhan of The Hindu, the Associate Editor incharge of Friday features. A copy of the letter was forwarded to me, reading of which caused me a lot of amusement.
   
   Regrettably, Mukund decided not to publish Krishna's rejoinder. I was all for it. For, that letter of T M Krishna's, which took exception to many things I had said in my review, is bovine excrement of the purest form. Again regrettably, since it was a correspondent between TMK and Mukund, I am unable to reproduce it here. I would have loved to.
   
   Basically, TMK makes three points in his rejoinder.
   1. In pointing out that TMK used the ni-sa combination in singing Vegavahini while the textbook says the raga assumes the notes da-ni-da-sa in its ascent, I had got it completely wrong. He offers tonnes of proof that it is not so, and pouring scorn and innuendo at my ignorance, he wonders which textbook I refer to. He also wonders if I think that Muthusami Dikshithar himself got the raga wrong and points out that musicians like him do research a lot, practice a lot to internalise what they have learnt before offering a raga in a concert.
   
   Well. It is indeed a cruel joke of Fate that the other side of such a gifted musician should be so Quixotic. When I read the rejoinder the vivid picture that manifested itself before my eyes was that of an armoured old man riding a skinny horse and rushing to attack a windmill believing that it was a ferocious giant. The similarity between Don Quixote de la Mancha and Thodur Madabusi Krishna is inescapably striking as he rushes to attack me, perceiving criticism when there is none.
   No where in my review have I said that Krishna was technically incorrect. The textbook that I refer to, dear TMK, is 'Ragas in Carnatic Music' by Dr S Bhagyalekshmy, and all I have done is to point out the contrasting definition of Vegavahini as obtained from Krishna's singing, and that given by Dr Bhagyalekshmy. Period. To repeat, no where have I said that Krishna was techically flawed.
   
   To simplify my stand, let me illustrate it by means of an example. Suppose I am singing Mohanam and here and there you detect 'ni', then you are going to say that I have not understood Mohanam well. But on the other hand, if I use 'ni' throughout the singing, you're likely to think that what I am doing is a variant of Mohanam, a different school. You are not going to say I havent understood the raga because quite obviously, I am using the nishadam deliberately.
   
   It was in such a spirit that I wondered at the difference between Krishna's Vegavanihi and the ascent-descent lakshana given in the 'textbook'.
   
   
   TMK has every right (and perhaps duty) to point out that Vegavahini as portrayed by him is not unprecedented or without the sanction of the grammer, instead of assuming that I have tried to pick nits in his singing.
   
   2. The second point that T M K makes in his letter is that he did not 'challenge' the violinist, R K Sriramkumar, to identify the raga, but merely asked him to help him out, because he had forgotten the name of the raga. Challenge the accompanist? he asks indignantly, and stressing that he would never do such a thing. He also observes that if I had meant it to be humourous, it was in 'bad taste'.

2. Well, again the Quixotic streak. If everything tastes bad, then he ought to get his tongue checked out. The truth is, it was a challenge alright, but certainly a friendly one, without any trace of polemics, irreverence or a put-down spirit. The audience enjoyed the exchange between the two veteran artistes. I enjoyed it. I reported it. Period. To take exception to THIS reveals, if nothing else, the highly strung-up nature of the person which, it is not difficult to see, is responsible for such incredulous incomprehension of plain reportage.
   
   Krishna wants us to believe that having started to sing kalpana swaras in a certain raga, he not only forgot the name of the raga, but also made a public demonstration of his having forgotten it by asking the violinist if he could please tell him what it was that he was singing. This is by far the funniest thing that I have heard, and even if one were to accept, in a spirit of liberal accommodation that Krishna was speaking the truth, the fact is that he asked the violinist to identify the raga and one, sitting on the opposite side, is inevitably drawn to the conclusion that the accompanist was thrown a gauntlet and was asked to pick it up.
   
   
   
   3. The third point that Krishna makes in his letter is that he was never in 'discomfort', as was reported in the review, even though, he admits, he felt cramps in his foot while singing Dhanyasi. Well, very good. Who am I to say how TMK felt that day? If he says he was not in discomfort, thats it. No disputes there. All I will say in defence is that he did appear to be in discomfort, because he was so incessantly sipping water, massaging his foot, and leaving long pauses in his singing.
   
   Now, the problem comes when TMK addresses the issues of the long pauses. He says that he paused, and as reported, waved to the violinist to continue, only because the Sriramkumar was playing so brilliantly and he (TMK) felt impelled to leave the centrestage to him. The problem with this argument is this: during most of the pauses, especially during the one specifically adverted to, the violinist was NOT playing. There was silence on the stage, as everybody, including Sriramkumar, was staring at TMK, eagerly awaiting the next vocal phrases.
   
   This is not to say that TMK was not singing well, or--oh, I dread this mis-inference--that the singer lacks grip over Sankarabharanam. Several people among the audience were wondering if there was something bother Krishna either physically or mentally. Again, I only reported it. If that was not the case, and if Krishna was indeed happy and healthy, I lead the list of people who would feel a sense of relief upon learning that.

   ReplyDelete

T M Krishna's 4-hour concert for Kalarasna on January 8, 2012 - not one of his best

(This review appeared in The Hindu on Friday, 13th January, 2012)

Carnatic music's celebrated ‘So-what'ist T.M. Krishna caused no surprise when he took up Nattai for elaborate treatment as the third piece of his concert, but a titter did run around the hall when the delectable alapana abruptly segued into a tanam. But the flag-waving iconoclast had more surprises in store, for, when everyone was expecting a pallavi to follow the tanam, what did appear was the Tyagaraja Pancharatna, ‘Jagadaanandakaraka.'

TMK and violinist R.K. Shriramkumar led the show alternately, with the latter playing the notes and the singer doing the lyrics. Then, when it came to the seventh charanam ‘Onkara Panjara,' it was time for another ripple of titter, for the colourful vocalist picked up the line for a niraval. Whoever had heard of a niraval in a Pancharatna rendition?

The way TMK is getting his fans used to sudden twists and turns in his concert, a day will come when no one would be surprised if he opened a concert with a mangalam and did the national anthem right in the middle. Bruised and bleeding, ‘tradition' is going to sing back to TMK one of his favourites – ‘Irakkam Varaamal Ponadenna Karanam?' But it was indeed a superb Nattai and one must thank TMK for showing the raga in its full splendour rather than dismiss it as a dispensable opener.

Early on in his four-hour concert, TMK hummed an alapana a little and just as the audience were beginning to label it as Chakaravagam, he announced it as Vegavahini. Now, Vegavahini is Chakaravagam in Dikshitar's ‘asampoorna paddahati.' The textbook distinguishes Vegavahini from Charavakam in a slight variation in the ascent — pa-da-ni-da-sa, instead of pa-da-ni-sa. However, TMK freely used the ni-sa combination right through the rendition. While the alapana was intellectually stimulating, the rendition of the Dikshitar composition, ‘Veena Pustaka Dharini,' dragged, and turned out to be a dead bore.

Wedged between Vegavahini and Nattai was Dr. Balamuralikrishna's composition, ‘Omkaarakarini,' in Lavangi, a derivative of Mayamalavagowla. (The raga omits ga, pa and ni). TMK's swara singing here drew a huge applause.

The main piece was Dhanyasi. It was a creative alapana, somewhat speedy, and a little into it, TMK appeared to be physically uncomfortable and was seen massaging his foot. From this point and till the end of the concert, the singer was obliged to take sips of water frequently. Nevertheless, TMK's musical prowess shone through the alapana, which rode all over the second upper octave. Shriramkumar's follow-through was a marvel and, at least in aesthetics, his raga essay outshone TMK's.

Syama Sastri's ‘Meenalochani' was the song chosen. The niraval landed alternately on the words ‘Meenalochani' and ‘Neerada Veni' and swaras were prefixed to ‘Chandrakaladhari.' This was followed by a thoroughly enjoyable 27-minute tani. The three percussionists – Tiruchi Sankaran (mridangam), B.S. Purushotaman (ganjira) and N. Guruprasad (ghatam) did a remarkable job.

Then came Sankarabharanam. TMK was not quite himself here. His discomfort was evident from the long pauses between phrases of the alapana and indeed at the end of one unusually long pause, he simply waved to the violinist asking him to carry on. Despite the patches of brilliance, the Sankarabharanam did not turn out to be a wholesome offering.

The ragamalika sequences that followed were perhaps the best part of the concert. Here, in yet another departure from the convention, TMK and the violinist alternated in choosing the raga. In this way, they went through Latangi, Varali, Hamir Kalyani, a rare raga, Bhoopalam, Sama and Kanada. After singing a few notes of that rare raga, TMK challenged Sriram Kumar to identify it. Pat came the answer - Kokilavarali.

To sum it up, it was a lovely concert, though admittedly, one has heard TMK sing better.