
Come December, you can
hear the sound of music wherever you go in southern Chennai. The cool air of
the Tamil month of Margazhi is thick with it from the early hours of the day
around the Kapaleeswarar temple in Mylapore, with Margazhi bhajans.
A group of devotees go round the temple singing devotional songs, a tradition
started by the revered music composer Papanasam Sivan.
Temples reverberate
with the choral singing of Thiruppavai and Thiruvembavai:
devotional Tamil hymns of Aandal and Manikavasakar, saint poets of the 6th
century. Senior citizens draped in woollen shawls can be heard discussing the
previous day’s concert and the catering at the music venues. Newspapers bring
out supplements with reviews, and the sale of music CDs and books peaks in the
special stalls at the different venues.
Swaminathan, an
80-year-old retired company executive who lives with his NRI son in the US has
come all the way to Chennai solely for the “season”: the annual extravaganza
for lovers of music. People like Swaminathan—NRIs and other foreign nationals
attracted by the music of the region—hop energetically from one sabha to
another with a small book in hand that lists the performances at different
places. It helps them choose their favourite artistes and attend their
performances.
The numbers are
impressive: more than 1,500 musical performances in a span of three weeks at
various places, ranging from the august Music Academy to open-air concerts,
morning to evening. On an average, each venue hosts four concerts a day, in
addition to musical discourses and lecture demonstrations by eminent musicians
and musicologists.
It was all so
different 25 years ago. Only three organisations had special concerts in
December: the Music Academy, the Tamil Isai Sangam, and the Indian Fine Arts
Society. Unlike the other sabhas, these three offered performances only during
what they called the music festival in December and had no monthly programmes
for members. Musicians considered it a privilege to feature in these
programmes.
The most prestigious
of the three was, and still is, the Music Academy, now in its 86th year.
Founded in 1928 with the sole objective of promoting music and culture, it was
a follow-up to the music festival organised as part of the All India Congress
Committee conference in Chennai in the previous year.
The Music Academy’s
performances feature the most popular and senior artistes, but it also
encourages younger talent. It conducts research on ragams, analyses
musical forms, debates the different gharanas, and publishes the
findings in its journal. It also conducts music workshops for aspiring
musicians.
The annual music
festival was once held in a school. Today, it is hosted in a hall of its own
named after its great patron, former Union finance minister T. T.
Krishnamachari. Its acoustics are among the best in the country with
state-of-the-art sound systems. Connoisseurs believe an artiste gives his or
her best only at the Academy.
Among its several
awards, the Sangeetha Kalanidhi is the most coveted: like the Nobel Prize for a
scientist. Carnatic musicians value it much more than the Sangeet Natak Akademi
award, and the winner is decided by the Academy’s expert committee. So much
deliberation goes into the process that the inevitable criticism is that
recipients are always old, past their prime, and no longer able to perform.
The great Papanasam
Sivan (1890-1973)—who had served music with such devotion and broken new ground
with his Tamil compositions—was so old and frail that he had to be physically
led to the stage to receive the award. At the end of the ceremony, he had to
look for an auto rickshaw to take him home. The organisers, perhaps, felt the
honour was enough and an elderly man’s comfort was of no importance.
The Academy’s
attitude, the rigidity of its rules, and the haughtiness of its officials to
whom the book was the only criterion, came under severe criticism for the
cavalier treatment of such a towering icon.
Perhaps Papanasam
should feel honoured, wherever he is now. He did get the award. The number of
artistes who missed the award could form a roll of honour on their own.
They include
vocalist-composer M. D. Ramanathan, violinist Lalgudi Jayaraman, veena maestro
S. Balachander, the great flautist T. R. Mahalingam (Flute Mali), and vocalists
Madurai Somasundaram and Seergazhi Govindarajan. The full list is a good deal
longer.
The irony could not be
greater. Back in the day, there were so many performers of note that it is hard
to remember them all. These days, the Academy has to search with a lens to find
a suitable person for the award. Madurai Somu and Seergazhi Govindarajan—two
very popular artistes—were not even invited to perform regularly. Some critics
attribute this to the domination of Brahmins in the expert committee. But maybe
it is learning something because this year, the relatively young Sudha
Raghunathan has been selected for the award in a welcome departure from
tradition.
An organisation like
the Academy is bound to attract criticism as it is so central to Chennai’s
music scene, but its bias for vocalists cannot be denied. Instrumentalists
always get late evening slots while the singers get prime time. The late S.
Balachander, or “Veena” Balachander, refused to perform at the Academy in
protest, while the late Lalgudi Jayaraman declined its awards. The Academy made
amends with an award for life-time achievement two years before Jayaraman’s
death.
The late violinist
Kunnakudi Vaidyanathan, who took Carnatic music to the masses and had a large
fan following, was seldom invited to perform by the Academy. Its coterie of
experts felt he diluted the sanctity of the music by making it lighter to
attract the common man, though his work cannot be faulted as a deviation from
the classical.
For a long time,
women were passed over for the honour. M. S. Subbulakshmi was the first to
receive the award as late as 1968. The late Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer told me
in an interview that in the early days, at the concerts in the weddings of the
rich, women from the family were not allowed to sit as part of the audience.
For a long time, music and dance were the domain of the devadasis.
With the exception of D. K. Pattammal, there were no Brahmin women musicians as
late as the 1980s. (It was Rukmini Arundale who brought respectability to music
and Bharatanatyam in later years.)
Strangely, today there
is no leading musician from the devadasi community. Vocalist
duo Brinda and Muktha, who belonged to the family of the legendary Veena
Dhanammal, were the last from that community. Singers Bombay Jayashri,
Nithyasree Mahadevan, S. Sowmya, Sudha Raghunathan, Aruna Sairam,
Ranjani-Gayatri, Gayathri Girish, Gayathri Venkataraghavan, and Vishaka Hari
are the most popular among today’s women singers and all of them are Brahmins.
It is also a fact that the majority of the audience comprises Brahmins. For
this reason, music festivals take place only in Brahmin-dominated south Chennai
and you see almost no such activity in north Chennai.
There is another fact
worth noting. A cursory glance at the Music Academy’s schedule for this year
reveals that out of 80 music concerts, only four feature non-Brahmin artistes.
Vocalists like Yesudas, Dandapani Desikar, Madurai Somu and Unnikrishnan had to
struggle to find acceptance in major sabhas. Yesudas and Unnikrishanan are as
good as anyone, but to sabhas, their real value is the huge audiences they
draw. Their fame as playback singers helps to fill the coffers.
In the Academy’s early
days, there was stiff opposition to Tamil songs. It was also an indirect way of
discouraging non-Brahmins from taking part. Ironically, it was Kalki
Krishnamurthi and Rajaji—both Brahmins—who spearheaded the Tamil Isai movement.
With M. S. Subbulakshmi in their company, they succeeded to some extent.
Several decades ago,
during the annual aradhana at the samadhi of
the saint-composer Thyagaraja in Thiruvaiyaru, the renowned Dandapani Desikar
was pulled down from the dais as he sang a Tamil song. One cannot dispute that
he violated the rule that only Thyagaraja keerthanas should be
sung at the festival. But what followed was an outrage. After he left the dais,
the organisers sprinkled water mixed with cow dung to “purify” the place!
Lecture
demonstrations in the morning have become the fashion of the day. Though open
to all, they seldom attract large audiences. Initially such intellectual
exercises were organised only by the Music Academy and the Tamil Isai Sangam,
but now almost all the sabhas follow the pattern. After all, they too must
demonstrate that they care.
During the festival,
there are at least four concerts a day. Leading musicians feature in the
evening slots, entry for which is by ticket. The less popular and emerging
artistes perform in the morning and afternoon. No entrance fee is charged for
these concerts.
The sabhas claim the
festival is intended to develop and spread Carnatic music. They charge heavily
for entrance to concerts by leading musicians, denying a true but poor
music-lover the chance of listening. T. M. Krishna, who invariably draws full
houses, has demanded that no entry fee be charged for his concerts. Sabhas have
to fall in line as they cannot afford to ignore an artiste of such prominence,
so thank you, Krishna.
The Tamil Isai Sangam,
started primarily to encourage Tamil songs in classical music, has its festival
run concurrently, though it does not consider itself a rival to the Academy. It
insists on Tamil songs only at its concerts, and the musicians participate
willingly.
In the morning Pann Araichi (a
research session on Tamil ragams), Tamil scholars and musicologists
sit together to bring out the great heritage of literature and music especially
pertaining to Thevaram, Thiruvasagam and Divya Prabandham,
devotional hymns of the 6th century. It is here that the Odhuvars—who
traditionally sing these hymns in the temples—get their due. Musicians who sing
mostly Telugu and Sanskrit kritis at other venues, sing only
Tamil keerthanas here.
There are a few
organisations that hold Tamil music festivals separately, but the response is
not encouraging. (While the Telugu and Sanskrit kritis of the
Musical Trinity have been set to music by the composers themselves, Tamil songs—except
those of Papanasam Sivan—are sung in different ragams by
different singers. Classical pieces become popular only when often repeated in
the same tune by all artistes.)
Starting with the
Eighties, the sabhas have mushroomed in number. Apart from
lecture-demonstrations and concerts, each also confers awards and titles with
Sanskrit names: Sangeetha Kalanidhi, Sangeetha Kala Poorna, Sangeetha
Choodamani, Sangeetha Kala Nipuna, and so on. Now they are finding it difficult
to conjure up Sanskrit titles.
There is another
problem as well, a shortage of eligible musicians. Eventually, it is possible
that there will be an award for every performer at the festival.
It appears that the
sabhas are more focussed on one-upmanship than development of music. At many
concerts, especially morning and afternoon programmes, artistes sing to empty
rows of seats. It is sad to see such tiny audience: hardly 20 people, mostly
friends and relatives of the artistes.
Even in the evening
slots at which renowned musicians perform to packed houses, the audience
comprises mostly grey-haired Brahmins and, to a lesser extent, youngsters;
mainly students of music. During the season, television channels organise music
concerts for an invited audience, to be edited and telecast live.
Compared to musicians
of the past, today’s artistes are educated and approach the art scientifically.
They are technology-savvy, greeting each other with “hi” instead of
“Namaskaram”, and know how to hold an audience.
But ardent lovers of music still feel they miss the bhava or feeling in the concerts of these days. They say the rasikas are confined to the elite and Brahmins and music has not reached the masses and the young. So there is a long way to go yet.