Five Songs for the Week — 12
One: Karaikurichi P Arunachalam — Ragam + Pallavi (Raga Thodi with Ragamalika Swaras)
Everytime I set down to write even a paragraph on nadaswaram music, I go into a tizzy. Mainly because it is the part of the Carnatic music realm I am the least familiar with and it is a realm of its own. None of the rules seem to apply. It has an idiom that is so different from the modern vocal concert tradition that we are familiar with.
Take the alapana, for instance. Of course it’s different in that the thavil players are involved, providing a seemingly mystical backdrop to proceedings — is it even correct to call it a percussive backdrop? But without a tala to guide them during the alapana, how do they know what stroke to play when, what force propels their fingers? And the construct of the alapana itself — no, construct seems too strong a word — there is no construct! The nadaswaram is a law unto itself — it wanders here, wanders there — seemingly unbothered with taking you along by the hand. Your role is to observe and gawp at the alapana, not to be wowed by narrative or educated by a Lonely Planet type pull-out map of the raga. And it could end at any time, no neat gift wrapping service here — it simply ends when it is time to move on.
Or take the Ragam-Tanam-Pallavi (RTP), that which vocalists extol as the pinnacle of viruosity, of Carnatic Music itself. With its opaque rules, with its own festivals, and awards, quixotic talas accompanied by wafty unfamiliar hand motions. And the frankly boring and meaningless repetition of the pallavi line in too many speeds. The RTP, which in the hands of male chauvinists was bandied about as the benchmark achievement by which to bestow upon women the stamp of “fellow artiste”. The Nadaswaram world seems to lay waste to the RTP. First, dispensing with the tanam altogether (whether on aesthetic or technical grounds, I am not sure, or perhaps it was never part of their world to begin with). And then with the swaras that follow the pallavi— they emerge innocuously as distinct notes, but often completely unencumbered by the tala cycle. And if as if collectively bursting out of their form, giving up all pretence, they morph into a full blown alapana, before re-emerging on the scene again as swaras, like a long-lost prodigal son, accompanied by a burst of thavil strokes in attendance.
All of these characteristics are demonstrated in this magnificent piece of music. The way to enjoy the piece is to just surrender to the irrefutable swagger of it all. Apart from the alapana experience itself, the mind-blowing part of this exposition (for me, at least) is the ragamalika portion (Kambhoji, Shubhapantuvarali, Kaanada, Anandabhairavi). In particular, the short Kambhoji exposition bursts on to the scene and is the most quickly comprehensive and majestic few minutes of Kambhoji I can remember having ever heard. Note also the fantastic range of ‘gumki’ tones produced by the thavil artistes throughout the swara portion, which I have commented on before.
The piece starts at about 01:02:53 and the ragamalika portion begins at about 01:44:00.
Two: Ramnad Krishnan — Anyayamu Seyakura (Raga Karnataka Kapi, Thyagaraja)
Ramnad Krishnan is a favourite of mine, and I have written before of the pivotal role his music played in my listening journey. There is relatively little of his recordings available online, with many concerts featuring the same ragas or songs. I was delighted therefore to discover this concert, with some unlikely pieces.
I was flummoxed by this kriti, listed as tuned to the raga Kaanada. First, I thought I was familiar with all the Thyagaraja pieces in the raga Kaanada, and was therefore both surprised and delighted at the discovery. I did not think much of it during my first listening of the song. But then, when settling down to feature the song on this blog, I listened to it and went down a bit of a rabbit hole. You may skip reading the the next few paras if you’d like — you have been warned!
The very brief alapana did not quite sound like Kaanada, but I could not quite pinpoint how it was different. And as I listened to it again, I thought it sounded like a distinct mix of Kaanada and Darbar, like some of the famous ‘jod’ raags of some Hindustani khyal traditions. I then googled the song to find that it was in some places listed as a composition in the raga Kapi (and even discovered renditions of the song in the raga), and thought it would be very uncharacteristic of Ramnad Krishnan to change the tuning to Kaanada. I even found it listed as Kapi Narayani which is entirely different!
Then two things happened. I discovered this video on YouTube, billed ‘The Original Karnataka Kapi’, featuring the same song, rendered by Ramnad Krishnan! Apparently this was in the raga Karnataka Kapi. And perhaps I could go easy on myself for not having recognised the raga, as apparently the Karnataka Kapi ‘of old’ is quite different from the Karnataka Kapi heard today (presumably, a la Suma Sayaka, arguably the best known song in the raga). And then, I discovered this summary of a discussion in the Music Academy in 2008. The panel consisted of experts such as Chingelput Ranganathan, Suguna Purshothaman, Ritha Rajan, R.S.Jayalakshmi and N.Ramanathan and the topic of discussion was “Rāga-s: Rudrapriyā, Karṇāṭaka-kāpi, Darbār and Kānaḍā–A Comparative Analysis”.
And to my absolute delight, I read this:
So I was not mistaken, the ‘original’ Karnataka Kapi is indeed akin to a mix of Kanada and Darbar, my ears did not deceive me!
So without further ado, and with a little pat for my own back, here is Ramnad Krishnan singing Thyagaraja’s Anayayamu Seyakura in the raga Karnataka Kapi.
The piece begins at the 01:30:00 mark.
Three: T Brinda and T Muktha — Brova Samayam Ide (Raga Gowri Manohari, Garbhapurivasa)
I was delighted to come across this piece. I haven’t heard it in a long, long time. The last time I recall listening to it was Sanjay Subrahmanyam singing it as part of a commercial release, perhaps in the 1990s. The sisters’ rendition is crisp and energetic.
As an aside, ‘Garbhapurivasa’ is actually a collective name given to four composers, three of them brothers, from the late 18th and early 19th century. You can read more about them here (though the article incorrectly says they composed in Kannada, while they clearly composed in Telugu).
The song begins at 00:37:55.
Another note — which part of the composition do you remember the most? For me it was the the pallavi line “nera nammina variki niratamu” just before the kalpanaswaras. But notice the cadence of how it was composed and rendered. I heard it as neranamm -inavar - ikineer - atamu. Did you? Did the splitting of the words in such a dramatic manner diminish or enhance your engagement with the music? For that matter, do you know what “nera nammina variki niratamu” means specifically? Does knowing or not knowing change the way you engage the music? Points to ponder (as Reader’s Digest may say).
Four: TK Govinda Rao — Gajavadana Beduve (Raga Dhanyasi, lyrics by Purandara Dasa)
As I have noted before, many songs from early composers are actually hybrid creations across eras. We may have the words, and perhaps even the raga in which they were originally composed, but not the original tunes themselves. The tunes have been created later. One of my favourite examples is Gajavadana Beduve, by Purandara Dasa, which has been variously tuned in Hamsadhwani, Gambheera Nattai and Sriranjani ragas. Here is TK Govinda Rao singing the song in Dhanyasi, one of my favourite ragas. The rendition is quick, unhurried and sans neraval or swaras, which is somewhat unusual for an early piece in a concert. Madras Lalitangi (also known as ML Vasanthakumari’s mother), who was one of the first to popularise and notate many Purandara Dasa kritis, also sang it in this raga. Perhaps the tuning his hers.
The song begins at the 00:08:15 mark.
Five: S Sowmya — Nadadina Mata (Raga Janaranjani, Thyagaraja)
I have always preferred the raga Poornachandrika to Janaranjani. While they have similar scales, the former seems more ‘tightly’ conceived and expressed, with Janaranjani giving a slight impression of soppiness, of a slight artifice in sentiment. Having said this, I heard S Sowmya’s rendition of the famous Pahimam Shri Rajarajeshwari in Janaranjani a few decades ago, and it has always stayed with me.
Here is Sowmya rendering another famous piece in the raga — Thyagaraja’s Nadanida Mata. In a wide ranging interview, Sowmya spoke of how she has had to make adjustments to her delivery of music, with the passing of time, and the insensitivity of remarks, especially directed at women artistes, on how they may have been when they were younger versus how they are and sound as they grow older. She also spoke of how early in her career, many stalwart male percussionists refused to accompany her, by virtue of her gender, but wanted to do so once she became established and much-awarded. And of how she stuck to the co-artistes such as Neyveli Narayanan who have supported her from the very beginning.
This piece demonstrates that she remains a compelling, authentic artiste, supremely secure in what she has to offer. She imbues the piece with a grandeur and heft that I do not usually associate with the raga, by choosing the right tempo for both the alapana and the piece, and with subtle modulations. The percussion support is also superb, and the combination of the unhurried rendition of the lines with the filigree of strokes in the interstices of syllables conjures just the right enveloping effect. I was especially taken by delicacy with which she sings the charanam line ‘talaku vacchina…’.
The song begins at the 00:41:49 mark.
