If on an evening, you find yourself in Chennai, do go visit a temple. Not the quiet ones in the bylanes, but the more boisterous ones that surround themselves with pomp and colour, just the right shade for a festival. You will find, amid the melee, the plaintive notes of the Nadaswaram, a reed instrument that has been practiced in the temples of South India for centuries. This particular sound is almost always complimented by a percussionist playing the thavil, another artefact of the temple tradition. Together, the sound they produce symbolises almost every transition in ritualistic sequence, detailed to the type of raga that is used, the composition that is performed for various aspects of the temple ritual, lasting till the deity is actually put to sleep.
For much of Indian cultural evolution and practice, music is not a standalone art form. It forms the crux of the cultural discourse, an important part of the axis that binds community, ritual, practice and social mores. Much of the music is ill-suited to the proscenium, often being crafted for different purposes altogether. Harvest songs, songs for community gatherings, wedding repertoire, temple ritual and even specific melodic exercises for children are part of the rubrics by which communities identify with one another, and keep their traditions and identities firmly rooted.
The Carnatic music form of South India is a rather interesting and rich tradition among the musical traditions of the world. For one, it is tremendously alive and vibrant, not just in South India but also in different ways around the world. It has set the base for a large part of South Indian film music, which has borrowed quite freely but then arranged and twisted it to fit an entirely different set of objectives. Indeed, South Indian cinema did much to disseminate the classical art music of South India to mass audiences, albeit in an indirect and obtuse manner at times.
Interestingly, the Carnatic form has also been receptive to a great number of innovations, especially in the sorts of instruments it has drawn into its fold. The European violin, for instance, finds an entry as late as the 19th century but has become near irreplaceable in the Carnatic context and performance formats of today. Tipped as being the one instrument that is as close as possible to the infinite flexibilities of the human voice, the violin has spawned different playing styles and traditions of its own in its comparatively brief but highly impactful history. Indeed, the TN Krishnan style, the Parur style (featuring artistes of the calibre of the late MS Gopalakrishnan), the Lalgudi style (three generations of a highly celebrated family of violinists – Lalgudi Gopala Iyer, Lalgudi Jayaraman and Lalgudi Krishnan and Vijayalakshmi) find practitioners among South Asians worldwide.
This is unique for two important reasons. Take any other classical tradition in the world – notably, the Western. Imports of instruments from other parts of the world are practically nonexistent. The reasons are many – socio-cultural hegemony theories abound, but the question of “temperament” in the musical structural context plays a far more important role. (Even in the Carnatic context, there have been variations effected on the instruments in question, in order to allow for a microtone-led melodic system to thrive). However, the notion that in a pocket of South India, we have had musicians and musicologists open enough to look at a more expansionary notion of musical palettes is highly noteworthy. While this observation may seem sweeping and superficial and may not hold up to the rigour of deeper sociological and historical analysis, the reality of these instruments finding strong and strident voices speaks its own self-evident truth of the vision of its proponents.
Second, these instruments aren’t merely adopted and then left to themselves. Their practitioners work hard to create and evolve formats and playing styles around these instruments, creating valuable pedagogy that can then be disseminated. It is in this way that these playing “styles” or “baanis” unique to the instrument are born, adding to the repository of the tradition. To put this in counter-perspective, the expansion in thought and ideology to welcome these oddities to the native tradition almost offers the reverse of the cultural supremacy theories that are now de rigeur in the cultural discourse of the elite.
How did this happen? The answers are varied and will be explored in subsequent columns.
Diffusion of innovation enjoys an exponential rate of growth within the Carnatic tradition. The mandolin (popularised, of course, by the late U Shrinivas) and, to some extent, the saxophone (Kadri Gopalnath being its leading practitioner) now have takers and whole schools of students aspiring to perform, all within the span of the last two decades (in some cases, even less). In recent years, less popular and successful imports include the guitar and the clarinet. The electronic keyboard and, of course, the piano have fewer takers given the intractable nature of these instruments and the aesthetic demands of the Carnatic tradition. But these instruments too find listeners, and a growing interest in their applicability within the tradition.
The habitat for any tradition usually allows for a process of evolution and change. The “open systems architecture” model of the Carnatic tradition has only served to underscore its strength and pliability. The organic manner in which so many unusual and non-native elements are assimilated and then internalised speaks of a unique socio-cultural character in the participants and shapers of the tradition.
When you do go visit the temple in Chennai, do not be surprised, for you are equally likely to find someone playing the clarinet instead of the Nadaswaram. And if you are lucky enough to hit that one rare temple among a thousand, the trombone.
Anil Srinivasan is credited with introducing the piano to the South Indian classical musical palette in his pathbreaking collaborations with several leading musicians in the field. He is also a music educator.
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For much of Indian cultural evolution and practice, music is not a standalone art form. It forms the crux of the cultural discourse, an important part of the axis that binds community, ritual, practice and social mores. Much of the music is ill-suited to the proscenium, often being crafted for different purposes altogether. Harvest songs, songs for community gatherings, wedding repertoire, temple ritual and even specific melodic exercises for children are part of the rubrics by which communities identify with one another, and keep their traditions and identities firmly rooted.
The Carnatic music form of South India is a rather interesting and rich tradition among the musical traditions of the world. For one, it is tremendously alive and vibrant, not just in South India but also in different ways around the world. It has set the base for a large part of South Indian film music, which has borrowed quite freely but then arranged and twisted it to fit an entirely different set of objectives. Indeed, South Indian cinema did much to disseminate the classical art music of South India to mass audiences, albeit in an indirect and obtuse manner at times.
Interestingly, the Carnatic form has also been receptive to a great number of innovations, especially in the sorts of instruments it has drawn into its fold. The European violin, for instance, finds an entry as late as the 19th century but has become near irreplaceable in the Carnatic context and performance formats of today. Tipped as being the one instrument that is as close as possible to the infinite flexibilities of the human voice, the violin has spawned different playing styles and traditions of its own in its comparatively brief but highly impactful history. Indeed, the TN Krishnan style, the Parur style (featuring artistes of the calibre of the late MS Gopalakrishnan), the Lalgudi style (three generations of a highly celebrated family of violinists – Lalgudi Gopala Iyer, Lalgudi Jayaraman and Lalgudi Krishnan and Vijayalakshmi) find practitioners among South Asians worldwide.
This is unique for two important reasons. Take any other classical tradition in the world – notably, the Western. Imports of instruments from other parts of the world are practically nonexistent. The reasons are many – socio-cultural hegemony theories abound, but the question of “temperament” in the musical structural context plays a far more important role. (Even in the Carnatic context, there have been variations effected on the instruments in question, in order to allow for a microtone-led melodic system to thrive). However, the notion that in a pocket of South India, we have had musicians and musicologists open enough to look at a more expansionary notion of musical palettes is highly noteworthy. While this observation may seem sweeping and superficial and may not hold up to the rigour of deeper sociological and historical analysis, the reality of these instruments finding strong and strident voices speaks its own self-evident truth of the vision of its proponents.
Second, these instruments aren’t merely adopted and then left to themselves. Their practitioners work hard to create and evolve formats and playing styles around these instruments, creating valuable pedagogy that can then be disseminated. It is in this way that these playing “styles” or “baanis” unique to the instrument are born, adding to the repository of the tradition. To put this in counter-perspective, the expansion in thought and ideology to welcome these oddities to the native tradition almost offers the reverse of the cultural supremacy theories that are now de rigeur in the cultural discourse of the elite.
How did this happen? The answers are varied and will be explored in subsequent columns.
Diffusion of innovation enjoys an exponential rate of growth within the Carnatic tradition. The mandolin (popularised, of course, by the late U Shrinivas) and, to some extent, the saxophone (Kadri Gopalnath being its leading practitioner) now have takers and whole schools of students aspiring to perform, all within the span of the last two decades (in some cases, even less). In recent years, less popular and successful imports include the guitar and the clarinet. The electronic keyboard and, of course, the piano have fewer takers given the intractable nature of these instruments and the aesthetic demands of the Carnatic tradition. But these instruments too find listeners, and a growing interest in their applicability within the tradition.
The habitat for any tradition usually allows for a process of evolution and change. The “open systems architecture” model of the Carnatic tradition has only served to underscore its strength and pliability. The organic manner in which so many unusual and non-native elements are assimilated and then internalised speaks of a unique socio-cultural character in the participants and shapers of the tradition.
When you do go visit the temple in Chennai, do not be surprised, for you are equally likely to find someone playing the clarinet instead of the Nadaswaram. And if you are lucky enough to hit that one rare temple among a thousand, the trombone.
Anil Srinivasan is credited with introducing the piano to the South Indian classical musical palette in his pathbreaking collaborations with several leading musicians in the field. He is also a music educator.
