Sunday, November 23, 2008
Monday, June 30, 2008
hiatus maximus
For those who don't know, the reason I haven't been writing lately is that I've been hard at work in rehearsals for Songs for a New World. Which runs July 11-20th at Grandstreet Theatre in Helena. It's already been a very rewarding musical experience for me, reaching levels I hadn't thought possible in only a week so far. This is one show not to be missed!
I will try to keep processing in the little free time I have, and get back to the blog. In the meantime, come see me in Helena if you're around, and we'll catch up.
I will try to keep processing in the little free time I have, and get back to the blog. In the meantime, come see me in Helena if you're around, and we'll catch up.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Great Conversations
I've just finished reading William Dalrymple’s memoir of living in Delhi, “City of Djinns.” I have many thoughts about the book, and take some issue with his attitudes to portraying India’s (in particular, Delhi’s) history as just a succession of rulers with their own architectural styles. I only want to mention one reaction, however, which is that I generally sympathize with his approach to India. He’s British, but comes from a background relatively similar to mine, in terms of education and attraction to India. He spent a year in Delhi, and he creates his memoir of experience out of three main components – 1) research he pursues on his own in the form of written texts and treatises, 2) subjective reactions to living and moving in daily Indian life (as with me, the most entertaining and bizarre category), and 3) incredibly insightful conversations with English-speaking Indians that link the first two categories together.
It is this last category, the conversations, which I want to write a little about today. It’s impossible to overstate the enlightening effect these single conversations have in the context of India. I felt myself straddling an ever-widening gulf, reading about the long and great histories of culture and music in North India, and then going out every day into the chaos, the frustrating back-and-forth, the material-craving attitudes of the street and the temples. Between the two, I was losing grip of any knowledge or understanding I might have gained up to that point – then, over the course of a single sit-down with a scholar or friend, all of that would suddenly smash together into a cohesive picture (perhaps still illogical, but that’s India). I would rush off after these encounters, racing against time while my eyes were still open, and try to transcribe as many of the things that made sense to me. This is maybe the power with which Indians view their own country, holding the jigsaw puzzle together whereas a Westerner is undone by the fact that the lines don’t actually meet up.
Here I’ll summarize what I scribbled down after a lunch with my friend Dhruv at a café in S. Delhi. By way of introduction, he is a very accomplished singer who makes his living giving concerts and making recordings. He has performed internationally, most recently in Berlin, and has numerous engagements and talent representation in N. India. He knows Indian classical music very well, having studied from an early age, but most often refers to himself as a “sufi singer” since he personally studied under perhaps the most famous South Asian singer of all time, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
Dhruv talked about times that he’s collaborated with Western musicians, and said that he can tell when they have preconceived notions about him. In these instances, they think that their music (based on Western harmony and polyphony) is more complicated and advanced than Indian music, and that their training was undoubtedly better because they have been to top-name conservatories. He joked that the feels they initially view him as some kind of Barbarian, an emissary of a primitive age and culture.
Of course, the upshot, as he (not too modestly) tells it, is that once they are confronted with the fact that he has a technical skill, they are taken aback. To hear Dhruv tell it, the musical training he has is more useful than a Western conservatory. “Indians are the best copycats in the World”, he said repeatedly, “why else do you think they, along with the Chinese, are surging ahead now?” Though I've heard this sentiment most often applied in finance, manufacturing, and marketing, here means it through musical collaboration. In other words, because the whole progression of his learning has been by ear and through repetition, instead of notation, he can imitate complicated figures that Western musicians play, but when he rips off a long taan (improvisation) they’re left wondering, ‘How’d he do that?’
I appreciate hearing all this, and frankly agree for the most part. A part of me can sympathize with the engrained notion that Western music is superior, more complex, and that because of my top-rate education I would expect to ‘know more’ about music writ-large than an Indian musician. But at times, like speaking to Dhruv, that notion was turned on its head. With him, I see the usefulness, more fundamental even than understanding Bach’s tonality and Hanon’s exercises, of merging one’s ear and skills in imitation. It seems truer to the Source, the reason of why we make music - the fact that we hear, distinguish, and react to sounds. Moving on from the comparison that is not too favorable to the West (although he admits that the greatest Western musicians do ‘get it’), he gave me a neat demonstration of incorporating Arab-style modes into particular Sufi songs. My ear was open enough that I could hear what he was doing, and it was another minor revelation about how aware performers and audiences of North Indian music are to the saturation of their culture from Arab and Persian influence.
The other big area we discussed, of great interest to me, was the all-encompassing process of learning Indian music. Since we are both vocalists, I thought we would have a lot of notes to compare (no pun intended). I mentioned something that had dawned on me, that being in the right state of mind and body seemed absolutely crucial to singing Indian music – I think I get away with practicing other music whether or not I’m really feeling focused on it. My friend agreed completely, saying both that singing ragas makes you reflect more readily on what your state is, but on the flip side, that all the complex vibrato and three-octave improvisations of ragas just don’t happen unless you are truly concentrating. Hence, this idea I always like to think of from a rational perspective, saying that I prefer ‘thinking musicians’, Dhruv put simply as, “Music is transmitting to the outside what is on the inside.” One thing about Indian philosophy and arts that is refreshing is the willingness to put things directly, avoiding the flowery, intellectual language we sometimes deem necessary in order to sound ‘intelligent’ or ‘cultured’.
And finally, we briefly tackled the guru-shisya relationship, which translates as master-disciple. This is still the true, accepted way of learning Indian music, despite the fact that there now exist many conservatories and private schools in the Western mold. The guru-shisya doesn’t just pertain to music, of course, the same thing is held as the ideal whether one is learning yoga, classical dance, etc. One fundamental of this relationship, as referenced above, is the methodology of imitation. The guru does, the shishya imitates. This is, essentially what I had with my ragi. The other thing that must be present, Dhruv says, is often more difficult for Westerners (again I include myself) to swallow, “the teather is always right, the student is always wrong.” While I didn’t launch into any personal example with Dhruv, I do find this absolute mentality to be distasteful. Not only were there many times that I knew my teacher had misspoken and wanted to correct him, but giving that kind of absolute power, history has shown us again and again, can be ruinous to all parties. As a defense of it, though, Dhruv said that what Westerners misunderstand the relationship in thinking it’s just another thing that 'Indians do because it’s expected', whereas he understands it as each artist choosing to humble him or herself by submitting to that relationship, which is very spiritually healthy.
It is this last category, the conversations, which I want to write a little about today. It’s impossible to overstate the enlightening effect these single conversations have in the context of India. I felt myself straddling an ever-widening gulf, reading about the long and great histories of culture and music in North India, and then going out every day into the chaos, the frustrating back-and-forth, the material-craving attitudes of the street and the temples. Between the two, I was losing grip of any knowledge or understanding I might have gained up to that point – then, over the course of a single sit-down with a scholar or friend, all of that would suddenly smash together into a cohesive picture (perhaps still illogical, but that’s India). I would rush off after these encounters, racing against time while my eyes were still open, and try to transcribe as many of the things that made sense to me. This is maybe the power with which Indians view their own country, holding the jigsaw puzzle together whereas a Westerner is undone by the fact that the lines don’t actually meet up.
Here I’ll summarize what I scribbled down after a lunch with my friend Dhruv at a café in S. Delhi. By way of introduction, he is a very accomplished singer who makes his living giving concerts and making recordings. He has performed internationally, most recently in Berlin, and has numerous engagements and talent representation in N. India. He knows Indian classical music very well, having studied from an early age, but most often refers to himself as a “sufi singer” since he personally studied under perhaps the most famous South Asian singer of all time, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
Dhruv talked about times that he’s collaborated with Western musicians, and said that he can tell when they have preconceived notions about him. In these instances, they think that their music (based on Western harmony and polyphony) is more complicated and advanced than Indian music, and that their training was undoubtedly better because they have been to top-name conservatories. He joked that the feels they initially view him as some kind of Barbarian, an emissary of a primitive age and culture.
Of course, the upshot, as he (not too modestly) tells it, is that once they are confronted with the fact that he has a technical skill, they are taken aback. To hear Dhruv tell it, the musical training he has is more useful than a Western conservatory. “Indians are the best copycats in the World”, he said repeatedly, “why else do you think they, along with the Chinese, are surging ahead now?” Though I've heard this sentiment most often applied in finance, manufacturing, and marketing, here means it through musical collaboration. In other words, because the whole progression of his learning has been by ear and through repetition, instead of notation, he can imitate complicated figures that Western musicians play, but when he rips off a long taan (improvisation) they’re left wondering, ‘How’d he do that?’
I appreciate hearing all this, and frankly agree for the most part. A part of me can sympathize with the engrained notion that Western music is superior, more complex, and that because of my top-rate education I would expect to ‘know more’ about music writ-large than an Indian musician. But at times, like speaking to Dhruv, that notion was turned on its head. With him, I see the usefulness, more fundamental even than understanding Bach’s tonality and Hanon’s exercises, of merging one’s ear and skills in imitation. It seems truer to the Source, the reason of why we make music - the fact that we hear, distinguish, and react to sounds. Moving on from the comparison that is not too favorable to the West (although he admits that the greatest Western musicians do ‘get it’), he gave me a neat demonstration of incorporating Arab-style modes into particular Sufi songs. My ear was open enough that I could hear what he was doing, and it was another minor revelation about how aware performers and audiences of North Indian music are to the saturation of their culture from Arab and Persian influence.
The other big area we discussed, of great interest to me, was the all-encompassing process of learning Indian music. Since we are both vocalists, I thought we would have a lot of notes to compare (no pun intended). I mentioned something that had dawned on me, that being in the right state of mind and body seemed absolutely crucial to singing Indian music – I think I get away with practicing other music whether or not I’m really feeling focused on it. My friend agreed completely, saying both that singing ragas makes you reflect more readily on what your state is, but on the flip side, that all the complex vibrato and three-octave improvisations of ragas just don’t happen unless you are truly concentrating. Hence, this idea I always like to think of from a rational perspective, saying that I prefer ‘thinking musicians’, Dhruv put simply as, “Music is transmitting to the outside what is on the inside.” One thing about Indian philosophy and arts that is refreshing is the willingness to put things directly, avoiding the flowery, intellectual language we sometimes deem necessary in order to sound ‘intelligent’ or ‘cultured’.
And finally, we briefly tackled the guru-shisya relationship, which translates as master-disciple. This is still the true, accepted way of learning Indian music, despite the fact that there now exist many conservatories and private schools in the Western mold. The guru-shisya doesn’t just pertain to music, of course, the same thing is held as the ideal whether one is learning yoga, classical dance, etc. One fundamental of this relationship, as referenced above, is the methodology of imitation. The guru does, the shishya imitates. This is, essentially what I had with my ragi. The other thing that must be present, Dhruv says, is often more difficult for Westerners (again I include myself) to swallow, “the teather is always right, the student is always wrong.” While I didn’t launch into any personal example with Dhruv, I do find this absolute mentality to be distasteful. Not only were there many times that I knew my teacher had misspoken and wanted to correct him, but giving that kind of absolute power, history has shown us again and again, can be ruinous to all parties. As a defense of it, though, Dhruv said that what Westerners misunderstand the relationship in thinking it’s just another thing that 'Indians do because it’s expected', whereas he understands it as each artist choosing to humble him or herself by submitting to that relationship, which is very spiritually healthy.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Bhakti Utsav Revelation
Slightly on a different line, this blog ‘post’ is actually going to be a transcription of some field notes. Obviously I’ll fix grammatical shorthands that I used, and probably have to improvise a bit where I can’t read my scribble. In the course of my traveling the length of India in the second half of my trip, I left my laptop back in Amritsar, rendering me without any note-taking device more efficient than found pens and bazaar-purchased notebooks. It was one of these notebooks that I scribbled a few pages called “Bhakti Utsav revelation”.
Bhakti Utsav was a concert I attended at the beginning of April in Delhi. Christi and Kirsten had just left, but I stayed a few extra days in Delhi in order to go to this concert. The setting was pretty spectacular, outside in Nehru Park just after sunset.
You can see the amazing display of marigolds and hanging candles, adorning a tree, which served as the stage. It was billed as “A 3-day festival celebrating the diverse ways of reaching out and beyond through music”. Although I attended only the first day, it was shortly after that that I scribbled down these notes about the “revelation”, because I sensed how big an effect it had on me:
*****
Hard to know if ‘revelation’ is the right word exactly, but it did feel like that. It was perhaps more a crystallization, or a ‘SNAP’ of my whole awareness catching up with what I had read and been told, joining with something that seemed to be al around me as I sat there listening.
The realization is something in the direction of ‘music is a means to spiritual realization’ (because it has the freeing effect of calming inner disturbances). I was aware, because I spent so much time tracking down music while there, that music in India isn’t always practically treated as a ‘means’ – the emphasis on gharanas (schools of technique), style, on needing to know pure musical technique before performing or listening in a temple.
This revelation was accumulating throughout the concert. The first pieces were by no means calming or clarifying, but had a very direct style with interesting timbres that held my attention. In them I perceived a singular structure that starkly alternated musical textures – all these songs have a simple structure and proportion, but here it was as though the skeleton was on the outside.
Then the young man’s singing, which was remarkable not for its beauty (his voice was a little hoarse and light) but for the intention that was so palpable. In his songs I heard interesting play with the ragas, lines that were varied and well-shaped, clear and interesting taans (improvisations).
The third group, Qawwali brothers from Pakistan brought the fun and joy into it. Not only did the brothers seem affable individuals, they were clearly having fun – they threw taans back and forth, competing to extend the farthest (the rapid imitation of ‘bol’ taan with ‘aah’ taan). At one point between before starting a new refrain, I think the older brother told a joke (in Hindi or Urdu), the punchline of which was the first sung line.
The fourth performance did the heavy lifting of deepening me to that Mystery place. Taking the stage in the third continuous hour of the concert, this singer was accompanied on tanpura, tabla, pakhawaj and flute. Her bhajans were shorter (~5 mins) than songs the others had done, allowing her to fit more songs into her segment and therefore display a wider range. The first ones were lively, her voice and the flute intertwining right on top of eachother in the improvisations. Her ragas at first were pretty straightforward (as had the previous group’s been), but later she sang more thorny ragas, which seemed to bridge a gulf from my understanding of Indian classical music to another place.
I noticed a growing tendency in my listening to forget the superficial analysis I usually did in my head while listening to Indian singers – such as ‘which named note is she on?’ or ‘what is a characteristic leap in this raga?’ At some point, I was only catching the endings of her phrases, where sometimes there was a familiar pattern. Everything in between, though, seemed at a distance, or through a haze, from my brain. Of course, I was still seated on the grass, and not on any altering substances, it’s just that I can only describe the music as wandering through territories I couldn’t follow. I also remember that the flute player was silent more often as her improvisations progressed, seemingly sympathetic to my notion that the singer was off in uncharted territory.
This obscurity, though, is what enabled Bombay Jayeshri to hit me with full force. There was a long pause before she came on as the fifth and final singer (I think the violin player was re-tuning both of the tanpuras). In addition to the violin, two young female singers backed up Bombayji, and there was a tabla player and (S. Indian) clay-pot player. By the time this group came to the stage, we were in the fourth hour of the concert, and I was thinking about being tired, about how I was going to get back to my hotel on the other side of the city at this late hour, about the mosquito bites, etc. She began, and I made mental notes of a few details as I tried to make myself listen with attention:
The whole emanation of their music was very calm. The tabla and pot players were silent, except for playing finger cymbals on regular beats. The violin player stayed under the three voices in dynamics, but played hushed, wheeling figures, like some kind of consonant cadenza. The secondary singers would pick up and repeat a line that Bombayji sang (all one-word names of God – some I recognized, like Shiv, but others not), and his enabled Bombayji’s voice to create harmonic lines against the rocking repetitions.
All of sudden, as they were reaching the end of this lilting introductory section, something clicked and I realized, like waking abruptly from a dream, that I hadn’t ever been truly listening. Immediately all my trying to understand simple fell away from my body. Though I was, strictly speaking, analytically aware of what transpired in the music, it didn’t dominate my other reactions. With this realization, suddenly every part of me was listening and overwhelmed at the immensity (which was immense because I seemed surrounded by it) of the calm bliss in what Bombayji and the other musicians were creating (a better word is probably emanating, it truly felt distinct from the live creation of an artist). Tears welled up in my eyes, and I felt bigger beyond my bounds than in a long while.
I put this transcription up here first, but next I would like to deal with my post-Revelation experience of hearing devotional music. Even compare, if I can, listening to Sikh kirtan or qawwali before and after this moment in time. I also want to use a little bit of Alduous Huxley to talk about the opening of these ‘doors of perception’. And finally, I want to remind myself and you, just so the record is straight, that this did occur in a ‘concert’ setting – something intentionally advocated as devotional music, and an evening that drew from at least four distinct traditions – and that Bombay Jayeshri, and the others, are truly world-class performers. As I continue to reflect on that fact, it is possible that my experience at the moment was because of me ‘opening the doors’, but it is also possible that it was not an accident, and not totally of my doing. Maybe someone of Bombayji’s caliber has the control (power? devotion?) to be able to do that.
Bhakti Utsav was a concert I attended at the beginning of April in Delhi. Christi and Kirsten had just left, but I stayed a few extra days in Delhi in order to go to this concert. The setting was pretty spectacular, outside in Nehru Park just after sunset.
You can see the amazing display of marigolds and hanging candles, adorning a tree, which served as the stage. It was billed as “A 3-day festival celebrating the diverse ways of reaching out and beyond through music”. Although I attended only the first day, it was shortly after that that I scribbled down these notes about the “revelation”, because I sensed how big an effect it had on me:
*****
Hard to know if ‘revelation’ is the right word exactly, but it did feel like that. It was perhaps more a crystallization, or a ‘SNAP’ of my whole awareness catching up with what I had read and been told, joining with something that seemed to be al around me as I sat there listening.
The realization is something in the direction of ‘music is a means to spiritual realization’ (because it has the freeing effect of calming inner disturbances). I was aware, because I spent so much time tracking down music while there, that music in India isn’t always practically treated as a ‘means’ – the emphasis on gharanas (schools of technique), style, on needing to know pure musical technique before performing or listening in a temple.
This revelation was accumulating throughout the concert. The first pieces were by no means calming or clarifying, but had a very direct style with interesting timbres that held my attention. In them I perceived a singular structure that starkly alternated musical textures – all these songs have a simple structure and proportion, but here it was as though the skeleton was on the outside.
Then the young man’s singing, which was remarkable not for its beauty (his voice was a little hoarse and light) but for the intention that was so palpable. In his songs I heard interesting play with the ragas, lines that were varied and well-shaped, clear and interesting taans (improvisations).
The third group, Qawwali brothers from Pakistan brought the fun and joy into it. Not only did the brothers seem affable individuals, they were clearly having fun – they threw taans back and forth, competing to extend the farthest (the rapid imitation of ‘bol’ taan with ‘aah’ taan). At one point between before starting a new refrain, I think the older brother told a joke (in Hindi or Urdu), the punchline of which was the first sung line.
The fourth performance did the heavy lifting of deepening me to that Mystery place. Taking the stage in the third continuous hour of the concert, this singer was accompanied on tanpura, tabla, pakhawaj and flute. Her bhajans were shorter (~5 mins) than songs the others had done, allowing her to fit more songs into her segment and therefore display a wider range. The first ones were lively, her voice and the flute intertwining right on top of eachother in the improvisations. Her ragas at first were pretty straightforward (as had the previous group’s been), but later she sang more thorny ragas, which seemed to bridge a gulf from my understanding of Indian classical music to another place.
I noticed a growing tendency in my listening to forget the superficial analysis I usually did in my head while listening to Indian singers – such as ‘which named note is she on?’ or ‘what is a characteristic leap in this raga?’ At some point, I was only catching the endings of her phrases, where sometimes there was a familiar pattern. Everything in between, though, seemed at a distance, or through a haze, from my brain. Of course, I was still seated on the grass, and not on any altering substances, it’s just that I can only describe the music as wandering through territories I couldn’t follow. I also remember that the flute player was silent more often as her improvisations progressed, seemingly sympathetic to my notion that the singer was off in uncharted territory.
This obscurity, though, is what enabled Bombay Jayeshri to hit me with full force. There was a long pause before she came on as the fifth and final singer (I think the violin player was re-tuning both of the tanpuras). In addition to the violin, two young female singers backed up Bombayji, and there was a tabla player and (S. Indian) clay-pot player. By the time this group came to the stage, we were in the fourth hour of the concert, and I was thinking about being tired, about how I was going to get back to my hotel on the other side of the city at this late hour, about the mosquito bites, etc. She began, and I made mental notes of a few details as I tried to make myself listen with attention:
The whole emanation of their music was very calm. The tabla and pot players were silent, except for playing finger cymbals on regular beats. The violin player stayed under the three voices in dynamics, but played hushed, wheeling figures, like some kind of consonant cadenza. The secondary singers would pick up and repeat a line that Bombayji sang (all one-word names of God – some I recognized, like Shiv, but others not), and his enabled Bombayji’s voice to create harmonic lines against the rocking repetitions.
All of sudden, as they were reaching the end of this lilting introductory section, something clicked and I realized, like waking abruptly from a dream, that I hadn’t ever been truly listening. Immediately all my trying to understand simple fell away from my body. Though I was, strictly speaking, analytically aware of what transpired in the music, it didn’t dominate my other reactions. With this realization, suddenly every part of me was listening and overwhelmed at the immensity (which was immense because I seemed surrounded by it) of the calm bliss in what Bombayji and the other musicians were creating (a better word is probably emanating, it truly felt distinct from the live creation of an artist). Tears welled up in my eyes, and I felt bigger beyond my bounds than in a long while.
I put this transcription up here first, but next I would like to deal with my post-Revelation experience of hearing devotional music. Even compare, if I can, listening to Sikh kirtan or qawwali before and after this moment in time. I also want to use a little bit of Alduous Huxley to talk about the opening of these ‘doors of perception’. And finally, I want to remind myself and you, just so the record is straight, that this did occur in a ‘concert’ setting – something intentionally advocated as devotional music, and an evening that drew from at least four distinct traditions – and that Bombay Jayeshri, and the others, are truly world-class performers. As I continue to reflect on that fact, it is possible that my experience at the moment was because of me ‘opening the doors’, but it is also possible that it was not an accident, and not totally of my doing. Maybe someone of Bombayji’s caliber has the control (power? devotion?) to be able to do that.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Anaskati Ashram
Pressing on in my quest to write up these experiences, I'll return to a singularly moving and concise one that occurred while Christi and Kirsten were visiting. We had taken a series of buses and taxis to a mountain town called Kausani, which amounted to little more than a crossroads on top of a ridge with a few bazaar stands and hotels boasting views of the Himalayas. We opted for lodging in what lonely planet referred to as "hobbit huts" a few miles down the ridge and we soon came to refer to as "heaven". The lush green surroundings (unfortunately made more lush by the downpour that accompanied our arrival and first day) led down through tea fields to a steep valley. Under clear conditions, we were supposed to have a magnificent vantage of the Himalayas, but at first we had only partially-obscured glimpses like this:
We had three days to wait for the weather to clear, and were determined to do so because, after all, we came at least 14 hours out of our way to get to this point and see the view. To kill time, we followed one of Lonely Planet's recommendations and walked a few miles uphill to the Anaskati Ashram. This modest, but well-situated, ashram is more famously nicknamed the Gandhi Ashram because the Mahatma came and stayed here while he was working on a translation of the Bhagavad Gita. We arrived just in time for a prayer service in Gandhi's honor, held daily at 7pm - which, because it was Spring and very cloudy, had us scrambling the last half-mile in near-dark and mist, drawn only to the right building by the ringing of a ceremonial bell.
As we entered, there were a few men, wrapped in thick grey shawls, seated on the floor against a long wall. The walls were crowded with many black and white photos of Gandhiji throughout his life. One man, who we would call the 'manager' but who called himself only a 'servant', handed us laminated sheets containing the prayers in Hindi. As an afterthought, he asked if we spoke Hindi and I proudly said "tora tora" ("a little bit"). Though we were the first ones in, a few other people braved the rain and cold, removing their shoes (as we had) and stepping into the room: two pilgrims from Bengal, a family from South India, an older gentleman from California, and another Bengali stationed in the Air Force at Jodhpur, whose wife and one-year-old were asleep in a guestroom of the ashram (they were staying in Kausani because of his wife's dissertation research on hunter/naturalist Jim Corbett).
On some unknown cue, the 'servants' of the temple started intoning the prayers. There was no graspable musical pattern to the chant, so we mainly listened. I tried to follow along in the Hindi for me and the girls, and noticed that on the two pages there seemed to be several prayers in different meters in sections, containing repetitions of the last line as a refrain. Though I could only follow phonetically because I didn't know most of the words, it seemed that the prayers were multi-religious; I heard references of Allah, masjid (mosque), and Guru Gobind Singh (10th Sikh Guru).
After the last prayer finished, the man who had led the prayers gently addressed the rest of us, saying something like "now you will please sing a song from your home that praises God." We all were a little surprised or tentative, but he seemed content to leave the request hanging in the silence. Before too long, I decided to seize the floor before someone else did and started singing Amazing Grace acapella. Christi and Kirsten joined in, as did the Californian after a time. We stopped after just one verse (I wasn't sure the others would come readily in such a different context), but it felt really good and the others voiced admiration.
Once I had started off, the other American sang a simple, melodic "Ram" bhajan (Hindu), of the variety I had heard in the ashram at Kullu. The Bengali seated next to him struck into a popular-sounding Bhajan that involved clapping, which some of us obliged by joining. There followed an episode of trying to convince the little girl of the family to sing something. Her mother was saying in Hindi that she had studied classical singing, but despite all the encouraging "chalo" ("let's go") and "kujh gaao" ("sing something") from others, she put her head down and refused.
All the talk of classical music got me singing about kirtan though, so before I really new what I was doing my mind was searching for a shabad I could do. For some reason, the only one that was coming into my head was "Bhaj Ramo Manu Ram" in Raag Darbari. I confess I was a little worried for some reason about doing something that was 'too Sikh' for this crowd, but after the ecumenical flavor of the prayers, this one seemed neutral enough. So I waited while the Californian did another lite rendition of "Anand Gopal", and began the piece. Of course there was no drone, as in classical music (we were all acapella), but I think it was clear from the ornaments and pacing that I was doing classical style. My nerves at doing that out of the blue (and away from the safety of just me and my ragi) were eased by closing my eyes. I pictured my notebooks that contained the notation, and imagined how my teacher had sung it, trying to reach that place of satisfaction I had felt doing the raga with him.
I'm sure it was a little unexpected for an American to break out a shabad in Punjabi, but the Bengalis lauded me by saying "excellent". When I said I studied classical ragas in Punjab, they assumed Punjab University in Patiala. I explained a little about my project studying Sikh music, and they raved about another ashram they'd visited for the previous 10 days on a glacial trek in the Himalayas. Meanwhile, Christi and Kirsten asked the Californian how long he planned to stay in Kausani and he unnerved them by responding, 'until I die.'
And, shortly, the crowd dispersed, we back to our hobbit huts. It was a remarkable interaction, but partly so far how unremarkably short it seemed amid the necessities of daily life like finding food and getting back down the mountain in the dark (which worked out well, our hotel manager had guessed where we'd gone and was waiting for us). This was one hallmark of India. In the moments where I was frustrated by bus trips, long Punjabi parties, or just waiting for some ritual or music to take place in a temple, those times felt like they would never end. Yet the parts that were most magical, that made me light up with fascination and interest in the country and people, were always over too soon. Maybe this is something that changes with experience, or maybe it is why Louis Malle chose the title he did for his epic documentaries on the Sub-Continent. For as big and dense a place as it is, it can truly seem Phantom India.
We had three days to wait for the weather to clear, and were determined to do so because, after all, we came at least 14 hours out of our way to get to this point and see the view. To kill time, we followed one of Lonely Planet's recommendations and walked a few miles uphill to the Anaskati Ashram. This modest, but well-situated, ashram is more famously nicknamed the Gandhi Ashram because the Mahatma came and stayed here while he was working on a translation of the Bhagavad Gita. We arrived just in time for a prayer service in Gandhi's honor, held daily at 7pm - which, because it was Spring and very cloudy, had us scrambling the last half-mile in near-dark and mist, drawn only to the right building by the ringing of a ceremonial bell.
As we entered, there were a few men, wrapped in thick grey shawls, seated on the floor against a long wall. The walls were crowded with many black and white photos of Gandhiji throughout his life. One man, who we would call the 'manager' but who called himself only a 'servant', handed us laminated sheets containing the prayers in Hindi. As an afterthought, he asked if we spoke Hindi and I proudly said "tora tora" ("a little bit"). Though we were the first ones in, a few other people braved the rain and cold, removing their shoes (as we had) and stepping into the room: two pilgrims from Bengal, a family from South India, an older gentleman from California, and another Bengali stationed in the Air Force at Jodhpur, whose wife and one-year-old were asleep in a guestroom of the ashram (they were staying in Kausani because of his wife's dissertation research on hunter/naturalist Jim Corbett).
On some unknown cue, the 'servants' of the temple started intoning the prayers. There was no graspable musical pattern to the chant, so we mainly listened. I tried to follow along in the Hindi for me and the girls, and noticed that on the two pages there seemed to be several prayers in different meters in sections, containing repetitions of the last line as a refrain. Though I could only follow phonetically because I didn't know most of the words, it seemed that the prayers were multi-religious; I heard references of Allah, masjid (mosque), and Guru Gobind Singh (10th Sikh Guru).
After the last prayer finished, the man who had led the prayers gently addressed the rest of us, saying something like "now you will please sing a song from your home that praises God." We all were a little surprised or tentative, but he seemed content to leave the request hanging in the silence. Before too long, I decided to seize the floor before someone else did and started singing Amazing Grace acapella. Christi and Kirsten joined in, as did the Californian after a time. We stopped after just one verse (I wasn't sure the others would come readily in such a different context), but it felt really good and the others voiced admiration.
Once I had started off, the other American sang a simple, melodic "Ram" bhajan (Hindu), of the variety I had heard in the ashram at Kullu. The Bengali seated next to him struck into a popular-sounding Bhajan that involved clapping, which some of us obliged by joining. There followed an episode of trying to convince the little girl of the family to sing something. Her mother was saying in Hindi that she had studied classical singing, but despite all the encouraging "chalo" ("let's go") and "kujh gaao" ("sing something") from others, she put her head down and refused.
All the talk of classical music got me singing about kirtan though, so before I really new what I was doing my mind was searching for a shabad I could do. For some reason, the only one that was coming into my head was "Bhaj Ramo Manu Ram" in Raag Darbari. I confess I was a little worried for some reason about doing something that was 'too Sikh' for this crowd, but after the ecumenical flavor of the prayers, this one seemed neutral enough. So I waited while the Californian did another lite rendition of "Anand Gopal", and began the piece. Of course there was no drone, as in classical music (we were all acapella), but I think it was clear from the ornaments and pacing that I was doing classical style. My nerves at doing that out of the blue (and away from the safety of just me and my ragi) were eased by closing my eyes. I pictured my notebooks that contained the notation, and imagined how my teacher had sung it, trying to reach that place of satisfaction I had felt doing the raga with him.
I'm sure it was a little unexpected for an American to break out a shabad in Punjabi, but the Bengalis lauded me by saying "excellent". When I said I studied classical ragas in Punjab, they assumed Punjab University in Patiala. I explained a little about my project studying Sikh music, and they raved about another ashram they'd visited for the previous 10 days on a glacial trek in the Himalayas. Meanwhile, Christi and Kirsten asked the Californian how long he planned to stay in Kausani and he unnerved them by responding, 'until I die.'
And, shortly, the crowd dispersed, we back to our hobbit huts. It was a remarkable interaction, but partly so far how unremarkably short it seemed amid the necessities of daily life like finding food and getting back down the mountain in the dark (which worked out well, our hotel manager had guessed where we'd gone and was waiting for us). This was one hallmark of India. In the moments where I was frustrated by bus trips, long Punjabi parties, or just waiting for some ritual or music to take place in a temple, those times felt like they would never end. Yet the parts that were most magical, that made me light up with fascination and interest in the country and people, were always over too soon. Maybe this is something that changes with experience, or maybe it is why Louis Malle chose the title he did for his epic documentaries on the Sub-Continent. For as big and dense a place as it is, it can truly seem Phantom India.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Classical v. Devotional music, take one
The intersection of classical music and devotional music in North India can be described many ways. It is certainly a mutually-beneficial relationship. In the main strains of devotional music, particularly Hindu bhajan, Sikh kirtan, and Sufi qawwali, there are educated performers and enthusiastic listeners for whom the presence of classical ragas and talas heightens the spiritual experience. The overlap is small, and the vast majority of devotional music is in a simple style that does not conform to the rules of ragas. Even so-called “light classical” music demands a higher level of apprehension for the listener, and so is not much more prevalent than strict classical style. But Hindustani classical music definitely exists in pockets in these traditions.
In fact, in Sikhism, although the 'classical' elements are strictly and adeptly applied by only a tiny minority of musicians, even those devotees who do not understand classical music pay lip-service to the idea that classical ragas are the ideal for the Gurus’ kirtan. In fact, it may be that they are much more enraptured with the idea that classical music represents the standard of Sikh music than actually listening to it. I had heard about this phenomenon from Sarbpreet, my contact in the States, as well as my music teacher in Punjab. Even though the Sikh scripture contains a prescription of a particular raga along with the text of every hymn, kirtaniyas in village gurdwaras, and even many who have major CD contracts, sing in a style that is not raga-based (i.e. theirs uses only 3-4 notes) or lift tunes from the world of popular Punjabi and Bollywood songs.
This came home to me when I was at a CD stand just outside the entrance of the Golden Temple. I was looking for a CD by the accomplished ragi Amrik Singh Zakhmi, who we had discussed in my lesson. Although there were many glossy CD’s of turbaned and bearded men doing kirtan, I couldn’t find this artist, who my ragi had described as a major contemporary figure in kirtan. When the shopkeeper finally understood who I was looking for, he said dismissively “Oh, you want classical.” He then reached underneath the counter to take out a small stack of CD’s. This is precisely the phenomenon of devotees publicly acknowledging the importance of their music’s classical roots, but privately supporting the accessible, non-classical artists and leaving the purists to languish under the counter.
Returning to the comparison of mutual benefits, a typical classical concert is never absent devotional content, whether explicit or implicit. In the West we like to see ‘absolute’ music (as opposed to program music or sacred music) in a secular, intellectual context. Of course, it’s not fair to say all Western academic music is secular – composers like Bruckner, Messaien, Arvo Part (to name a few) saw their music and compositional process as deeply devotional – but we can say a major difference is in a narrative of music and its supposed effects on people. In a Hindustani classical vocal concert, the artist will at some point sing through a short composition, a few lines long and of a devotional nature to one of the Hindu gods. Though this is explicit, the importance should not be overstated. This might only be a few minutes out of an hour-long piece, and the rest of the time the artist is singing solfeggio or nonsense syllables, or merely vocalizations.
Thus, the more direct contribution of spirituality to the ‘classical’ setting is implicit in the accounts some listeners and performers give to classical music. My ragi used to talk about how a raga like ‘kalyan’ would give you a peaceful feeling. Indians and non-Indians musicians with whom I talked in India referenced the fact that the drone of a perfect fifth and octave show the “unstruck sound”, or the true reality of the universe in Indian philosophy. In that sense, listening to a modal music that explores intervals around that unstruck sound is a means to perceiving the ultimate reality. This is not really that different from the way saints and theoreticians have long described devotional music in the Sikh, Sufi and Hindu traditions.
Still, this narrative is only a small part of the interactions with classical music. With my teacher, more often our entire discussions would revolve around the mechanics of particular ragas, how to differentiate them from other ragas, or particular techniques of singing or composition. The philosophical side is also minimal in the selective audiences of classical music I saw in Delhi. Critics and astute listeners liked to fixate on the particular strengths of a performer, and program notes usually discussed only the gharana (pedigree of music teaching) and the various awards garnered. Additionally, the audience for classical music is not strictly Hindu devotees, or people who are there for the spiritual saturation – it cut across secular elites, Sikhs, Muslims and others. In fact, while all surface observations would lead me to conclude that it was a secular, artistic tradition, it was really only when I pressed that audience members would switch gears from technique and talk about the importance of spirituality in listening – as though it was simply understood, and therefore nobody thinks about it!
The picture is further complicated by the history of Indian Classical music (though by ‘history’ I should acknowledge that a lot of this is oral history, which tends to be heavily subject to the later narratives imposed upon it). However, one prevalent idea about the lineage of what is now called Hindustani classical music is that was more devotional in its (very distant) origins, and the current image as a sophisticated, mostly secular music is fairly recent. The Mughal emperors reigned in North India for a period of several hundred years – actually until they were fully displaced by the British in the 19th century. These were Muslim rulers, mainly of Persian blood and cultural heritage. They realized, however, that they were governing an area that, despite the presence of many Muslims, had its own ancient civilization and arts. The Mughals, then, essentially adopted Hindustani raga-based music as its court music, subsequently muting the more overtly devotional parts and infusing Persian modes into many of the ragas.
This history is worth considering because, as I realize it, this whole post begs the question of what is actually the distinction between devotional and classical music. In order for them to have an ‘intersection’, they surely must be separate entities. In my descriptions of my experiences, though, this distinction is blurred considerably. For instance, most devotional music (by volume) is not in classical ragas, and much of the audience of classical music talks about it in secular terms; on the other hand, classical style is held up as the ideal of devotional practice, and spiritual benefits are touted as historic roots of the Hindustani classical tradition. Hence, it is a complex relationship, and I may never be able to draw a line around each tradition to say ‘here is where they are distinct’ and ‘here is where they mix.’ In subsequent posts, though, I hope to turn to more specifics of the traditions as I saw them, to flesh out the picture somewhat.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Shear Madness
Forgive the slow start to my “writing every day” on the blog. In thinking about it, I believe that I have ‘psyched myself out’ by thinking: “Now I’m in the processing phase, not just recording, so every conclusion has to be brilliant and lead towards this masterwork of scholarship.” Needless to say, this is incorrect but still potentially paralyzing. So I’ve freed myself by downgrading that to a minor concern and reassuring myself that whoever’s reading this already knows I’m a big dork and therefore is not expecting anything concise and brilliant. No offense to any of you, but that’s what I need to tell myself to keep from putting off this project.
So, back underway, I’ve remember the other problem, that there’s just too many darn things to write about (another possible source of paralysis, but making lists always helps with this one). Today I thought I’d start with the most far-fetched thing on my list, in hopes that it further frees up my creative juices. So, [drumroll] I give you: ‘Religion and Hair’.
Hair in religion might seem a ridiculous thing to fixate on, but there was a particular instance that drove home its importance in India. On February 27th, I traveled by bus from Amritsar to Dharamsala in the mountains. The place I left, of course, is the holy city of the Sikhs, who are under injunction by the 10th guru from cutting any of their hair…ever. Consequently, Punjabi Sikh men in their prime (at least the ones I saw without a head-tie on) have thick hair that goes down at least to their waist, as well as a full-grown beard in varying lengths and styles. Women generally have very long hair, but it is often either in a braid and underneath a covering that’s part of the traditional outfit. Some women had very noticeable facial hair, of course, and particularly noticeable are the braids that very young boys wear or the wound-up bun that teenage boys sport before they have started wearing a turban.
In addition, there are many levels and layers to the Sikh practice of growing one’s hair. For historical reference, by the way, this injunction is called “kes” in Punjabi, and is one of the five kakkars that mark a mature Sikh (men and women) as part of the Sikh Khalsa (martial and spiritual community). All of the kakkars start with K and are ‘visible’ signs of one’s Sikhism, though the hair is the most obvious.
Obviously, there exist Sikhs, even in Amritsar, who shave their beards and cut their hair. This does not mean that they are banned from any of the Sikh sanctuaries or activities, but there exists another level of distinction in addition to the word for baptized Sikhs (“amritdhari” meaning baptized with nectar) which is known as “kesdhari” (my translation: baptized by hair?) Thus, while there is not active discrimination against those who cut their hair, all of the musicians who were ragis or people that actively supported me in learning kirtan belonged to the kesdhari crowd.
There are many shades in between, too.; such as men that wear the turban but trim their beards. There is also a style where the beard is not trimmed, but instead tied-up in varying styles so it lies flush with the chin. Even of those who grow their beard long, there are many different lengths and therefore styles. A final ‘formal’ style available to older men is the piece of cloth that hangs from the turban like a chinstrap and makes the beard look more kempt. While one man tried to ascribe this to a ‘British’ formal style, another said that it actually represented ‘laziness.’ All of this debate and strong feelings about hair within a single religion! It gets more complex when you move between religions, which is almost impossible to avoid in India.
Upon arriving in the Dharamsala, the seat of Tibetan Buddhism’s most esteemed spiritual leader and home to the Tibetan government-in-exile, I immediately was overwhelmed by the sight of the many thousands of crimson-robe-wearing Tibetan monks (more than normal because of the teachings). Although I had seen groups of monks throughout my education, and even walking around Boston in groups, it was never so apparent to me that all their heads were shaved – men, women (and, I should add, non-Tibetans of both sexes). Certainly it was because I was coming from a place where hair was so prized for showing one’s orthodoxy and that’s why it struck me that the act of devotion here was in shaving.
Comically, the point was driven home to me even more when I encountered, in a hilltop restaurant, a girl who had graduated from college with me and lived in the same residential dorm. At first we didn’t recognize eachother, and then later commented with a laugh that it was because I had grown a beard (living among the Sikhs) and she had shaved her head (traveling in Tibet on a fellowship).
Though this contrast was perhaps the most extreme, many other examples exist. When I was in Ajmer I heard someone draw the distinction between a ‘khadim’ (caretaker of the shrine) and a ‘true sufi’. Interestingly, this informant referred to the man pictured in the previous post about Ajmer as a ‘true sufi’, because he grew his hair long but kept a trimmed beard. By contrast, most other middle-aged to older men in Ajmer kept the trimmed beard favored by the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) in the hadith, but at least half of these had their grey or charcoal hair colored by orangish streaks from dye and henna. It’s even more confusing because, as I remember later, men are supposed to shave their heads when they are on the Hajj (pilgrimage) to Mecca, but here, at the most important shrine of South Asia, I didn’t see a single head-shaved among thousands of men.
Moreover, any time you are near a Hindu bathing place or temple – and, lets face it, when in India you are always near one of these – one of the most common sights along the street are the impromptu barber-shops. These include a chair (mandatory but of varying qualities), a mirror (usually propped up on a fence rail), and about four men sitting around watching. There are physical shops, of course, but my understanding of the purpose these fill is that 1)few men shave at home (either for lack of resources or time); 2)it is important to have one’s hair freshly trimmed, and beard shorn (most Hindu men wear a mustache) before appearing in front of the deity; 3)the cost is incredibly low and also provides a social interaction with the other men sitting around. Hence, the vast numbers of mustachioed Hindu men with a fresh shave.
So this is just a taste of the many interactions of hair and religion, lest people argue for the impracticality of religion. Though you may argue with how I’m defining practical here, the fact is that many people have to get up and think about their hair vis a vis their religion, and then interact, or at least see, other people all day who are following different prescriptions. For my part, I tried to maintain as neutral a look as I could – which amounted to short hair that I never cut (I had buzzed it before I left the US so I wouldn’t have worry about cutting) and beard that never looked neatly trimmed but also was never as grown in as my Sikh hosts.
So, back underway, I’ve remember the other problem, that there’s just too many darn things to write about (another possible source of paralysis, but making lists always helps with this one). Today I thought I’d start with the most far-fetched thing on my list, in hopes that it further frees up my creative juices. So, [drumroll] I give you: ‘Religion and Hair’.
Hair in religion might seem a ridiculous thing to fixate on, but there was a particular instance that drove home its importance in India. On February 27th, I traveled by bus from Amritsar to Dharamsala in the mountains. The place I left, of course, is the holy city of the Sikhs, who are under injunction by the 10th guru from cutting any of their hair…ever. Consequently, Punjabi Sikh men in their prime (at least the ones I saw without a head-tie on) have thick hair that goes down at least to their waist, as well as a full-grown beard in varying lengths and styles. Women generally have very long hair, but it is often either in a braid and underneath a covering that’s part of the traditional outfit. Some women had very noticeable facial hair, of course, and particularly noticeable are the braids that very young boys wear or the wound-up bun that teenage boys sport before they have started wearing a turban.
In addition, there are many levels and layers to the Sikh practice of growing one’s hair. For historical reference, by the way, this injunction is called “kes” in Punjabi, and is one of the five kakkars that mark a mature Sikh (men and women) as part of the Sikh Khalsa (martial and spiritual community). All of the kakkars start with K and are ‘visible’ signs of one’s Sikhism, though the hair is the most obvious.
Obviously, there exist Sikhs, even in Amritsar, who shave their beards and cut their hair. This does not mean that they are banned from any of the Sikh sanctuaries or activities, but there exists another level of distinction in addition to the word for baptized Sikhs (“amritdhari” meaning baptized with nectar) which is known as “kesdhari” (my translation: baptized by hair?) Thus, while there is not active discrimination against those who cut their hair, all of the musicians who were ragis or people that actively supported me in learning kirtan belonged to the kesdhari crowd.
There are many shades in between, too.; such as men that wear the turban but trim their beards. There is also a style where the beard is not trimmed, but instead tied-up in varying styles so it lies flush with the chin. Even of those who grow their beard long, there are many different lengths and therefore styles. A final ‘formal’ style available to older men is the piece of cloth that hangs from the turban like a chinstrap and makes the beard look more kempt. While one man tried to ascribe this to a ‘British’ formal style, another said that it actually represented ‘laziness.’ All of this debate and strong feelings about hair within a single religion! It gets more complex when you move between religions, which is almost impossible to avoid in India.
Upon arriving in the Dharamsala, the seat of Tibetan Buddhism’s most esteemed spiritual leader and home to the Tibetan government-in-exile, I immediately was overwhelmed by the sight of the many thousands of crimson-robe-wearing Tibetan monks (more than normal because of the teachings). Although I had seen groups of monks throughout my education, and even walking around Boston in groups, it was never so apparent to me that all their heads were shaved – men, women (and, I should add, non-Tibetans of both sexes). Certainly it was because I was coming from a place where hair was so prized for showing one’s orthodoxy and that’s why it struck me that the act of devotion here was in shaving.
Comically, the point was driven home to me even more when I encountered, in a hilltop restaurant, a girl who had graduated from college with me and lived in the same residential dorm. At first we didn’t recognize eachother, and then later commented with a laugh that it was because I had grown a beard (living among the Sikhs) and she had shaved her head (traveling in Tibet on a fellowship).
Though this contrast was perhaps the most extreme, many other examples exist. When I was in Ajmer I heard someone draw the distinction between a ‘khadim’ (caretaker of the shrine) and a ‘true sufi’. Interestingly, this informant referred to the man pictured in the previous post about Ajmer as a ‘true sufi’, because he grew his hair long but kept a trimmed beard. By contrast, most other middle-aged to older men in Ajmer kept the trimmed beard favored by the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) in the hadith, but at least half of these had their grey or charcoal hair colored by orangish streaks from dye and henna. It’s even more confusing because, as I remember later, men are supposed to shave their heads when they are on the Hajj (pilgrimage) to Mecca, but here, at the most important shrine of South Asia, I didn’t see a single head-shaved among thousands of men.
Moreover, any time you are near a Hindu bathing place or temple – and, lets face it, when in India you are always near one of these – one of the most common sights along the street are the impromptu barber-shops. These include a chair (mandatory but of varying qualities), a mirror (usually propped up on a fence rail), and about four men sitting around watching. There are physical shops, of course, but my understanding of the purpose these fill is that 1)few men shave at home (either for lack of resources or time); 2)it is important to have one’s hair freshly trimmed, and beard shorn (most Hindu men wear a mustache) before appearing in front of the deity; 3)the cost is incredibly low and also provides a social interaction with the other men sitting around. Hence, the vast numbers of mustachioed Hindu men with a fresh shave.
So this is just a taste of the many interactions of hair and religion, lest people argue for the impracticality of religion. Though you may argue with how I’m defining practical here, the fact is that many people have to get up and think about their hair vis a vis their religion, and then interact, or at least see, other people all day who are following different prescriptions. For my part, I tried to maintain as neutral a look as I could – which amounted to short hair that I never cut (I had buzzed it before I left the US so I wouldn’t have worry about cutting) and beard that never looked neatly trimmed but also was never as grown in as my Sikh hosts.
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