R.K.: Why was there a three-year break in your stint in Trivandrum?

Around that time, at the behest of the Government of India, the Chief Secretary asked me to be the Chief Producer of Carnatic music at All India Radio, Delhi. I hesitated, but they persuaded me to be with AIR, Madras. I finally accepted the offer and was with AIR from 1957 to 1960 and did my best. Once my term was over they wanted me to continue, but I refused because I could not listen to the apaswarams during the auditions (smiles).

Then I came back to Trivandrum. In 1963, I requested the Chief Minister to relieve me from the post of Principal as I was 55. He refused, saying that I had helped popularise music in Kerala and I should continue with the good work. But I became restless. I asked GNB (G.N. Balasubra-maniam) if he would take my position in the college. He agreed. And with that proposal I went back to the Chief Minister (who had changed by then). He agreed, and in November 1963 I came to Madras.

R.K.: What was your contribution to reviving Swati Tirunal kritis?

THE HINDU PHOTO LIBRARY
During the music Season in Chennai in December 1989, Semmangudi with M.S. Subbulakshmi, her husband T. Sadasivam, shehnai artist Ustad Bismillah Khan and Hindustani classical singer Pandit Bhimsen Joshi.

One of the most significant things I did in Trivandrum was to polish the Swati Tirunal kritis and edit them for publication; 200-300 kritis were revived in their original tunes. Harikeshanallur Muthiah Bhagavathar went to each house, recorded the songs, and tuned some of them. He had done an excellent job. I merely polished them. My main contribution was to make many of them concert-worthy. Some "Singapore ragas", such as Charukesi and Shanmugapriya, were not much preferred as compared to the solid Carnatic ragas such as Thodi and Kalyani. But there are some songs of the Maharaja in those ragas too.

R.K.: Which are the songs you tuned?

Only a few. I completely tuned Kalyani, Neelambari and some two or three other songs.

THE HINDU PHOTO LIBRARY
Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar in concert. Of the senior artist, Semmangudi says: "I was greatly influenced by Ramanuja Iyengar. I do not want another life. But if there is one, I want to be able to sing like him."

R.K.: Who tuned Vishweshwara in Sindhubhairavi?

I did.

R.K.: Who tuned Jalajabandhu (Suruti), Tharuninyan (Durjavanti) and a few such padams?

K.S. Narayanaswamy, the veena vidwan. He also tuned Kintuseivu in Kalyani.

A.K.: What is the difference between the older generation of musicians and the current crop?

Vaidheegam (orthodoxy). The older generation of musicians were very orthodox, and their singing touched people's hearts. Some of them may not have laid much emphasis on the sahitya and may have even mispronounced a word or two, but they had substance, weight and depth of music.

R.K.: You are known for your analytical skills...

I am generally very analytical. I have spent many hours over many years thinking, analysing and practising.

In our times compositions were discovered every day. The lesser-known kritis of the great masters were discovered and polished. Each day brought to light a new composer. The old endures because it is soaked in ragabhava.

Today's crop of youngsters are very intelligent and meticulous about many things. But they are yet to get the depth, weight and the life of our generation.

A.K.: Why is this so?

Largely because music is now spread very wide and, therefore, very thin. Also because music in those days was learnt directly as an oral tradition from guru to sishya, where the sishya stayed in the guru's house and learnt as much as he could from the guru. It fostered an all-round training - when the guru sang, when he composed a new song and interacted with other musicians. That enrichment is denied to our youth in this mechanical age.

Also, today's youth do not have role models the way we had in those days. For example, one could listen to Ramanuja Iyengar sing for hours. He not only gave us the concert format that we follow now, but also popularised many ragas and a variety of kritis. Listening to his rendering of ragas and swaras, one would think that he had memorised them all. It would be so precise and perfect. His presentation was excellent. Even his guru Poochi Iyengar could not match Ramanuja Iyengar's presentation, I am told.

Maharajapuram Viswanatha Iyer was like an electric current. His music would touch everyone's soul. It was divine and addictive. My uncle Krishna Iyer was a great musician. M.D. Ramanathan had an excellent voice (saareeram) with a lot of depth. I still remember his Yadukulakambodi in Trivandrum. Sabesa Iyer and Tiger Varadachariar were doyens. Palghat Mani Iyer was undoubtedly a genius on the mridangam. Palani Subramaniam Pillai was also very good. Keeranur Chinnathambi was an outstanding musician. Karaikudi Subbarama Iyer was an eminent veena exponent. Dhakshinamurti Pillai was extraordinary. He was one of those who gave me a lift. To quote Palghat Mani Iyer, "With his passing, the Carnatic music world seems like a brigade without a commander." I was greatly influenced by Ramanuja Iyengar. I do not want another life. But if there is one, I want to be able to sing like Ramanuja Iyengar.

The young artists should listen to these great musicians as much as possible. It will certainly inspire them and will help instil some life into their music.

A.K.: There has been a proliferation of music concerts in recent times. Does it have any impact on the musicians and the audience?

In those days there were only a handful of sabhas in Madras - in Egmore, Triplicane and Mylapore. I, for instance, used to give only five or six concerts a month. Once I gave 22 performances in a month, but that was very rare. Today, there is a proliferation of music. It is in a way good for musicians. They gain greater exposure and visibility. But such easy accessibility and over-exposure has desensitised the audience. In the past you had to seek music and savour it. So every concert was an unforgettable experience.

The audience then had patience and discipline. They used to listen with rapt attention to concerts even if they extended to over four hours. If anyone was found talking, he would be literally thrown out. Artists also commanded that kind of respect. Sakharama Rao and Dhakshinamurti Pillai have been known to walk out from concerts if they were disturbed by the audience. Similar were the attitudes of stalwarts such as Tiger Varadachariar and my uncle, Krishna Iyer. They could not tolerate disrespect to the art. Today's performers not only tolerate indiscipline, they also rely more on fast and virtuosic music which do not permit much depth. Youngsters now render swara-based ragas. Swara should merge with raga. It should not be the basis on which you sing a raga.

This is because people come to concerts today not the way they would go to a temple, as it was in the past, but as they would go to the theatre - for entertainment. Our artists are compelled to please them. Many in the audience keep discussing politics and "pattu" (silk) saris. That should not be tolerated.

The other regrettable modern practice is the audience bursting into applause in the middle of a song. This creates an illusion that the success of a concert is to be gauged by the volume and frequency of applause. I think we should have a thumb rule that there should be no clapping in the middle of a song. Many artists go on a swara race, taking them to a pitch, as if to imitate drumbeats, to get an applause.

A welcome change in modern times is the emergence of women performers. In those days, with the exception of the Dhanammal family, women musicians sang a string of songs exactly as they were taught. They did not attempt much improvisation of raga and swara. With the natural advantage of a sweet voice, women are now doing as well as men in ragam, thanam and pallavi. Dhanammal is known as a great veena player, but few know that she was also a great vocalist. Brinda and Mukta of the Dhanammal school were great musicians. No one can match them in gamaka (oscillation) and azhutham (weight). Brinda was even better than Dhanammal. She was excellent in rendering padams. I think she personified the essence of Carnatic music. With Brinda's passing ended a great saga in Carnatic music.

R.K.: In your times there were no microphones. How did you manage?

S. THANTHONI

Microphones were introduced in the 1940s. It ushered in a revolution. The singer no longer had to develop full-throated resonance. Before the 1930s we used to sing without mikes and fans. The auditorium would be full. Amplification would be achieved by tonal clarity, depth, weight and vocal power. The mridangam is a victim too. Restraint robs music of natural force and lucidity. It can be pleasing to the ear, but cannot haunt the mind.

R.K.: What is your advice to youngsters and to make Carnatic music enduring?

Some people have advocated learning music by standing neck-deep in cold water and so on. All that is nonsense. My advice to youngsters, especially male vocalists, is that you should come out and sing only after your voice matures. These days young children are brought to the stage even before their voice breaks. It may be nice to hear children sing, but it is best to wait till the voice matures.

There is today a lack of devotion. Musicians should be charged with devotion. There should be bhakti towards music. That would liven music and ensure that it endures.

R.K.: What is the secret of your success?

He does not answer this question, but opens his puja (prayer) box and reveals its contents.

By Our Staff Reporter

Photo: N. Balaji

The veteran Carnatic musician, Semmangudi R. Srinivasa Iyer, being felicitated on his 96th birthday, by the film music director, Ilayaraja, in Chennai on Sunday.

Chennai July 27. The veteran Carnatic vocalist, Semmangudi R. Srinivasa Iyer, was felicitated by the film music director, Ilayaraja, on his 96th birthday here today.

Mr. Ilayaraja performed a kanakabishegam for the musician with 96 gold coins, each representing a year in the life of the `Nadha Yogi'.

``As a musician, one of my greatest honours is to say that I knew the vidhwan,'' said Mr. Ilayaraja.

Hailing from Semmangudi in Thanjavur district, Dr. Srinivasa Iyer began training under his uncle Tirukkodikaval Krishna Iyer.

He then studied under Tiruvidaimarudur Sakharama Rao and Maharajapuram Viswanatha Iyer.

In 1947, Dr. Srinivasa Iyer, at 39 years, was the youngest recipient of the Sangeetha Kalanidhi awarded by the Music Academy.

Prasadams from more than 1,500 temples in India and abroad were given to him on the occasion.

AN ENCOUNTER WITH SEMMANGUDI SRINIVASA IYER

It takes some courage, to meet and chat up a legend.

We approach Dr Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer with great hesitation. After all he is the most revered Carnatic music sage living. A man, who has spent more than six decades of his life, in the service of music.

We have chosen a not so sultry late afternoon to meet the nonagenarian. He had just finished his siesta and was browsing through a Tamil magazine.

We touch his feet in respect. He blesses us, but as he hears of our intention to interview him, he frowns. He gives us some printed matter (the facts on his life and career) and requests us to save him the ordeal of undergoing yet another interview. But, in the next fifteen minutes, he relaxes. And the sweet, affable gentleman, that he is, comes through so disarmingly in his conversation.

Dr Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer was born in 1908 in Semmangudi in the Tanjavur (Tanjore) district of Tamil Nadu. As is wont of any Brahmin family of the region in those days, Srinivasa Iyer was trained in Carnatic Music. His first vocal recital was in 1926.

As Principal of Sri Swati Tirunal College of Music in Kerala, he worked with single-minded devotion in collating, editing and reviving the music of Maharaja Swati Tirunal. He retired in 1963.

Speaking without any trace of being wistful, he shares with us his experiences with stalwarts like Jawaharlal Nehru, Rajagopalachari, Satyamurthy, Bezawada Gopalareddy and Prakasam Pantulu. A self-professed Gandhian, he still prefers using Khadi and Cotton. There is little purpose in dwelling on his awards or his famous students. The world knows it all.

He jovially declares that he is 29 (and not 92). And the twinkle in his eye tells us that he is not averse to having some fun at his own expense.

But as we thank him and leave, he asks that we pray that God may call him soon.

We have no words in reply. This artist who has stood for all that is pure and sacred in Carnatic music, is for all of us, an icon of artistic excellence. We pause, thank him again but tell him that our prayer is that we may see him touch 100.

We know we have walked holy ground.

Courtesy : Chennai Best

(Extract from the "Hindu")

"There will always be a group of committed listeners and performers who will refuse to compromise on traditional values..."

SONGS about the glory of India and the joys of Independence were on everybody's lips in August 1947. Today we wonder: have we really achieved freedom? Politics, social patterns, attitudes and values have suffered a drastic change since then. And although I believe that Carnatic music has not only survived but developed in many new directions, I see also the shifting perspectives and goals.

Before the 1930s, musicians performed before small groups of 200 to 300 listeners. The microphone brought a revolution. The singer did not have to develop a voice of full-throated resonance any more. Thousands could hear his murmurs and croons. But amplification has been at the cost of tonal clarity, as also of depth, weight and vocal power. The mridangam is a victim too. Restraint robs it of natural force and lucidity. This new style of music may please the ear, but cannot haunt the mind.

The amplifier's feedback can be a hindrance on the stage. So it is for listeners assaulted by the gigantic speakers in the hall that convert music into noise. The distortions can be minimised by placing small speakers at regular intervals to project more even sound. Why, the bell-shaped speakers of the early days, placed above the pandal, were far better than the models that we have now.

Once Budalur Krishnamurti Sastrigal and I sat on the bridge across the Cauvery in Tiruvaiyaru to see how well we could hear the flute recital of Palladam Sanjiva Rao at the high school venue nearby. Sanjiva Rao's lengthy mandara (lower octave) phrases were nectar from the heavens. Mandara sthayi has gone out of vogue. We have neither the vocal strength nor the taste for it any more.

IN the past, Carnatic music was nourished by the nadaswaram tradition. As a child I followed the pipers through the four streets round the temple in the procession of the deities. Now and then the pipers would stop and ruminatively elaborate a raga. The crowds would throng to worship the gods as well as to listen to the music. The pipes seemed to call the people to come and cleanse their souls in prayer and music. The brothers Kiranur, Tiruppamburam, Tiruvizhi-mizhalai... Mannargudi Chinnapakkiri, Chidambaram Vaidyanatha Pillai, Rajaratnam Pillai, Viruchami Pillai... they were giants. I wonder how many can recognise their names today. That kind of expansive, contemplative music has vanished. I can still hear their morning ragas - Kedaram, Bilahari, Saveri, Dhanyasi, Nattakurinji - as the deity was taken to the riverside mantapam for the tirthavari ritual; and the evening strains as he rode the silver chariot back to the sanctum. Today the children of those pipers have exchanged their family art for office jobs.

I will concede that present-day singers have developed a better voice culture than in our times. They have also developed better sruti alignment. Of course many of them are inaudible without the mike. But you will say I fault this because I belong to the old school!

THE growth of music depends as much on the listeners as upon the artists. Nowadays people do not have the time or the temperament to savour four- to-five-hour-long concerts. But they know much more theory, which makes them formidable. It is very difficult to satisfy them. What a contrast to the old-timers who often identified Khambhoji not by name but by a well-known song in it as the 'Sri Subrahmanyaya namaste raga'! The credit for cultivating greater knowledge among listeners should rightly go to Ariyakudi Ramanuja Iyengar. He not only gave us the concert format that we follow now, but also popularised many ragas and a variety of kritis in them.

The old listeners had patience and discipline. When an organiser found someone gossiping in my concert, he literally dragged him by the ear and threw him out of the hall. Once when I found some Mylapore advocates chatting in the last row I asked them: "Would you let me talk in your courtroom?" No more trouble! At the least sign of inattention my guru, Sakharama Rao, would simply pick up his gottuvadyam and stage a walk-out. He did not tolerate any insult to the art he worshipped.

Today performers not only tolerate indiscipline, they also rely more on the razzle-dazzle of virtuosic skills, which do not permit depth. I will not mention names - no, I do not want stones thrown at me! But listeners have been trained to appreciate ragas sung in ways difficult to identify or understand. This trend is lauded as clever. People have come to believe that real enjoyment comes from what they do not understand. They crave for ragas "new" and "rare", but so limited that there is no doing anything with them except racing up and down the scale. I have never indulged in such tricks.

A REGRETTABLE modern tendency is to burst into applause for every little thing. This creates the illusion that the success of a concert is to be gauged by the volume and frequency of the applause.  

Determined performers work towards a crescendo of superfast swaras tagged with the "tadinginatom" - in other words, arranging swaras to imitate drumbeats. Laya wizard Dakshinamurti Pillai would exclaim even in those days: "Leave drumming to us! Sing from the soul!" But from Kanchipuram Nayana Pillai to the Alathur Brothers there were those who indulged in fireworks. Today this has become the rule rather than an exception. The music and the applause are equally mechanical. Once in Bangalore, when violinist Lalgudi Jayaraman and I traded kalpanaswaras in fast and slow speeds, stimulating each other to plunge more and more into Anandabhairavi, finding poruttams each more beautiful than the one before - there was no need for any climax of calculated rhythms. And the hall was filled with an exhilaration beyond thoughts of applause. My friend and contemporary the late Musiri Subramanya Iyer used to be so lost in bhava that he never thought of evoking any response.

The brika is another dangerous device. Its glamour is often mistaken for grandeur. I would say that no attention-getting device has lasting value. Music must not draw attention to skills; it must make performer and listener forget themselves. Sometimes I feel that not having a good voice is an asset to the Carnatic musician. It impels him to Herculean efforts to grasp something beyond his reach - to explore new, original, fascinating territories. Of course, now you think I am talking about myself. Maybe I am.

There are many changes for the better. There are more sabhas, sponsors, government support and more musicians. Artists enjoy financial security, a far cry from the days when parents were afraid to get their daughters married to musicians. Yes, I speak from personal experience.

ANOTHER tremendous step forward is the emergence of women as equals of men in this male-dominated field. With the exception of the Dhanammal family, women musicians sang a string of songs exactly as they had been taught. They did not attempt much improvisation of raga and swara, they avoided the challenge of the ragam tanam pallavi. With the advantage of naturally sweet voices, women are now overtaking men in each one of these departments.

Concerts today have team spirit. Instrumentalists have made great strides. The violin has become a solo instrument on par with the veena and the flute. New instruments like the mandolin and the saxophone are crowd-pullers. We have to wait to see if they will endure.

The rasika has greater variety and choice than ever before. But there is less diversity in another area. In my time you could say this boy was trained by Maharajapuram Viswanatha Iyer, this man is the disciple of Ariyakudi, and so on. But today every youngster sounds the same. Their concert pattern, manner of kriti rendition are all the same. They are all one even in refusing to descend from the higher octave until they extract applause.

The reason is that they are no longer merely the sishyas of this or that guru, but of the cassettes that flood the market. Nor has criticism developed as a constructive guide. Critics are more interested in attacking established artists to produce copy that sells.

OUR age has seen a proliferation of musical compositions. The lesser-known kritis of the great masters have been discovered and polished. And each day brings a new composer to light. The old endures because it is steeped in the essence of the ragabhava. And time will decide the fate of the new. I will say that Papanasam Sivan's songs are not skeletal verses; they are filled with life-giving melody.

Staying with the guru for years and absorbing music by listening as well as learning is no longer feasible. Now we have institutions where music is taught to groups of students in one-hour slots - a waste of energy and money. In Thiruvananthapuram, where I was Principal of the Sri Swati Tirunal College of Music, I devoted a whole morning to a class, attended to the needs of each individual student and finally sang the whole piece so that they got the whole picture of what they were learning in parts. I find that those who learn from classes held in the home of vidwans show better results than government college students.

I cannot end without repeating my conviction about teaching methods. You know that children who learn in the Montessori method have a better grasp of the subject than those who are force-fed. They learn spelling and grammar after becoming familiar with the language. Similarly, exercises in the scales like sarali and janta must be taught after the child learns little, simple songs. Then he will learn more, enjoy more.

With all these developments in the art and its sponsorship, why is it that the impact of present-day music is confined to concert time? Why does not it linger in the mind for days after? One reason is that there is too much of it easily available round the year. You do not have to wait for it and seek it as in the past.

Perhaps the problem has to do with a fast lifestyle, one that hankers after novelties and innovations all the time. It lacks the perseverance and discipline on which the creative arts thrive. But Carnatic music will retain its grandeur and depth despite temporary trends. There will always be a group of committed listeners and performers who will refuse to compromise on values. It will remain a small minority. So what? The classical arts have never had mass appeal.

As told to Gowri Ramnarayan in Chennai and translated from Tamil by her.