Krishnarao Shankar Pandit (1893-1989) - A great singer of the Gwalior Gharana - Ragas Multani, Bhupali & Malgunji

Here we present one of the greatest singers of the 20th century, a representative of the original Gwalior Gharana, at the same time an artist with a very personal style, more a musician's musician than a singer popular amongst the general public.

A very funny thing: while I'm preparing this post and writing these lines there is playing a program by our artist on Raagam, the internet radio of All India Radio. I'm recording it and will post it very soon too.

The recordings we present here are probably also from All India Radio. Our friend KF shared them with us on a CD, with a nice cover created by him. Many thanks to him.

flac

mp3

The virtuoso: Krishnarao Pandit

Krishnarao Pandit is the doyen of the Gwalior gharana. An artiste who has enchanted audiences with his ingenious singing style in a concert career that spanned 70 years.

Mohan Nadkarni pays tribute to the stalwart of Hindustani music, who turned 93 on June 26.

Krishnaraoji was a maestro of whom it could be truly said that his music was eloquently reflective of his personality. Indeed, the singing showed to full advantage the many facets of his individual style. Basically it was a rare blend of ingenuity and craftsmanship – the result of long, arduous deliberation.

Gwalior. The very name conjures up a variety of images – of historical splendour, architectural magnificence, a great musical heritage and, of course, the vestiges of royalty, in whose heyday the art and culture of north India reached its high degree of efflorescence.

But to Krishnarao Shankar Pandit, who turned 93 on July 26, Gwalior has been his karmabhoomi. As it has been for his forbears for three generations. And something more, too. To Panditji, Gwalior remains India’s musical capital. Simply mention the name and the maestro will hold you spellbound with an inspiring account of Gwalior’s dedication to Hindustani music, of the efforts of its successive princes, as much as their subjects, to carry forward the classical tradition of north India.

He will tell you how music has been part of every home in Gwalior, quoting a popular saying that when a child from Gwalior cries, it cries in tune. He would declaim, in his profound, stentorian voice, that even in the changed context of today, an average Gwaliori can easily distinguish one raga from another, whatever his status.

Krishnarao Shankar Pandit happens to be one of the very few professional musicians whose life and career is marked by an extraordinary series of lucky breaks. His father, Shankarrao Pandit, whom he describes as the first professional musician in his orthodox Brahmin family, was a disciple of Haddu Khan and Natthu Khan, who were among the pioneers of the Gwalior gharana. Later, Shankarrao underwent rigorous grooming in khayal, tarana, tappa, thumri and ashtapadi and such other styles of classical singing for 12 years under the tutelage of Nissar Hussein Khan, son of Natthu Khan, who was also another leading light of the gharana.

Krishnaraoji had his initiation into music from his father at the age of six. At 11, he made his first public appearance on the concert platform in Bombay to lend sangat to his distinguished father and guru. He was only 20 when the erstwhile prince of Satara, in Maharashtra, commissioned him to teach him classical music. But he left this coveted assignment within a year to return to Gwalior.

In 1914, Krishnaraoji established a music school. In between came the sudden and premature death of his father. That was how Krishnaraoji named his new institution Shankar Sangeet Vidyalaya after his father. The Vidyalaya, in the course of 62 years of its existence, has come to be regarded as one of the pioneering music teaching institutions in the country.

Behind the setting up of a modern-style academic institution by one groomed in the age old guru-shishya-parampara is Panditji’s awareness of the changing times. He also drew up a curriculum for teaching music to his students, engaged a team of teachers and authored a series of text-books dealing with vocal music and also instruments like the harmonium, the sitar, the jaltarang and the tabla.

But he did not neglect his role as a concert musician. In fact, his early rise to fame as one of the leading Hindustani vocalists of the country, the acclaim he enjoyed in the field for almost 70 years and, finally, the patronage he earned from the Gwalior darbar and several other ruling princes from different parts of the country, is a tribute to his exceptional qualities as a musician as much as his personal dynamism.

In the post-independence period, too, public appreciation for Panditji was abundant. He was on of the early recipients of the President’s Award for Hindustani vocal music, way back in 1959. He was honoured with the Padma Bhushan in 1973. India’s only chartered music university, the Indira Kala Sangeet Vishwa Vidyalaya at Khairagarh, in Madhya Pradesh, conferred upon him an honorary doctorate in 1962. A regular broadcaster since 1940, he has been Producer-Emeritus of AIR and Doordarshan.

In recent years, the government of the reorganized Madhya Pradesh has honoured its own stalwart with a number of state awards from time to time. Although Bharat Bhavan, the prestigious arts complex in Bhopal organized a three-day special musical event to felicitate him in November last year, the highest award for classical music, Kalidas Samman, instituted by the state government in 1982, has yet to come his way.

My early familiarity with Panditji music was through the radio, as is probably the case with most music lovers. As a teenage radio buff, I seldom missed his broadcasts or disc music from AIR Delhi. It was much later – in 1949 – that I had a chance to hear him at a regular concert sponsored by a music circle in Bombay.

Nearly six feet tall, lanky and dressed in his usual long coat, dhoti and embroidered cap, Krishnaraoji looked every inch an orthodox, aristocratic, Brahmin, with a stern, slightly forbidding visage that sported a well-groomed moustache. Erect as a walking-stick, he took his seat on the stage in an austere yogic posture and started off his recital without even the customary preliminary tonal flourishes. The effect was electrifying. The three-hour concert, at which Ram Narain and Alla Rakha lent instrumental support on the sarangi and the tabla respectively came to me as a treat.

Here, indeed, I felt, was a maestro of whom it could be truly said that his music was eloquently reflective of his personality. Indeed, the singing showed to full advantage the many facets of his individual style. Basically, it was a rare blend of ingenuity and craftsmanship – the result of long, arduous deliberation. He was endowed with a loud musical voice and his mode of articulation was massive. His taal and laya were incisive. Be it khayal, tappa, thumri, hori and ashtapadi, he could depict them with practised ease and originality.

The last time I heard the maestro was in December 1972, when he came down to Bombay from Gwalior, to attend the 6oth birthday celebrations of Sharadchandra Arolkar who is possibly his senior most disciple. Arolkar, incidentally, is not only a maestro in his own right, but also a musician’s musician. But he is reclusive by temperament and has chosen to remain away from the concert platform. The appearance of the 79-year-old guru and his equally fast-ageing shisya on a common platform was truly symbolic of the guru-shishya parampara, of a hallowed but rapidly vanishing tradition. The spectacle was at once ennobling and moving.

What is more, Krishnaraoji, though well past his prime, offered to provide the finale to the nightlong programme. In the small hours, he reeled off vilambit, drut and tarana numbers in the raga lalit, followed by lilting jogia-mand composition and a thumri and tarana in bhairavi to round it off.

It was disconcertingly evident from this concert that old age had begun to take its toll on his performing abilities. Understandably, one sensed more physical vigour than musical expression in his effort. Even so, we had many glimpses of his undoubted musicianship, showing us how rigorous discipline could well score over age.

Besides Arolkar, Krishnaraoji has groomed a large number of disciples. They include his four sons, Narayan, Laxman, Chandrakant and Sadashiv and his grand-children. Among his other disciples are Vishnupant Choudhari, the Saptarshi brothers, Dattatraya Joglekar, Keshavrao Surange, Amritphale Sarolkar, to name a few. Ironically, almost all of them have branched out as erudite teachers and not as concert artistes. All that can be said about them is that they are carrying on the parampara according to their lights. Inevitably, the Gwalior gharana, acknowledged as the forerunner of all other Hindustani khayal gharanas is on the verge of total oblivion and Krishnarao Shankar Pandit is the oldest surviving representative of the old parampara.

Panditji’s approach to traditional music was a matter of controversy when he was active on the concert stage. He had as many critics as he had votaries. As one who has been singularly lucky in having savoured the music of three generations of top exponents of different gharanas, the controversy to my mind, boils down to the question whether classical music is intellectual or emotional. In other words, it is the never-ending tussle between what is known as classicism and romanticism.

What I have said many times before bears repetition in this evaluation of Panditji’s music. I firmly believe that music (as, indeed, any other art), specially classical music is of two types. It can be purely intellectual or classicist, or purely emotional or romantic. In rare cases, it can be an uncanny blend of both.

In saying this, I nostalgically recall the kind of great music I have heard in all its variety, depth and range over the last four decades and more. Most of the old maestros, who passed into oblivion long ago, were, in my opinion, exponents of intellectual music. By and large, there was more of cerebral skill and physical ability that inspired them to create marvels of sculptured sound. Every note, every phrase, every pattern, as also the rhythmic felicities which went to vivify their chosen theme, provided unimpeachable proof of their life-long dedication and discipline. Against this background, the music of Krishnaraoji, the long survivor of the old guard can be fairly summed up as intellectual in its content and approach. Therefore, its appeal has always been cerebral, but fulfilling.

Needless to say, this kind of music can no longer command popular appeal in the present era of innovation, experimentation and the avant garde. True enough, the conflict between classicism and romanticism has acquired a new and sharper edge in the wake of the emergence of luminaries like Kumar Gandharva and Kishori Amonkar. But this hardly justifies the kind of criticism against the old classicist approach advocated by Krishnaraoji and his departed contemporaries.

And the pity of it is that it comes from cognoscenti of the present generation, who could never have heard the old masters, and can only evaluate them on the basis of recordings which, in most cases, were done when the maestros were long past their prime.

from: http://www.mohannadkarni.org/virtuoso-pandit-krishnarao-pandit/

“ALL OUR GREAT MASTERS HAVE GONE”

Mohan Nadkarni recalls conversations with the maestro. 

The aggressive – looking Panditji is altogether a different man when encountered off-stage. During one of his visits of Bombay, I also had the privilege of playing host to him. Here are excerpts from a series of conversations I had had with Panditji during my meetings with him in Bombay, Delhi and Bhopal.

Q. Panditji, you have often said that the khayal gayaki of Gwalior is the forerunner of several other gharanas which came into prominence during the last 200 years or so. You have also emphasized that none of the later styles has the character of the Gwalior vocalism. Will you please elaborate?

A. Only my gharana can rightly claim to be ashtanga-pradhan in its character. The word means that the style has eightfold musical virtues. These are alap, bol-alap, bol-taan, varieties of taan and layakari, meend, gamak and murki. It is an intricate, complex style, although exponents of other gharanas call it simple, often rudimentary. It might sound simple because it naturally pleases the ear. But it also baffles the mind of een a top veteran, you see. Khayal is presented in two tiers, that is, in slow tempo followed by a faster one. But I find that most exponents of your gharana render their vilambit (slow) composition to medium tempo (Madhya laya). How come? Khayal, as you know well, is a song-form, a composition. If it is rendered in too slow a tempo, it is bound to lose its significance and meaning. The song-text would be deprived of its character.

Q. How then, can you hope to achieve that homogeneous fusion of shabda (words), dhun (tune) and theka (rhythm), which together constitute the hallmark of the gharana? How have you contributed to the enrichment of the gharana’s vocalism?

A. I have tried to lend a greater degree of tayyari (virtuosity) to the traditional style. I have also made an effort to blend several new variations of bol-taan in the general scheme of improvisation. Panditji, you have enjoyed pre-eminence as an exponent of khayal music. But you have also specialized in tappa and thumri styles. These are very different singing genres and have almost gone out of vogue.

Q. Your tappa, specially, sounds different from the Varanasi variety.

A. Yes, the difference is certainly there. Our tappa is khayal-oriented, while the Varanasi type is thumri-oriented. Our repertoire, besides, includes varieties like chaturang, hori, trivet and ashtapadi – all of which form part of the rich treasure of my gharana.

Q. What are the attributes of a good musician? To be a good vocalist, he must first cultivate his voice.

A. He should also have the gift of talent and imagination, coupled with enormous listening power. Above all, he has to pursue his art in the true spirit of a seeker and never deflect from his daily practice.

Q. How do you view the contemporary music scene? Was the older generation of musicians better than the present one? If so, how?

A. We now live in a fast-moving world in which the degree of understanding and appreciation of classical music is getting less and less with each succeeding generation. Our old values are also undergoing a radical change in all walks of life. All our great masters have gone and no new generation of stalwarts has emerged to fill the vacuum. Exceptions are there like Bhimsen Joshi, Gangubai Hangal and others. But they are very few. Don’t you reckon tremendously popular artistes like Kumar Gandharva, Kishori Amonkar and Jasraj? They are good, no doubt. But in the name of changing old concepts and values, they seem to be indulging in innovations and experiments. As a purist, I cannot but view these trends as gravely detrimental to the very survival of the classical tradition.

from: http://www.mohannadkarni.org/virtuoso-pandit-krishnarao-pandit/

Fotos and tree from: http://www.meetapandit.com

On the artist see:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krishnarao_Shankar_Pandit
http://www.meetapandit.com/pt-krishnarao-shankar-pandit/
http://www.parrikar.org/vpl/?page_id=620
https://scroll.in/article/802574/krishnarao-shankar-pandit-traces-the-history-of-the-gwalior-gharana
http://www.mohannadkarni.org/virtuoso-pandit-krishnarao-pandit/

Mallikarjun Mansur (1911-1992) - A Doyen of the Gwalior & Atrauli-Jaipur Gharana - LP published in India in 1988

Though the artist orginally learned from a master of the Gwalior Gharana and there exist quite a number of 78 rpm records on which he sings in this style, his later music is pure Jaipur Gharana. In effect the finest example of Jaipur Gharana after the founder Alladiya Khan and his two sons.

On the artist see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mallikarjun_Mansur

http://indiatoday.intoday.in/story/pandit-mallikarjun-mansur-the-oldest-and-most-stylish-exponents-of-khayal/1/329835.html

http://www.surgyan.com/mallikarjunmansur.htm

flac

mp3

Mallikarjun Mansur – The Man and the Musician by H Y Sharada Prasad

Mallikarjun Mansur is no more. The torrent has gone back into the magic mountain from where it used to flow.

He sang for more than sixty years. And he sang till almost the very last, although he had been so continuously harassed by illness. I recall a private concert he gave in Delhi just five or six months ago when he was kind enough to tell the hosts to ask me to be present. On that occasion he apologised to the audience for not being able to sing for even two hours.

There was always a special intensity to his singing, a special urgency and earnestness in his treatment of melody. These are days when the voice can be preserved, unlike earlier centuries, or the beginning of the phonograph with three-and-seven minute records. Some may say that the immortals of music can now be truly immortalised. But a record of a Mansur concert can never be a substitute for the live one — for each time he sang with a new creative impulse, and in each rendering there were several surprises. His Patdeep or Shivmat Bhairav of today would be a different experience from his Patdeep and Shivmat Bhairav of yesterday.

So many of our well-known authors and artists move about with a swagger for they seem to believe that they are indeed colossi striding the scene. They are all the time looking at those who are looking at them. Mallikarjun did not possess a regal bearing. He did not clothe himself in princely robes. He did not care to be the centre of attraction. He was content to be inconspicuous. He continued to look like a shopkeeper’s accountant. He did not speak like an oracle. He rarely referred to his triumphs. He won not only the respect but the affection of his contemporaries. He was wholly without envy. His was an unfailing geniality and lightness of heart. His airs were what he sang. He did not put on any.

Those who met him never failed to wonder at his combination of eminence and humility. His autobiography would throw some light on this riddle of Mallikarjun. “Nanna Rasayatre” (which could be rendered rather inadequately as “My Emotional Pilgrimage” — for there is no satisfactory English equivalent for “rasa”) is a little masterpiece. But few know about it because it is in his mother tongue, Kannada.

Most autobiographies in our country are by political persons or by literary men. Few are by artists. Mansur’s book cannot be compared with Yehudi Menuhin’s in its length or its depiction of a musician’s challenges and rewards. Mansur tells us that his fingers are meant to play the tanpura and not ply a pen. He took up the book only under the pressure of a couple of literary friends — A. N. Krishna Rao of Karnataka and P. L. Deshpande of Maharashtra. He had kept no diary. His intention in writing the book ultimately was not to impress but to record his debt to his musical and spiritual preceptors.

Mallikarjun’s reverence for his teachers comes out strongly especially for Nilkantha Buwa and for the sons of Alladiya Khan — Manji Khan and Burji Khan. For him they were perennial rivers from whom he could not draw enough. Even when he was nearing forty he kept going from his hometown Dharwad to Kolhapur for lessons from Burji Khan.

Writing nearly thirty-five years after Burji Khan’s death, he would say that his gurus continued to guide him in spirit, inspiring him, enabling him to understand the meaning of music, and bringing him whatever reputation he had gained.

Outwardly the most captivating aspect of Mallikarjun’s music was its dramatic element. He went on the stage even as a young boy, following in the footsteps of his elder brother, and made a name for himself as Prahlada, Dhruv and Narada. But he also left the stage early, when he was still in his teens. The musician Nilkantha Buwa heard him and told his brother: “Give this lad to me. I shall make him a musician. His genius should not be wasted in theatre companies.” The Buwa himself was with a religious establishment and apprenticeship to him was more than a musical training.

Although he had made several discs for HMV even in his early twenties, music did not become a paying profession to Mallikarjun until much later in life. His mother’s faith sustained him initially. After his marriage, his wife somehow managed the house, convinced that she should aid his tapas.

One of the most moving chapters in the autobiography concerns Mallikarjun’s mother. The family decided to go on a pilgrimage to the famous Saivite temple at Srisailam. Once there, Mallikarjun went to have a dip in the sacred pool, leaving his coat at the top of the steps. When he came up, the coat had disappeared and with it all the money of the party as well as the return tickets. He spent the whole day and evening moping. But his mother put heart into him. When it was nearly midnight, she took him to the temple and asked him to sing. The main door had been closed, but Mallikarjun obeyed his mother’s command. He began to sing and soon the singer was lost in his song. To his surprise a priest opened the door and asked the group to go in.

Mallikarjun’s mother stood before the idol and made a prayer: “Lord, if you are true, take me unto yourself. I have no further interest in living. This is my only plea to you.”

Mallikarjun joked and told her: “How can He take you unless we let you go?”

Pandit Mallikarjun Mansur sings rare and complex Ragas - LP published in India in 1978

Now we post two LPs by the great Mallikarjun Mansur which our blogger friend Bolingo already posted years ago. But at that time to offer also flac files was not the norm. We present here also flac files. 

Here the first of these two LPs. It was the very first LP by this artist I ever encountered and bought. I discovered it in the late 1970s in one of the 3 or 4 Indian and Pakistani record shops in Southall near London. I remember still very vividly that when I saw this record I immediately knew that I was in front of something exceptional. What first struck me was that ascetic looking intense face. I don't remember if I listened already in the shop to the LP. But what I remember is that when I listened to it at home the music took me immediately: I never had heard such beautiful music before and such a radiant voice and such rich taans. It was like eternally flowing music from another world. For many years it stayed my favorite record and still is. By now I have over two hundred recordings by the great master, but this one is still extremely dear to me.

Over the years we posted already seven LPs and cassettes by the artist. See here.

flac
mp3

D.V. Paluskar (1921-1955) - Great Master, Great Music - LP published in India in 1971

Here another beautiful LP by the great artist. This one was amongst the very first vocal recordings I obtained and was for a long time one of my favorites and still is. I bought it mid 1970s in London or Southall on my first or second shopping trip to the Indian record shops there.

flac

mp3

D.V. Paluskar (1921-1955) - Morning Melodies - An All India Radio Release - LP published in India in 1988

D.V. Paluskar (1921-1955) was one of the greatest and most popular singers of the Gwalior Gharana in mid 20th century. He passed away quite young.

On the artist see:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D._V._Paluskar

https://sites.google.com/site/dvpaluskar/

http://www.chembur.com/anecdotes/dvpaluskar.htm

http://swaratala.blogspot.de/2011/04/pandit-dv-paluskar-and-paluskarite.html

flac

mp3

There are quite a number of CDs by the artist: two by Akashvani from the archives of All India Radio, a series of five CDs by Meera Music and a couple of others. As always, they can be obtained from info@raga-maqam-dastgah.com

Bade Ghulam Ali Khan (1902-1968) - A Doyen of Patiala Gharana - An All India Radio Release - LP published in India in 1988

flac

mp3

Sayeeduddin Dagar (20 April 1939 – 30 July 2017) passed away - May he rest in peace - In his memory two concert recordings from 1989 & 2000

Only today I received the sad news that Ustad Sayeeduddin Dagar passed away on 30th of July. May his soul rest in peace. He was the last surviving representative of the 19th generation of the Dagar dynasty. 

I met him first around 2000 in Holland, I think at a concert in Amsterdam. Afterwards we met for a couple of years at a number of other concerts and developped a very warm friendship. The most beautiful concert, for me and my wife, took place in a suburb of Paris, in a small building at the back of a garden with only around 30 visitors. My wife was very fond of him and talked about this concert for many years. This concert was one of the most memorable concerts I ever experienced. It seems that the Ustad gave the most outstanding performances in front of a small public.

In the last 10 or 15 years a couple of CDs by him were released in France and UK.

On the artist see:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/H._Sayeeduddin_Dagar
http://isha.sadhguru.org/blog/inside-isha/expressions/tribute-ustad-sayeeduddin-dagar/
http://www.thehindu.com/entertainment/music/dhrupad-maestro-ustad-sayeeduddin-dagar-dies-aged-78/article19395864.ece

Concert in Bonn, Germany, in 1989:

flac

mp3

Concert in Cologne at WDR in 2000:

flac

mp3

Many thanks to KF for the recordings and the covers.

Bade Ghulam Ali Khan (1902-1968) - Great Master, Great Music - From the archives of All India Radio (AIR) - LP published in India in 1971

flac

mp3

Bade Ghulam Ali Khan (1902-1968) - Recordings from Radio Pakistan - LP published in Pakistan

I guess these recordings were done in the period in which he lived in Lahore, Pakistan. That was up to 1957 or 1958, when he obtained Indian citizenship.

On his excellent blog our dear friend Bolingo had posted this LP already with mp3-files. He also posted four other LPs by the artist. See here.

flac

mp3

Bade Ghulam Ali Khan (1902-1968) - Raga Goonkali & Raga Malkauns - LP published in 1961 in India

Here we start to post some of the LPs of Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan, the legendary father of Munawar Ali Khan. This is the first of two LPs of studio recordings by the great Ustad. The second LP has been posted by our blogger friend from Flat, Black and Classical: Indian Classical Music on Vinyl and Cassette. All other LPs have recordings from the archives of All India Radio or Radio Pakistan, except for one which is a re-release of several 78rpm records on LP. 

The LP here was - I'm sure - recorded before his heart attack. The Ustad is here in full form. A true firework.

flac
mp3

Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan by Susheela Mishra (from Great Masters of Hindustani Music)

The death of no other classical musician in recent times has had such a stunning effect as the passing away of Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan had in April 1968 on the world of Indian music. AIR was flooded with poignant tributes and homages from great musicians, musicologists and music- lovers from all over the country. 

The great maestro used to say: “Music is to me more than my food. It is my only life and I cannot live without it. I would rather die with a song on my lips than live without music.” Years ago, he had to undergo a serious goitre operation after which he was advised complete vocal and physical rest by his surgeon-friend. Hardly 24 hours had elapsed when he burst into a taan covering 3 octaves! When his surgeon affectionately admonished him for it, his childlike reply was: “I had to see if my voice has been affected. Without it, what use is my life to me?”

When Bade Ghulam Ali was stricken with paralysis in 1961 his admirers all over the country felt deeply grieved not only for themselves, but even more for the great Ustad for whom life without music would be nothing better than the silence of the tomb. Those who had seen his utter helplessness after the stroke, had no hope of hearing his wonderful singing voice again. But after some time, excited rumours spread that he was going to stage a come-back, rumours that seemed too good to be true. But he proved how mind can truimph over the body. There he was on the stage- “frail in body, but exuberent in spirit, looking like a disabled lion – still majestic in his deportment, a twinkle in his eyes, and that impish smile on his lips”. Music circles took the lead in restoring his self- confidence. In his programme (relayed by AIR) after receiving the Presidential Award, he seemed to have set a challenge for himself by singing Khayals and Tarana (in Yaman) – just to reassure himself that his taans had at least not been “crippled” by the stroke.

Another of his “come-back” appearances was in the Fourth Music and Dance Festival (1967) sponsored by the Goverment of Maharashtra. He had to be brought on a chair and seated on the stage before the curtain went up. He was surrounded by his various accompanists and admirers on the stage; but he refused to start singing. Reason:- “You have switched off all the audience lights and I can see no one in the dark. How can I feel like singing unless I have a darshan of my dear listeners who have come from far and near in their affection for me?” A glimpse of the adoring crowds, and he broke into his inimitable Khayal in Rag Chchaya (“Jo kare Ram Kripa”) full of [The kHayAl in Chhayanat is actually “Sugreeva Rama Krupa” – RP] devotional fervour. For the true musician, there is only one God – by whichever name you address Him. The great artist that he was, Ghulam Ali was not interested in political and religious differences. He knew of only two categories of humanity – music-lovers and the uninterested ones. “I know only one thing – Music ! I am little interested in other things. I am just a humble devotee of God and Music.”

Ghulam Ali not only believed in the divine origin of music but also in the story that music came into his family when one of his Pathan ancestors (Fazl Peerdad Khan) migrated to Hindustan from Ghazni, became a Fakir, and worshipped the Goddess of music for years among the lonely mountain-tops of the north until one day she appeared before the music-mad devotee and blest him. “Music will run in your family from generation to generation”. Peerdada handed over his ilm to Miyan Irshad Ali Khan (great- grandfatber of Ghulam Ali) from whom it came to Id Mohammad Khan (Ghulam Ali’s grandfather), to father Ali Buksh, uncle Kale Khan, and on to Bade Ghulam Ali. Their Gharana was known as the Kasur Gharana.

Born in Lahore in 1901, Ghulam Ali’s musical gifts were evident at an incredibly early age. As an infant he once wailed in the same pitch in which his father and his famous uncle Kale Khan were singing! Reminiscing over his childhood, the Ustad once said: “I do not know at what age I began to master the 12 notes. This much I can say. At the age of 3 or 4 when I started talking, I had some idea of the 12 notes. I learnt sargam as a child learns his mother-tongue. 

Recognising the musical potentialities of the child, Ali Bux put him, at the age of seven, under the tutelage of Khan Sahib Kale Khan of Patiala for the next ten years. After the Khan Sahib’s death, Ghulam Ali continued his training under his own father. Both his uncle and father bad received good training from Khan Sahib Fateh Ali Khan, the court musician of Patiala. What fired him with a feeling of challenge was a small incident. When Kale Khan died, a certain musician made a caustic remark that “music was dead with Kale Khan.” This put young Ghulam Ali on his mettle. In his own words: “For the next five years, music became my sole passion. I practised hard day and night, even at the cost of sleep. All my joys and sorrows were centred on music.”

Ghulam Ali was gifted with all the attributes of a great musician: musical lineage, sound training and high artistic sensibility. “To me the purity of the note is the supreme thing”, he used to say. Ghulam Ali also had the privilege of receiving talim from Ashiq Ali (who belonged to the Gharana of Tanras Khan), and from the late Baba Sinde Khan. Some people detected shades of Ustad Wahid Khan’s charming style in his Khayal alap. Whether it was a Khayal with a courtly theme, a Thumri with wistfully romantic word- content, a playful Dadra or a soulful Bhajan, Ghulam Ali Khan could always put his heart and soul into the song. We have no dearth of great traditionalists and purists who can impress the intellect by their technical mastery. But what is music without a soul! Ghulam Ali’s music was “the best imaginable blend of appeal and technique.” Few could touch the listeners’ hearts as he could. No wonder, that no other classical vocalist earned such country-wide adulation as he did. Among his many contributions to Hindustani music, the outstanding one is that he opened the eyes and ears of contemporary musicians and music-lovers to the prime importance of voice culture and voice-modulation and the supreme value of emotion in music. “A voice is not just a ready-made gift from the gods. One has to earn it, polish it, and gain absolute command over it by Sangeet Sadhana” – he used to say. 

A remarkable fact in Bade Ghulam Ali’s life was his transformation, in the early part of his life, from the role of a Sarangi player to that of a vocalist. This experience really enriched his taans and we admire him all the more for it, but somehow Ghulam Ali never liked to be reminded about that -early phase of his life!

The amazing pliability of his voice, his unpredictable swara-combinations, the incredible speed of his tans, and the ease with which he could sway his audiences by his emotional renderings – these were some of the qualities which became the envy and despair of many a rival.

As I sit and recall the numerous concerts of Bade Ghulam Ali that I had the good fortune to attend, I find that there was not a single rasa that he could not bring to life through his music. Such was the power of his music that be it summer or winter, if be chose to sing Basant and (or), Bahar, he could conjure up before the audience, the entire beauty, youthful exuberance, bursting buds, and blossoms, the poignancy of separation and the entire atmosphere of Spring. Suddenly he would wave the magic wand of his music, and when he started that peerless Desh of his “Kali Ghata ghir aye Sajani”, the audience could almost hear the rumbling of thunder (in the deep, growling mandra notes) see the flashes of lightning (in his sweeping taan), and share the beloved’s agony of separation (through the exquisite meends) and so on. In his Thumri “Naina more taras rahe” (in Jangla Bhairavi), he could bring out the entire longing of the eyes to behold the “Pardesi balam.” What passion cannot music raise and quell! He sang strictly within the traditional framework, but what varied emotions he could pour into his dignified and devotional Khayals (like “Mahadev Maheshivar”, or “Prabhu ranga bheeni”), sensuous thumris like “Yadpiya Ki aye”, or “Tirchh najariya ke Baan”), poignant Dadras (Saiya bolbolo) playful Horis, and soulful Bhajans. By his richly expressive style, he has silenced the detractors of classical music who argue that it is “dry and flat,” and therefore, sans appeal. This pained Ghulam Ali, who used to say – “This is because generally our musicians are more interested in technical virtuosity. But really, emotion is the very soul of our music which has the power to express the subtlest nuances of feeling”. He proved his point by his own style. “From the heart of the singer to the heart of the listener” was true in the case of his music. For the rare perfection and popularity that he brought to the Punjab ang Thumri, he has been rightly called “the King of light classical music”. He had cultivated a full and splendidly modulated voice that charmed listeners. It was a soothing, polished voice that could float effortlessly over the 3 octaves, in slow long glides (meends) or in faans of inimitable speed.

It is true that Ghulam Ali belonged to a long and illustrious musical lineage – the Patiala Gharana. But it was his genius that chiselled off all the harsh crudities and angularities of the once dry Patiala Gharana, and lent it such a rare polish and glow that today it has achieved countrywide popularity. Bade Ghulam Ali Khan has left behind not only hundreds of singers trying to emulate him, but also thousands and thousands of music- lovers who cherish his music. No other North Indian vocalist ever attracted such large audiences in the South as did Bade Ghulam Ali Khan.

Bade Ghulam Ali never tried to win the approbation of those classical purists who judge the excellence of a perfor mance by the length of delineation of each raga. His aim was to appeal to the hearts of the millions who heard him. He would say: “What is the use of stretching each raga for hours? There are bound to be repetitions.” He was one of those rare musicians who was an adept in matching his music to the mood and tastes of his audiences. Indeed, few classical musicians have equalled his shrewd knowledge of audience-psychology. He used to give brief renderings of ragas at big conferences because he rightly felt that too elaborate alaps and badhat might sound tedious to the uninitiated who form the bulk of big gatherings. However, he inevitably poured out his sweetest art at exclusive private soirees. It was at the great Vikram Samvat Conference in Bombay that Ghulam Ali shot up to dizzy heights of fame. It was an unforgettable occasion. All the shining jewels of Hindustani classical music like Aftab-E-Mausiqui Ustad Faiyaz Khan, Ustad Alladiya Khan, Kesarbai and all the rest of the brilliant galaxy were present.

Young Ghulam Ali’s performance made him the sensation of the day. Those who heard him on that occasion still rave about the Khayals in Pooriva, and Marva and the Thumris that he rendered then.

At his abode, wherever he used to stay, whether Bombay, Delhi, Calcutta or Hyderabad, he was surrounded by his admirers all the time, and the Swarmandal was always with him. Every few minutes he would break into song to illustrate a point he was making. A firm believer in the debt that classical music owes to folk music, he could, with amazing dexterity, demonstrate the simple folk tunes like a real villager, and then suddenly sing out its fully polished classical counterpart in a scintillating manner! No wonder his admirers were always crowding around him throughout his waking hours. An ample, corpulent figure with a handlebar moustache, his face would become lighted up with expression as he sang, and music enriched with unsurpassed melodiousness would flow out of this great maestro.

During the Ustad’s last stay in Bombay (prior to his departure for Hyderabad and his last fatal attack), my brother, a devout BGA fan, in the course of his Cochin-Bombay- Calcutta flight, had a few hours’ halt in Bombay, before taking a plane to Calcutta. It was 11 pm when he reached Bade Ghulam Ali Khan’s place. Yet, with joy, the Ustad showed his hospitality, not by serving tea and sweets but by something more precious. “Bring my swarmandal,” he said to his son Munawwar. “Let me sing awhile for my dear guest.” My brother was overwhelmed by the great artiste’s humility, affection, and his utter absorption in music. One of my brother’s most cherished. possessions today is an old autographed Swarmandal of the Ustad.

Bade Ghulam Ali was not only everyone’s favourite, but the favourite of many musicians. When the news of his death spread (April 1968), great contemporaries like Begum Akhtar, Siddheswari Devi, Bhimsen Joshi, Dilip Chandra Vedi and a host of others spoke out in their grief over the “irreparable loss”. Siddheswari Devi looked nostalgically at a group-photo in which she sat next to the great maestro after a grand music conference in 1936, and said in a tearful voice: “The like of Bade Ghulam Ali Khan will never come. There will not be another like him.”

Begum Akhtar who had known him since long, paid her tribute thus: “I have never seen such a rare combination of greatness and simplicity. When I first heard him, I felt that I was hearing real music for the first time. He was my honoured guest for several months in Calcutta. He used to sing all day long. In fact, music was his sole interest in life, In sorrow he would draw solace from music. In joy also he would burst into song. What a rare musician!”

Under his pen name, Sabrang, he has left numerous lilting compositions – khayals and thumris. Sabrang had only one passion in life – Music. Today the great singer has merged into Nadabrahma, eternal bliss through music. His favourite Bhajan ever was and will be: Hari Om Tatsat.

Who knows future generations may refer to him with awe and reverence as we do of Tansen. Luckily, AIR has treasured the recordings of many of his memorable recitals for us and for posterity.

*********

Vignettes from the past
From: PILLARS OF HINDUSTANI MUSIC by B.R. Deodhar (Popular Prakashan)

I believe the year was 1945. Khansaheb and I were seated on Chowpatty sands, chatting. The sun was about to set and its last rays had fanned out and bathed the West in red. The picturesque scene above was reflected in the calm waters of the Arabian Sea. It was a habit with Khansaheb to go to Chowpatty regularly every day to see the beautiful sunset. As he sat transfixed by the scene before us Khansaheb turned to me and said, “Deodharsaheb, this is the precise hour to sing raga Marwa. I am amazed by the ingenuity of our ancestors! Consider their perceptive artistry in employing that particular rishabh (re, ‘D”) and dhaivat (Dha, ‘A’) as they did! The hour of sunset is a most fascinating time. Lovers who have been separated begin to wonder at this time how they are going to spend the night in loneliness. The same thing happens to people who do not have a roof over their heads. The day passes by itself-but the night? They start worrying about finding a shelter for the night. In the seven notes of Hindustani music the most important resting place is shadja (sa, ‘C’). But in Marwa the very note (sa) virtually vanishes and whenever we use it briefly we feel a sense of relief. I am of the opinion that the chief aim of Marwa is to portray this anxiety or uncertainty”.

…[Bade Gulam to Deodhar]: “When I happened to be seated on the bank of a river, or in a park, I see birds flying here and there. I see them darting and dancing around without a care in the world; they suddenly take to flight and having reached a certain height dive down to their resting places in some tree. I am fascinated by all this. I want to translate all their delightful movements into music and I try to do this by means of a suitable tana e.g. one which moves very fast from the Sa (tonic) to pancham (Pa, ‘G’) of the higher octave and then circles down like a bird in flight, to the middle Sa…”

…One day Khansaheb had a radio broadcast at 1 p.m. As I was working for the Bombay Radio Station at the time, I too had to be in attendance. After he had finished, Khansaheb said, “Wait for a while. I have sent for a taxi – we shall go together.” It was mid-july and the rain was coming down in torrents. Besides, I was hungry. But I did not have the heart to say ‘no’ to Khansaheb. The taxi came along and we got in. Water in any form made Khansaheb happy and heavy rains in particular were pure bliss for him. Some of the rain- water seeped into the taxi and began to drench us but Khansaheb seemed to be in high spirits. He said, “Come Deodharsaheb, let us go to the sea-shore; the sea would be something to be seen right now.” I protested, “For one, I am famished and besides my clothes are beginning to get wet. So let me go straight home.” However, by way of compromise I agreed to let the taxi driver take us via Marine Drive. We came to Marine Drive and Khansaheb asked the cabbie to stop his vehicle at a spot where there is a cement-concrete projection. The waves of the turbulent sea at this point were thirty to forty feet high. Khansaheb said, “Deodharsaheb, the time and this place are just right for doing riyaz. Listen.” And he began to sing. Whenever a particularly massive wave broke and water spouted up Khansaheb’s tana rose in synchronization and descended when water cascaded down. Water rose in a single massive column but split at the top and fell in broken slivers; so did Khansaheb’s tana in raga Miyan Malhar. Sometimes, if his ascending notes failed to keep pace with the surging water, he was angry with himself but tried again till it synchronized perfectly with the surging water. This went on for three quarters of an hour. I got so interested in the whole proceeding that hunger and thirst were forgotten. Finally Khansaheb’s son, who happened to be with us, said to his father, “Let us go now – it is two-thirty p.m. and we are both hungry.”…

…I remember another interesting incident. One evening, Khansaheb gave me a long lecture on the importance of celibacy, especially to singers. The following day, while on his way to Chowpatty, he came to the school and urged me to go with him. I said it would take me a few minutes to get ready. Khansaheb said he would wait for me by the roadside. When I came down, I saw an extraordinary sight. A lovely Punjabi girl – she must have been around eighteen years old – was going towards Chowpatty. Our school is practically at one end of Chowpatty, and Khansaheb seemed to be a few steps behind and following her. The girl caught the attention of every passerby because of her beauty and the grace of her movements. I caught up with Khansaheb, tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Khansaheb, were you not yourself holding forth on the virtues of celibacy yesterday? But a passing lass seems to have turned your head today!” Khansaheb said, “You will hardly understand what I am thinking or looking for. Look what a beautiful piece of creation that girl is! And how intelligent the Creator must be to produce such captivating figure! She has turned the eyes of every passer-by to herself and she is completely unaware of this. Watch her graceful gait – the beautiful movement of her arms and neck! Come, I shall sing to you what I have just seen.” We returned to our school and Khansaheb started singing a thumari in which he painted a vivid tonal picture of the beauty we had met…

…Khansaheb was whimsical. If the audience was up to his expectations he could give an unsurpassable recital. But if the atmosphere, or something else, was not absolutely right he would make do with an offering of thumaris. In 1945, at a recital at Kolhapur, the percussion accompaniment did not come up to his expectations. Consequently, he wound up the pure classical part in the first forty or forty-five minutes and started singing thumaris. He was upset by his having given a lacklustre recital. He returned to his lodgings (at Deval Club) around 2.30 a.m. followed by fifty to sixty members of the audience. Khansaheb said to the people, “All right now, you sit here in the verandah. I shall sing for you.” He asked one of his disciples to provide basic percussion accom- paniment on a dagga and took up his favourite musical instrument swaramandal in his lap. He started singing and went on till 6 a.m. Theatre-goers on their way home heard his voice and came to Deval Club to hear him. They stayed on to enjoy the music until Khansaheb stopped singing. No one was in a hurry to get home. There was a similar incident at Belgaum. There too the main recital did not go well. Khansaheb, anxious to catch the 5 a.m. train to Bombay, went straight to the railway station – followed by the usual crowd of inveterate music lovers. The percussion maestro Thirakawa, was also there. Everybody made himself comfortable on the railway platform and Khansaheb started singing. The recital began at 3 a.m. and continued until the arrival of the Bombay train. The unplanned audience, in its final stages, numbered some two hundred people who went home when the recital ended. Needless to say, the voluntary recital was incomparably successful – unlike the earlier (paid) one…

…My relationship with Khansaheb was extremely cordial. So I had no hesitation in questioning him about the variable quality of his recitals. I said, “Khansaheb, your presentation of khayal music seems to be lacking in order. You do alapi for some time. Then you take up notation (sa, re, ga, ma etc.) and before the listeners quite realize what you have done, start on tanas. After some time, you once again turn to alapi. Consequently, other musicians consider your gayaki outside any gharana discipline.” Khansaheb heard me out and said, “I won’t answer you in words but by my music. Listen, I am going to sing raga Darbari.” He presented that raga for forty-five minutes so beautifully that I could not find a trace of his usual untidiness. His first twenty minutes were spent in alapi, so relaxed and leisurely that the listener would begin to wonder whether Khansaheb was incapable of producing a single tana. The first part consisted entirely of charming gestures and alapi in which he glided from note to note. There were no twists or turns or the tiniest of harkats. The bol-anga that followed was equally beautiful. Finally, he ended with spiral tanas which reminded one of cannon fire. I asked him, “Why don’t you sing like this always?” He replied at length: “Because all are not discerning listeners like you. I am a Punjabi and people think of me as a musician who is adept at harkats of Punjabi style and good at notation (sa, re, ga, ma). I am also known for my powerful tana. If I do alapi as I just did, within a short while listeners begin to look displeased as if they were saying to themselves, ‘Why is Gulam Ali singing today like a singer lacking in guts? What we have come for is some fireworks, fast tanas and harkats of Punjabi flavour. This man is wasting his time in alapi!’ When I see the audience getting fidgety I lose my concentration and then give it what it wants. But all the same, what you say, Deodharsaheb, is true. I am sometimes guilty of untidiness in my presentation. It is true. I do realize it, but am somehow powerless to check it”… Khansaheb was temperamentally very cheerful and a god-fearing kind-hearted person. He was invariably touched if he encountered an abjectly poor or helpless person. On his daily visit to Chowpatty he made frequent stops to hand out money to beggars. He would put his hand in the pocket and hand out whatever he found there, be it a few annas, a rupee or a five-rupee note.

Khansaheb was an uncomplicated person – even a little naive in some matters. It was not in his nature to tell lies and deceive anyone. At one time I did not know that he had once been a sarangi player. One day, he happened to see a sarangi in our school and immediately started playing it. He, of his own accord, told me that at one time he had had to support himself by playing that instrument. When he told me about the privations he had to undergo and the circumstances through which he had to pass there was not the slightest touch of self-consciousness about him.

Whenever we engaged in a chit-chat on Chowpatty sands, a small crowd of music lovers would invariably gather round us. On one such occasion Khansaheb started singing. Within a short time he had an audience of thirty or forty people round him. They were all greatly delighted with his music. Khansaheb’s glance happened to fall on a paanwala who had also left his stall to listen to him. Khansaheb said, “Did you see how music makes you forget everything? This paanwala has been standing here for a long time oblivious of the fact that he must sell paan to make a living. The crowd will melt away when the show is over but the poor chap would have lost the evening’s business. I must do something for him.” He then called the paanwala to his side and asked him to serve paans to every one of the thirty or forty people present, at his expense.

Khansaheb had a keen sense of humour. In 1945 he had to go to Kolhapur for a recital. I accompanied him. At Dewal Club, where we were staying, tea was brought in the morning in somewhat diminutive cups. Khansaheb was amused to see such tiny cups. He turned to me and said, “Deodharsaheb, what is a man of my size going to do with this minute quantity of tea? It is barely enough for one sip!” He ordered an entire pot, drank his fill and treated all others staying at the club to tea. During that visit he decided to go shopping for some vests. He visited several shops but was unable to find one large enough for his size. Finally he found one single garment of the requisite size at a shop. Khansaheb said to the shopkeeper, “What kind of a city you have here! I cannot find a vest I can wear!” Khansaheb was a spend- thrift. Whenever he was flush with money he would indulge in an orgy of spending. Naturally some people took advantage of his gullibility and extravagant habits. But Khansaheb rarely complained. He would say, “Fate earmarked the money for them – so they got it.”

Khansaheb’s fondness for food is well known. It is true that he loved good and nourishing food. If he happened to be hungry and food was late in coming he would become visibly disturbed. But stories about his gargantuan appetite, for example that he habitually polished off four chickens and fifty rotis, were largely apocryphal. I can vouch for the fact that he was not a glutton. It was his parasitic companions who gorged themselves on his food and spread stories about his huge appetite.

As Khansaheb was a Pakistan national he had to return to Pakistan when his visa was about to expire. He had innumerable admirers in India and he was in great demand all over the country for concert performances. Consequently he was inclined to take up Indian citizenship which was not easy. Those who were originally residents of what became India but migrated to Pakistan for security reasons could regain their Indian citizenship. But Khansaheb, being a resident of Lahore (in Pakistan), was unlikely to be able to acquire Indian citizenship.

On one occasion, Khansaheb gave a recital at the residence of Morarji Desai when the latter was the Chief Minister of Bombay. Morarji was greatly pleased with the recital. Khansaheb, seeing this to be a good opportunity for bringing up the subject of his citizenship, said to Morarji, “I am really more fond of India than Pakistan. There are thousands of people here who love my music and I should very much like to settle down here. But because I come from Lahore (which makes me a Pakistani national), I have to obtain a visa for coming to India. When the period of the visa, which is some seven to eight months, is over I have to return to Pakistan.” Morarji heard him out and said, “Khansaheb, if you wish to live here and are determined to become an Indian national let me know. I shall try to arrange it.” Khansaheb having made a declaration to that effect, Morarji got him to make a formal application which he forwarded to Delhi with his own recommen- dation. Khansaheb succeeded in acquiring Indian citizenship in 1957-58…

Both from: http://www.parrikar.org/vpl/?page_id=380

Munawar Ali Khan (1930-1989) - Vol. 1 - Cassette published in Pakistan in 1983

Here the cassette I promised already a while ago. On side one there is in addition to Raga Aimen (Yaman) a Dadra Pahari. Apparently the artist performed reguarly in Pakistan. This is our fifth post of Ustad Munawar Ali Khan.

flac

mp3

Dhruba Ghosh (1957-2017) - The great Sarangi master passed away on 10th of july - In his memory a concert in Brussels in 2001

Only yesterday we received the very sad news that the great Sarangi master passed away already on 10th of july. May he rest in peace. We met him many many times and knew him not only as a great Sarangi player, indeed the greatest of his generation, whose concerts were always very touching and full of surprises, but also as an extremely lovely and lovable person, always gentle and kind. This is indeed a great and very sad loss.

This january we posted three LPs and cassettes with him: his very first solo recording, an LP where he accompanies his father and brother (both Tabla masters) and an LP by singer Dinkar Kaikini, one of Dhrubas teachers, with his Sarangi accompaniment. See here.

He recorded quite a number of CDs.

On the artist see:

http://www.sarangi.net/video-archives/53-dhruba-ghosh with a number of very beautiful videos.

http://www.overgrownpath.com/2017/07/his-sound-will-always-be-written-on-my.html

http://mumbaimirror.indiatimes.com/columns/columnists/sumana-ramanan/maestro-who-helped-establish-sarangi-as-a-solo-instrument/articleshow/59537214.cms

http://constantinople.ca/musiciens/dhruba-ghosh-2/?lang=en

http://www.mid-day.com/articles/sarangi-maestro-pandit-dhruba-ghosh-passes-away-dead-death-dies-heart-attack-mumbai-bollywood-news/18413151

Here we present in his memory a wonderful concert which took place in Brussels in 2001. We received these recordings as a set of two CDs from our friend D.M. Many thanks to him.

flac - CD 1 & scan

flac - CD 2

mp3 - CD 1 & scan

mp3 - CD 2