The word “tradition” has two meanings as applied to Indian music generally, and to Karnatak music particularly. Unfortunately these two meanings are not always distinctly held apart. In one, tradition is used as the equivalent of “sampradaya.” In this sense tradition represents the complex of various usages in course of time which have contributed to Karnatak music its main features. Thus we come to know that alapana, tana, kriti forms, neraval, swaraprasthara, the overall balance of a concert, are features which have been at various times incorporated into the musical form. There is of course here no implication of prescribed modes in which these should be rendered. Nor even of any necessity to bring out all these features or perish.
The second meaning is more restricted. In this sense tradition seems to be equivalent to “paramparya” or lineage. Since Karnatak music was learnt even in the not too distant past in the time-honoured method of gurukula-vasa, with strong affiliations of interests, musical form was handed from one generation to another with stern injunctions regarding the necessity to keep the heritage unpolluted. In those times when perpetuation of memory could not be achieved through the printed word or monumental tablets or portraits, this was perhaps the only way to ensure posthumous fame. A sishya had to sing in the manner chalked out by the guru. not only because he was under threat of perdition if he did not, but also because, by an enlightened self-interest, he came to know that the only way he would be remembered by posterity was the way in which he himself made it possible for posterity to remember his guru. Here, of course, everything went by prescription. The personality of the artist counted for very little. The musicians of each generation thought and sang very much like the musicians of the previous generation from whom they had received their instruction. Like the faded ancestors in one’s family album, the musicians offered very little to choose from among them. Only, instead of the fading increasing from the present as one went further and further back along the genealogical table, the fading increased, in the case of musicians, as one went forward from one generation of musicians to the next. This is not surprising because the springs of Helicon will not be clear or even traceable when it flows over dusty soil.
But now we have mixed these two meanings of tradition and the result is a confusion in thinking. When a critic today complains of a musician as having departed from tradition, it is difficult to be clear what he means. Does he mean that the singer has not brought out all the features of the musical form? Or does he mean that the musician has not sung in the way his guru sang? Since in the ordinary course, the critic may not have heard the guru at all, does he, in fact, merely mean that the musician has not sung in the way that he had heard some octagenarian sing many years ago, when he, the critic himself was a callous young man with generous enthusiasms and a father-fixation?
Perhaps it were as well that we cleared this meaningless confusion right now. It must not be forgotten that “paramparya” would be better confined to an examination of paideutics and not to musical criticism. If by tradition, the critics mean the guru-dominated lineage of singers, they might find more worthy occupation in tracing the genealogy of each musician. I would assure them that even this is a noble task, since we have very little biographical material of that sort about our musicians. On the other hand, if they continue to mix up words in a semantic confusion, they would be doing very little service to music.
Tradition in the sense of “sampradaya” is a perfectly intelligible word. What more, it is equally useful. “Sampradaya” refers, as I have earlier pointed out, to the complex of usages in musical form, not to any particular trend. It is probable that some particular trend was the dominant one within one’s memory. But one would be wrong to make it the rule of thumb by which to judge and appraise individual performances. It demands total blindness not to notice that with critics the thumb is as big as the fist.
Now the complex of musical usages, which we define “sampradaya” to be and which we mean when we use the word tradition, is based on three cardinal, irreducible ideas. These are ‘sruti,’ ‘swara,’ and ‘laya.’ Whatever the musical usage, it cannot depart from the ideas of appropriate pitch or sruti, the requisite clarity of note or swara and the inelastic pattern of rhythm or laya. Conversely, if these basic ideas inform any music, it cannot be condemned as an aberration from tradition, however novel it may appear to the critics. Such music would still be within the scope of “sampradaya.” The critic who opposes any kind of innovation or individual idiom, will be tilting at windmills, if he imagines, by so doing, that he is preserving tradition.
It is a pity that critics generally are interested more in ossified “paramparyas” than in living tradition. Partly it is the result of semantic confusion. Partly it is the result of facile but false standards that reference to a particular guru or his lineage affords. It is the Arnoldian fallacy of criticism. Arnold, it might be remembered, was for testing all literature against certain works, which after a subjective process of assessment he offered as touchstones. The musical critics do it without even the subjective assessment.
When driven to bay, the critic shifts his stand and appeals to ‘bhava.’ Now here is another much-maligned word. With our musical critics, it is difficult to say what constitutes ‘bhava.’ ‘Bhava’ is the emotive appeal of music. It is sheer effrontery to suggest that this emotive appeal lies only in certain combinations or phrases, only in certain forms of accentuation. One does not deny that there is ‘bhava’ in some phrases or some accents. But to say so is one thing, and to say that ‘bhava’ does not exist in other phrases and other forms of accentuation is quite a different thing. Manifestly, the defect lies in the critic, in the attrition of his sympathy. The true critic is a ‘sahridaya’. This argues in him the capacity to place himself ’en rapport’ with the music. But when instead of evincing sympathy with the music, he demands that the singer must be in sympathy with his ideas of ‘bhava’, he abdicates the function of a critic and assumes that of a bully. Music grows and lives not by the fanatical prejudices and self-opinionated views of the critics, but by the vision and faith of the musicians. Music can exist without critics, but not the critics without music. If critics have not felt humble in the presence of great art, they should cultivate humility at least as a tribute to the musicians, who at the moment of their creative best, have felt awed and humbled by their own vision and intuition.
The ragam, tanam and pallavi in Kambodi, of Mudicondan Venkatarama Iyer last Thursday was broadcast by the hookup of South Indian stations of the A.I.R. This is a regular pansouthern feature.
Shri Venkatarama Iyer is a veteran among the elder musicians. He is redoubtable in argument as well as demonstration. Those who have seen him cross swords with C. S. Iyer (now unfortunately not with us any more) in the meetings of the expert committee of the Music Academy of Madras would have sensed his mettle. With a formidable scholarship in music, Shri Venkatarama Iyer combines a musical ability which, even after the ravage that time has wrought on him, is not easy to be overlooked. Except that his voice has lost its youthful pliability and sweetness, there is little else that it cannot achieve. Whether in leaping across notes or in swift ascent or descent in the scale, whether in the ‘vibrato’ oscillation of one note or in the weight he can communicate to another, Shri Venkatarama Iyer can confidently challenge any young musician of today. His ragam, tanam and pallavi were a good demonstration of the greatness of his music.
Shri Venkatarama Iyer is a modern among the ancients and an ancient among the moderns. He bestraddles two generations in his sympathies and affinities. His grasp of laya is phenomenal. In fact, he has been instrumental in bringing to light many of the complicated tales like Simhanandana tala. Almost every year he demonstrates with the help of his disciples some new aspect of lays. Nor does his grasp of raga lag behind. Many might remember his rendering of Ramaswamy Dikshitar’s ‘melaraga malika’ over the Madras A.I.R. some years ago.
Shri Venkatarama Iyer is also well-versed in Hindustani music. Almost alone among the musicians of his generation, he has the catholicity of out-look to understand and appreciate the beautiful graces of Hindustani music, and where possible even to assimilate them.
Shri Venkatarama Iyer is a musician of mellow experience. His intelligent grasp and shrewd sense of humour have resolved many tangles in the Music Academy discussions, which, but for him, would have ended in noisy disputation or fruitless logic-chopping. Shri Venkatarama Iyer traces his musical lineage through illustrious scions. He is the disciple of Chimizhi Sudaram Iyer who along with two other illustrious exponents of Karnatak music, namely Madurai Pushpavanam and Marungapuri Gopalakrishna Iyer, was a disciple of Ettayapuram Ramachandra Bhagavatar.
The Madras State Sangeet Natak Akadami has decided to confer its award on Marungapuri Gopalakrishna Iyer this year for his service to Karnatak music. It was an honour long overdue. Shri Gopalakrishna Iyer is probably the oldest living violinist today in the South. Even so, he has not retired from active musical profession for so long that one could have forgotten him. Till about a decade ago he was giving concerts on the A.I.R. Madras, and till about five or ten years before that he was a much sought-after accompanist.
Marungapuri Gopalakrishna Iyer belongs to a generation older than Pappa and Rajamanickam Pillai, and possibly even older than Dwaram. His music was of a choice vintage. Representing the most conservative tradition of Karnatak music, Shri Gopalakrishna Iyer was yet radical enough to try the most novel experiments. If I am not mistaken, I have even seen a photograph of him, accompanying Tiruvengadu Subramania Pillai on the violin. Shri Pillai used to muffle the nagaswaram (how, one did not know) and play it to the drone of the tambura and the accompaniments of violin and mridangam. At the same time, Shri Gopalakrishna Iyer used an amplifier (I used to wonder what it was in the photograph) attached to his violin. However, the result was melodious enough. It is still a puzzle who accommodated the other more. Shri Pillai by muffling or Shri Iyer by amplifying!
AEOLUS, 10 March 1963
Aeolus - Articles and Critiques 