I am going to discontinue the talk about microtones and modes until such time as I can arrive at a clearer way of conveying what I mean to say.
For the next few blog entries I'd like to talk about some exceptional musicians I have heard and met. I'll start in India.
Note to those who primary interest is in bluegrass or old-time music or other musical genres of the western hemisphere: I think you will all find my comments and memories of musicians of other cultures both relevant and engaging. Give it a try please.
Vilayat Khan
Ravi Shankar taught a course during my last undergraduate semester at CCNY (City College Of New York). The subject was the history and appreciation of Indian raga music. He taught the same class at CCNY night school. I was enrolled in the daytime class and I audited the night class. I wasn’t going to miss anything. He was well-organized, and well-paid too. Most of us students were impecunious. Ravi Shankar realized that. At one of the classes he told us that if we could afford to buy only one LP, it should be one of Vilayat Khan’s sitar recordings. This was a remarkable statement coming from Vilayat Khan’s chief sitar rival.
Ustad Vilayat Khan is considered by most people to be the most technically accomplished sitar player of the 20th century. He is arguably the most influential as well. Ravi Shankar’s influence on the audience for raga music in the west was enormous —stronger than anyone else’s — but his influence on the playing of other sitarists, though significant, was less than that of Vilayat Khan. Sitar amateurs and students all tried at some time to learn to play some of his astonishing musical phrases. Professionals from other traditions did this in private as well.
He was a complex man, both proud and humble. He was a ballroom dancer, a lover of speedy automobiles and Indian rural folk music, an expert cook, a master of his ancestral music tradition, and the creator of a new style and technique. Two rumors about him that I cannot verify are worth repeating: He practiced each musical phrase literally one thousand times. And he set his concert fees by discovering the amount Ravi Shankar received at each venue, an amount which he would double— and receive.
My point is that these things, true or false, are believable, because of the strength of his music and his personality.
I attended five Vilayat Khan concerts: four in various West Coast locations in the USA and one in London. I had only one interaction with him. It was in the mid 1970s. He was sitting in the front passenger seat of a parked car on Delaware Street in Berkeley. By chance I was nearby. The window was rolled down. No one else was in the car. I made eye contact and we silently acknowledged each other’s presence. He didn’t know who I was but he seemed to recognize me, to see me, as an old friend would. Perhaps he saw the soul of a musician. Or maybe just a fellow human. He met my gaze with dignity and presence. These were the same qualities I noted in his behavior at his concerts.
One one occasion the sound system was operated by an individual for whom circumstances made it impossible for him to do a good job. The microphone was deliberately misplaced and the volume was far too low.
Vilayat Khan was certainly aware of the situation. Did he say anything? No. Did he look perturbed? No. He gave all his attention the unfolding of the raga and left everything else to others. I have thought this over. As a performer I have an obligation to the audience as well as to the music. I probably would have spoken to insure that the audience got what they paid for: an audible concert. But in this situation, which involved complex “politics”, Vilayat Khan’s approach was probably better. His comportment and calm was exactly what was called for. Did he play well? I have no idea. I couldn’t hear him properly. All the same I think he did the right thing under the circumstances.
In 1981 I heard him at a large venue in London. Thousands attended. Easily 90% of the audience were from the Subcontinent. In the lobby I ran into an English woman I knew just a bit and her companion, a well-known guitarist. We had a pleasant talk and decided to sit together for the concert. They knew I had studied raga music and perhaps I could help them understand what they were listening to. I was happy to oblige. Sure enough, one thing baffled them. It was the intense vocal reaction on the part of the audience to certain phrases Vilayat Khan played. Everything he played was lovely; why was the audience making such an uproar over certain phrases that seemed to their English ears to be no better than others which had been received calmly and silently?
I explained that it was because the artist played something the audience had not been expecting. He had turned a well-known phrase in a new direction and it was a musical success. They tentatively accepted my explanation. But then there was another ripple and roar of Vah-Vah-s that moved through the audience of thousands. Had he done something new again? No, this time they were reacting because he had so thoroughly and skillfully satisfied their expectations. He had played a signature phrase of the raga better than they were ever likely to hear again, and they knew it. I think the English folk believed me, but only tentatively.
Another concert was at Stanford University in Palo Alto California in the 1990s. Vilayat Khan was working out the details of a new raga that would eventually be called (I think) Sanj Saravali. It combined aspects of Behag and Yaman. This particular performance was dull. There was no life in his playing. He was in an “off mood”. I went home during the interval.
The fourth occasion was again in Berkeley but at a different venue. His son Shujaat was with him on stage and playing a lot (also sitar). They played Shyam Kalyan. I had not heard a better rendition. It was alive and vibrant and drew me in along with everyone one else. The second item was Bhairavi. The rest of the audience was ecstatic. I was not. It seemed too well-rehearsed and I felt that they —Vilayat at least—were not really engaged with what they were playing.
The fifth occasion was in Seattle at the University of Washington. I think it was at the large auditorium of the Music Department. I have memories of meeting with people I had not seen in decades but I have no memory of the music.
T. Ranganathan was a superb player of the south Indian barrel drum called mridangam. He was a generous and hospitable man who helped me when I most needed it, back in the late 1960s. Ranga told me a Vilayat Khan story. A famous vocalist (was it Bade Ghulam Ali Khan?) was singing at a “music conference” (what would be called a “festival” in the USA) in Punjab state. Perhaps in Jalandhar? He ended the concert with a thumri. Thumri is a romantic, sometimes erotic genre, in which the format, rhythms, song forms, and raga treatment are unique.The audience would not let him leave. But the singer knew there was another artist waiting to take the stage so he asked the audience to excuse him and please welcome the sitarist Vilayat Khan. Vilayat Khan took the stage and began to play. The audience boo-d him. They yelled for Bade Ghulam Ali Khan to return. Vilayat Khan did not leave the stage. He slowly returned the sitar to its cloth bag and remained seated. He began singing and sang for 2 hours. The audience was so enthralled they would not let him leave. My memory says this was all thumri. Now I know there are more than a few listeners who were annoyed when Vilayat Khan sang at his sitar concerts. They felt he was not a good vocalist and this was just pointless vanity. I don’t agree. The singing was a door into the world of his sitar playing. He sometimes used vocal compositions as the basis of his instrumental pieces, and also employed vocalisms in his sitar playing. When the audience hears the words of the composition being sung they can get a better understanding of the sitar phrasing. Plus his singing was always in tune.
Shujaat Khan
I had one encounter with Shujaat. It was at the Berkeley debacle. I had purchased a ticket in advance. I was to retrieve my ticket at the Will Call window of the venue. This was in a kiosk in the middle of the lobby floor. Behind the counter of this polyhedron were 3 officious big shots belonging to the organization that sponsored the concert.
No. My name could not be found. I am lying. I did not buy a ticket. Go home. But I *had* bought a ticket and it cost a lot, and I did not have a lot of money, and I wanted to hear the concert. No your name cannot be found on our list and there is no envelope with your name on it. I objected.
Things were getting a bit tense when who should arrive but Shujaat in his long white kurta. What seems to be the trouble? He gave me an appraising look. He expanded his already wide girth and entered the kiosk. Bear in mind that he was a teenager. What is your name please.? Jody Stecher. He stuck his hand in the middle of a pile of envelopes and pulled out the envelope with my name on it. He handed it to me with a smile and a slight bow. As theatre this was a tour-de-force. As a practical matter it was exactly what was called for. The crooks at the kiosk had my money and my ticket and had decided they didn’t like me so they were going to keep both. As I left the kiosk to enter the auditorium I overheard Shujaat say something to one of the ticket withholders that sounded to me like “ you aren’t one of those stupid VEGETARIANS are you?”