“Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.” - Anon.
This cryptic quote has been bandied about much, so its veracity and provenance are suspect. It is only proper, therefore, that we attribute it to our old friend Anon. The point Anon is so elliptically trying to make, and this is only an educated inference, is that music being so subjective defies being written about. As if to say, “You may as well dance about architecture.”
Time was when classical music reviewers were held in awe for their knowledge and scholarship. It is problematic to introduce the required level of gravitas while reviewing a pop music concert. For instance, it would be perfectly credible at a Carnatic vocal concert to say something like, ‘…the singer explored the upper reaches of the raga Sankarabharanam with great aplomb, assurance and perfect sruti alignment,’ as opposed to saying, ‘The Rolling Stones traversed the entire gamut of the scalar challenge in their rendition of Jumping Jack Flash.’ Doesn’t quite gel.
From a self-respecting music critic, one expects something more than a laundry list of songs and ragas rendered. The writer should convey a sense of the mood and temper that the performer was able to create in the audience. Alas, this is more the exception than the rule. For the most part, the reviewer resorts to mundanely listing songs and the raga, tala, composer, often inaccurately. This is accompanied by a few inane remarks about how well the performer acquitted herself, and how ably the supporting artists pitched in.
Instances abound of reviews submitted by critics who did not even deign to attend the concert! They pieced together some sketchy details from hearsay, and hey presto, a review is ready. On one notorious occasion, an in absentia reviewer managed to get hold of a pre-printed song sheet and write a glowing piece on the famous artist’s performance. Only, the vidwan decided to make some impromptu changes during the concert, leaving the abashed reviewer red-faced.
Then again, what price style? That ineffable je ne se quoi, which sets a genuine critic apart from the hack. Should not the reader derive pleasure from the written word, almost for its own sake? Examples from non-musical spheres make a potent argument for style. Here’s the late, brilliant Bernard Levin, bitingly cynical on latter day architecture. “What has happened to architecture since the Second World War that the only passers-by who can contemplate it without pain are those equipped with a white stick and a dog?”
Neville Cardus, a poet among cricket writers, speaking of the incomparable stylist Ranjitsinhji, fondly recalls a comment by a fellow cricketer who said that “Ranji never made a Christian stroke in his life.” Pithily put.
Speaking of elegant prose, they don’t come more refined than this. Pico Iyer, travel writer and Zen seeker, has this to say of Canadian poet and musician Leonard Cohen, “The Zen monks of Kyoto devour his work, late at night, while the women in Iceland dream about this elusive gypsy. Cohen takes us, at heart, into a mythic place, an ageless space alight with goddesses and God, where we see a lone figure walking down the road, in dark Buddhist robes, with a Torah in one hand and a picture of a woman in the other. Always in our sight even as he disappears into the dark.”
Nearer home, we have seen critics displaying deep knowledge and a fearless disposition. One such was the redoubtable P.V. Subramaniam, better known to his legion of admirers and carpers as Subbudu, an impassioned critic and observer of Carnatic music, lauded and reviled in equal measure for his forthright and, at times, vitriolic observations. Not for Subbudu the gentle admonition. He went straight for the jugular. With disarming candour. Witness his scathing attack on the Hindustani system of music. “I am also listening to Hindustani music from my birth. I am also commenting upon them in Delhi papers. I am writing without being afraid of anyone. In fact, there is nothing great in Hindustani music apart from the purity of the sruti… so far as rhythm (tala) is concerned, they are still at an elementary level.” Enough to raise the hackles of the Hindustani music brigade, but that never deterred the indefatigable Subbudu.
Subbudu’s run-ins during the 1980s with doyen Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer were legendary. “Even the dreaded Emergency has come to an end, but there seems to be no end to Semmangudi,” railed Subbudu. This created such a furore that an emergency meeting was called at Music Academy, Madras, and a resolution passed denouncing Subbudu and reaffirming the greatness of Semmangudi. Word has it that a billboard outside the Academy at the time declared ‘Dogs and Subbudu not allowed’. Sadly, no photographic reference exists to verify this.
From a refreshingly different perspective, it is instructive to look at how a Westerner, with limited exposure to Carnatic music, responds to the performance of one of our present-day heavyweights. Here’s an extract from Englishman Bruno Kavanagh’s review of Sanjay Subrahmanyan’s mike-less chamber concert at London’s historic Wigmore Hall in 2012. “In Sanjay Subrahmanyan, the Carnatic tradition was blessed with a supreme ambassador, enthralling the audience with a performance of immense power, subtlety and humour. With scarcely any warm-up, his voice was immediately soaring and swooping between a rich baritone register and high tenor. In deft interplay with his violinist, again and again he created beautiful forests of notes, taking us with him down winding paths of musical invention before leading us into bright clearings.” No ragas, talas or kritis. Just a word picture of how a rapt and bemused audience responded to an uninhibited performance.
In the final analysis, a music critic needs to be compelling in his observations: To be critical without wounding, to be appreciative without fawning, to be knowledgeable without being pedantic. By definition, music appreciation is subjective. It is one of the eternal verities. One man’s payasam is another man's poison, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphor.
Audiences the world over are difficult to please; and a detached yet involved observer, even more so. This Brechtian dilemma is best captured in the immortal words of French novelist and poet Victor Hugo, “Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to remain silent.”
Corrections & Clarifications:
Corrections have been made in this article post publication.
