Open Writing

The auditorium rustled to the sound of silk saris which glittered with brilliant colours and jewels, even in the low lighting. People talked and called to each other as the seats filled. They quieted as velvet curtains swept aside to reveal the stage, where, on a podium to one side, a drummer, a singer and a flute-player sat cross-legged. They were simply dressed in long, cream tunics and loose trousers, kameez and salwar.

The simple wooden flute played a breathy note, which the singer matched with ease, and the music began. Complex rhythm tapped, clicked and boomed from both ends of the drum. The voice, wavering, sang in un-articulated vowels. The flute echoed each tiny change of pitch barely an instant behind the voice.

With jingling bells and stamping feet, in perfect synchronisation with the intricacies of the drum’s beat, three dancers appeared. They looked like living dolls in exotic costumes, satin trousers, linked by pleated panels of cloth, high tapered hats in metallic colours and complex patterns, and lots of heavy golden jewellery. Bare feet and hands were carefully painted with red markings and patterns.

The dancers’ movements were delicate and intense. Each finger, toe and individual muscle moved as if independent from the rest of the body, interpreting every sound and beat of the music. The gestures mimed the very words and meaning of ancient legends of the gods. The visual stimulation of the beautiful dance helped me understand the music.

We learned that in Carnatic music, the classical music of Southern India, there are innumerable compositions with strict formal structure, with lyrics based on a devotional theme. The dance, or Bharathanatyam originated and became a part of the temple because its aim was to attain spiritual identification with the eternal.

During the interval, my friends asked, “How did you like the flute-playing?”

I replied, “The sound is very different from the classical western flute. It was fuzzy and woody.”

The instrument is simple, an unadorned wooden tube with holes strategically positioned along its length, one for blowing across, the others for the fingers to open or close.

“The singer and the flute-player were incredibly in tune,” I continued, “and the drummer was amazing.”

When the curtains opened again, four different musicians were seated on the podium, this time at centre-stage, a drummer or Mridhangam player, a violinist, a singer, and a musician who played an exquisite and seemingly inaudible long-necked instrument, held upright, the height of a man. It looked like a huge polished gourd with strings.

Carnatic music is made up of seventy-two basic scales. To my uneducated, western ear, the tiny spaces between notes were indistinguishable, while the range from low to high seemed limited. The music was hypnotic. My eyes closed and I felt my head nod forward. Then I sat upright and focussed on the musicians.

Listening to the drummer, I watched the delicacy of his hand movements, fascinated. The bass sounds were tapped out by his left hand. Intricate and complex higher sounds were all created by his right hand, sometimes at the edge of the instrument, sometimes creating tinnier sounds in its centre, sometimes using his whole hand, sometimes just one or two fingers.

The singer was also a virtuoso, finding infinitesimal differences in tonality, using his diaphragm as much as his mouth to enunciate vowels, controlling his breathing and pitch far more carefully than many a western opera singer.

The violinist echoed the voice, note for minutely-distanced note, or ran ahead of the voice, challenging the singer to find him, to copy him. His violin was balanced between his left knee and his chest. The notes were pressed into the strings by his left hand, which twisted under the neck of the instrument in a similar way to that of a Western violinist’s. The instrument was made to sing by the bow, wielded in the right hand. The sound was reminiscent of a country and western fiddle.

The fourth instrument was played with a finger running across those long strings. During extended drum or violin solos, this instrument was laid to rest on its side.

All of these musicians were amateurs, South Africans of Indian descent, teachers, lawyers and medical doctors by profession, who, from early childhood, have spent hours each day learning to know and love their music and mastering their instruments. They studied in South Africa and in India, and won international awards in their art. The sounds they made enthralled and enriched them and their audience, The joy of making music with others of their calibre was obvious. They were fascinated by the form and the structure of Carnatic music, and passionate about their performances.

Attending this concert sowed the seeds of understanding Southern Indian Classical Music and Dance. I look forward to learning more.

Until next time, ‘here comes Treble!’

For more information about the Indian Arts in South Africa, e-mail saptaswara@webmail.co.za.

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Isabel Bradley