Posts Tagged ‘Darbar Festival’

An evening at the Darbar

Most concerts last for a couple of hours or so. So when I walked into the Queen Elizabeth Hall on the South Bank in London last night for a concert starting at 5:30, I was expecting to be back home in time for a bit of supper. Not so. After a marathon four-hour session (including, admittedly, a twenty minute break), I finally came out of the hall at 9:30, and by the time I got home (for getting home from Central London always takes time), it was nearly 11, and my empty stomach was making all sorts of comical noises. Well, at least I can’t complain about not getting my money’s worth at the concert.

The Darbar Festival is now well established in London, and, in an increasingly depressing world, it really is something to be cheerful about, something worth celebrating. It is a festival of Indian “classical” music, and features every year some of the very finest exponents of the genre. But the genre itself isn’t easy to describe: I have placed the quotation marks around “classical” quite deliberately. This term was obviously introduced to parallel the concept of Western classical music (which too is not an easily defined term, but let us not go into that now). However, the parallels between Indian and Western classical music are tenuous at best, and drawing parallels between the two is not, perhaps, very helpful. What is termed “Indian classical music” is perhaps best described as “traditional music”, but a traditional music distinct from what we understand as “folk music” (which, of course, is another imprecise term). This is music that was cultivated in darbars (courts) and in aristocratic salons. It acquired a brief popularity in the West in the 1960s, when many regarded it essentially as “music to get high to”, but even then it was pretty niche stuff. But in the subcontinent, and within the diaspora, it is, of course, another matter.

In the next paragraph, I shall summarise my understanding of this music. This explanation is likely to be pretty boring, so the reader may want to skip it.

There are two very distinct types, the Hindustani (from Northern India), and the Carnatic (from the South), the former incorporating, I understand, many elements from Persian music. Within these two main categories, there are many different schools of practice (gharanas), handed down across generations. The main form is the raga, (or raag, or however you wish to spell it); there are different kinds of raga, many associated with particular times of day or seasons of year, with each defined by specific ascending and descending scales, and also by characteristic melodic patterns. Within these parameters, the musician (instrumentalist or singer) has to improvise, following a structure (which may of course be varied) consisting of alap (an introduction, without a time signature); a jor (where there is a time signature, but where cross-rhythms of often extraordinary intricacy make it difficult for people like me to tap my feet to the music); a jhala, where the tempo increases to quite exhilarating effect; and finally, a number of composed (i.e. not improvised) sections called gats to round the thing off. A raga can last for anything from a few minutes up to about an hour, or longer. The upper bound appears to be around 80 minutes, but as my knowledge in these matters is derived mainly from CDs (which don’t last longer than 80 minutes), I am not certain on this point: I am sure performances could go on for longer.

Those who skipped the last paragraph may rejoin here.

If all this makes me appear some kind of expert, this is because I am quite adept these days at bullshitting. However, it is one thing bullshitting over a few drinks in a pub amongst friends who know even less than I do; it is quite another thing bullshitting on a forum such as this where one is liable to be found out. What I have written above takes me to the very limit of my understanding. And even there, I may have said a few things that will no doubt have connoisseurs smiling patronisingly, and shaking their heads. I don’t deny it: I am certainly more enthusiastic than knowledgeable. But however poor my understanding, this is music I love, and, increasingly, I find this music very important to me.

There was a large audience last night. I am bad at estimating numbers, but Queen Elizabeth Hall is a fairly large hall, and it was almost full. I was, however, a bit saddened to note the relative paucity of Westerners in the audience: most of the audience consisted of people like me from the Indian diaspora (or, at least, the diaspora from the subcontinent). But then again, I am saddened also by the paucity of Indian faces at western classical concerts. When we are privileged to enjoy the best that the whole world has to offer, almost literally on our doorsteps, it does seem a shame to segregate ourselves in this manner.  But then again, this may be turned on to me also: how many jazz concerts do I attend? How many folk concerts? Do I rush out to buy tickets when the South Bank Centre or the Barbican Centre puts on concerts, say, of Andalusian flamenco music, or of Balinese gamelan music?

I may plead in mitigation that I can’t cover everything. And also, it is unlikely that I would be able to take in too much of anything without diving into it deeply. But in truth, a little learning is not necessarily a dangerous thing: as long as one is aware that there is more to the Pierian Spring than one tastes, tasting a few bits here and there may not be a bad thing at all. Quite the contrary. If one were to follow Pope’s famous dictum to the letter, one would end up not knowing anything at all about most things.

But as ever, I digress. I am no expert on Indian “classical” music (as I guess I have to call it for want of a better term), and it is true also that my musical tastes are centred around music of a very different kind (the piano concertos of Mozart, chamber music of Schubert, the operas of Verdi, and the like). Nonetheless, this music does not appear strange or exotic at all to my generally western-tuned ears. Not for a moment did I find my attention wandering during last night’s marathon session.

The concert itself was described as a “double bill”. The first half featured sitarist Purbayan Chatterjee (no relation, as far as I know), with tabla player Sukhvinder Singh. The main part of their concert was an extended performance of Raga Patdeep, which is … Oh, look it up! I’d only be getting my own information from Wikipedia anyway! It was real virtuoso stuff, with both musicians by the end playing music of the utmost rhythmic intricacy at exhilarating breakneck tempi. I felt breathless just listening to it, but the musicians themselves seemed quite unruffled by it all. They followed this up with the considerably gentler and more romantic Raga Manj Khamaj. There was a point where some of the melodic phrases Purbayan Chatterjee was playing reminded me of a Tagore song (Bhenge mor gharer chabi niye jabi ke amare), and, while I was wondering if I was imagining it, he put us out of all doubt by playing a few phrases quite explicitly from that song, incorporating these phrases seamlessly into the flow of the music. Well, why not? He is Bengali, after all! (As I was coming out of the hall for the interval, a gentleman in front of me was singing that song under his breath: I doubt there was any Bengali in the audience who didn’t get the reference.)

The second part featured the very distinguished singer Ashwini Bhide-Deshpande, a lady with the most extraordinary range, both in terms of octaves covered and in terms of expression. Her session alone lasted some two hours – two hours of her singing almost continually, without breaks. And, as far as my admittedly inexpert ears could determine, her voice was as fresh at the end as it had been at the start. It was extraordinary.

(I was going to write a paragraph of purple prose describing her singing, but frankly, why bother when you can go straight to YouTube?)

So, no doubt you’re all wondering why I am writing all this in what is supposed to be a book blog. It is partly, I think, to communicate something of my enthusiasm for what I heard last night. And also, I think, to encourage anyone reading this within travelling distance of Central London to have a look at the subsequent concerts in this series. (There are a few concerts at the Barbican next month, and some performances of dance – dance being perhaps more central to the arts in India than it is in the West – in Sadler’s Wells in November; and in March next year, the festival returns to the South Bank.) I speak often in this blog of the importance of sharing each other’s cultures, and when so enterprising a project brings such riches to us virtually on our very doorsteps, it seems only reasonable to let more people know about it.

Just one word of warning though: be prepared for a marathon session. No doubt in the darbars and the aristocratic gatherings of old, the patrons of this music did not have to catch the train the next morning to commute to the office, and this could have gone on all night. But even cut down to four hours, it is considerably longer than the concerts I am more used to.

And, unless one wants the rumblings of one’s stomach to counterpoint the music, bring some sandwiches for the interval.