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On Raagams, Rahman, and Ravi Shankar
Written by Chennai - Srikrishnan
In my last post, I spoke of Carnatic music, one of the forms of classical music prevalent in India, more so in the southern part of the country. Carnatic music is an ancient classical form—the oldest traditions date back to the Vedic period (more than 2000 years back). Important contributions have been made right through the ages as the constituent concepts slowly came to be defined: Bharata’s Naatyasastra was an early treatise on the science and art of music and dance in India, while medieval works include the Tirupuggazh, the Gita Govinda, and the Sangeeta Ratnakara, the last of which is considered a seminal text for both Carnatic and Hindustani music.
However, it was in the sixteenth century that the foundation for the modern form of Carnatic music was laid by Purandaradasa, known as Sangeeta Pitaamaha—the grandfather of Carnatic music. Aside from being a prolific composer, he laid down the formal structural framework for learning this classical art form, with attendant exercises that continue to be practised by students even today. He hugely influenced the three greatest composers in the golden period of Carnatic music that followed. Known as the Musical Trinity—Tyagaraja, Muthuswamy Dikshitar, and Syama Sastri—they brought to bear profound musical scholarship, spiritual devotion, and boundless innovation upon their works, which form the bulk of the existing canon of Carnatic songs. Their contribution to the art form was invaluable and they continue to be revered today.
With that introduction to the history of Carnatic music, let me dive into a crucial element of any composition in Carnatic music—the raagam (or raag, as it is known in North India), one of its two fundamental pillars, the other being the notion of taalam or rhythmic cycle. This is not a concept unique to Indian music, but its centrality to the art form might well be, right from instruction to composition to performance. So let’s answer the question: what is a raagam?
[Sidebar: while I assume that most readers on Abubilla are familiar with musical terminology, here’s a quick primer in the interest of those who are not.
A note is a sustained frequency of sound that acquires musicality, several of which combine to make tunes and songs. Worldwide, the same 12 unique notes of increasing frequency make up the standard building blocks of music, which correspond to the white and black keys on a piano. This set of 12 notes, known as an octave, repeats across different frequencies of sound (pitch).
Carnatic music has 7 swarams, or musical notations for the actual notes: Sa, Ri, Ga, Ma, Pa, Da, and Ni, which roughly correspond to Do, Re, Mi, Fa, So, La, and Ti (and not C, C#, D, D#, etc. which are actual notes of defined frequencies across different octaves) in the western idiom, albeit with some crucial differences. These are only 7 in number because, apart from Sa and Pa, which are fixed, the other five have variants and commonalities between them, just as there are flat and sharp notes with dual names (the subject of a detailed post). Taken in order with the variants, these correspond to the 12 notes on any given octave. From these notes are born scales.
As in western music, Carnatic music has scales, which are simply sequential structures of ascending and descending notes that have musical character. In the Carnatic tradition, different permutations of permissible swarams give us 72 different scales, known as melakartas. E-mail me at 8ssrikrishnan@iimahd.ernet.in for a discussion on how we end up at 72—it’s a fascinating combination of math and music, defining every single detail, even right down to the structure of the name of each scale. From these parent scales are born raagams.]
A raagam is a cluster of musical notes derived from a parent scale (melakarta) that can be ordered in several defined ways to create characteristic melodies–there are thousands of combinations possible from the 72 parent scales, given rise to a boundless variety of raagams. As the Sitar maestro Ravi Shankar puts it, it is neither merely the scale nor the mood of a composition, but a combination of both and more. The exponent of a raagam invests it with her own unique touch, breathing life into each note, where each pause, every extension and each variation adds to its meaning. The accomplished Carnatic/Hindustani musician makes a raaga entirely his own, with each rendition bearing a stamp unique to his interpretation and creativity, while still retaining and embellishing the distinctive phrases traditionally associated with it.
See this video of Pandit Ravi Shankar talking about the difficulty in explaining the concept to a western listener.
The best thing about a raagam is that it can be interpreted at multiple levels. Take a raagam called Kharaharapriya, which is derived from the 22nd melakarta, also known as Kharaharpriya. A serious classical musician might interpret it thus (the piece here is taken from a Tamil-language movie from South India which discusses the knotty problem of classical music being the reserve of an elite few, while it should ideally be made more accessible to the larger masses in an appropriately modified form):
This was a majestic, if short, rendition of Kharaharapriya composed by the Indian composer Ilaiyaraja in the classical tradition on both the Nadaswaram (a wind instrument discussed in my last post) and vocals, the latter delivered by the singer Yesudas, an accomplished virtuoso equally comfortable on the classical stage as well as in film music (often combining the two, as in this example). While Carnatic compositions take many forms (the most elaborate song variety being the kirtanai), this is an example of a raaga rendition at its purest–the aalapanai, which is essentially just giving free frein to the characteristic melodic patterns of the raagam using musical syllables or notes instead of actual lyrics.
Fair warning though: as with single malt whiskey or a particularly trying early Beethoven string quartet, this pure form of Carnatic music might be an acquired taste. For a less classical treatment, there is a much simpler and equally beautiful song in the same raagam (see if you can spot the similarities) by the other Indian genius, AR Rahman, for the movie ‘Alaipaayuthe’, translated ‘The waves rage on…’:
This is a particularly appealing composition by AR Rahman, not least because of the wonderfully evocative lyrics about the different colours in love by a Tamil lyricist Vairamuthu (which retain their charm even in stilted translation), the direction of Mani Ratnam, the vocals of Hariharan, and the excellent cinematography by PC Sriram. To me, the arrangement stands out amongst Rahman’s best works: the flute motif, the splendid vocal harmony, the bass-line during the chorus, and the sheer flow of the melody combine to make this a classic.
Now, both of these pieces rely on the structure of the melakartha Kharaharapriya, which, on an a root note of C, translates to [C D D# F G A A#] (or, more generally, [Root, Tone, Semi-tone, Tone, Tone, Tone, Semi-Tone]), which is a minor variation from both the traditional natural and harmonic minor scale, with a sharp sixth note. Of course, the character of the raagam depends on specific combinations of notes that infuse the scale with its specific character. This is a very hard concept to explain to the uninitiated listener, but I’d love to attempt it, even if I prove to be unequal to the task—you have only to e-mail me at the ID given above!
Hopefully, this was an interesting introduction to the magic of raagams. I look forward to posting again. A big thank you to the people who originally posted these videos online. As ever, no copyright infringement is intended.