The year was 1992. The First Gulf War had ended and the world was cooling off after a thirty-five nation coalition, led by the United States, handed out a decisive defeat to Iraq and its supreme leader, Saddam Hussein. The situation in Bosnia was rapidly deteriorating due to an ethnic conflict between the Serbs and Bosnians. A hundred thousand people, predominantly Bosnian Muslims, would be massacred by the end of the conflict.
India had just managed to avert a balance-of-payments near-miss that had brought the country to its knees and to the brink of bankruptcy. The government had to air-dash sixty-seven tons of bullion to European banks to secure a $600 million loan so that we could pay our monthly bills. It was a historic low-point for the country.The situation forced the then Prime Minister, PV Narasimha Rao, to announce sweeping economic reforms that would open up India's economy and eventually pull three-hundred million people out of poverty. Just when things were looking up, on Dec 6, 1992, a frenzied mob of right-wing fanatics razed the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya to the ground, resulting in a cycle of irredeemable acts of communal violence and retribution that lasted for over a decade. The secular ideal of India was dented permanently.
Back to the world of films, Madhuri Dixit was beginning to be called the Female Bachchan - in a hat-tip to the "hit" machine that the Big B of the seventies and early eighties was. And Anil Kapoor was called the Mustachioed Mumtaz, in a hat-tip to his crazy dance steps (no, that was just me). 'Beta', an edge-of-the-seat saas-bahu thriller, became the biggest hit of the year underscoring the discerning tastes of the Indian audiences then. The soon-to-be self-proclaimed 'King of Bollywood', Shah Rukh Khan, debuted with the hit movie, 'Deewana'. The Big B (and Sridevi) made a comeback of sorts with the very stylish 'Khuda Gawah'. Kamal Haasan produced and acted in the landmark Tamil movie, 'Thevar Magan', which won five national awards. A pall of gloom had spread across the Hindi film industry with the preponderance of the D-Company in filmy matters. But, if there was one person that owned 1992, it had to be the "typhoon" from Madras, Allah Rakha Rahman, popularly known as AR Rahman.
Ilayaraja was at the very peak of his hegemony in the South. He ruled the industry, especially Tamil filmdom, like no one else before and no one perhaps ever will. People have often asked me, whether a mere music composer could have such a hold over the film business to be called the "one man industry". Well, it wasn't far from the truth.
The film business has always been a dubious gamble. From the days of Dada Saheb Phalke, many a film producer have been driven to penury due to the vagaries of this business of making art. That elusive balance between art and commerce has been an unsolved mystery since the time of 'Alam Ara'. Producers have looked for formulas to guarantee them success - bankable stars, sex, violence, comedy, sentiments, repetitive plots, or some heady cocktail of all of these ingredients. In the seventies and eighties, Ilaiyaraja's game-changing music was the most important ingredient - if not the cocktail itself - for a film's commercial success. It all started on a very positive note. Initially, the new-age directors in Tamil and Telugu cinema had a mutually symbiotic relationship with him. They pushed each other's boundaries and created alluring magic on celluloid. Ilayaraja's songs resonated from the tea kadai's of Kanyakumari to the bustling bylanes of Nizamabad. By the mid-eighties, the sway that Ilaiyaraja had over his legion of fans was total. He used it as leverage to strong-arm the entire cinema value chain: he chose and modified the stories that needed to be told; he picked and swapped directors and producers to his liking (especially in Tamil); he reserved his best scores to his favorite stars and his sycophants.
He wouldn't have had that kind of impact if he were not so prolific. But he worked at breakneck speed scoring music for over fifty movies a year, which was twenty-five percent of the total output of the Tamil industry. The big production houses and superstars were pretty much locked in with him. As much as I am a rabid fan of Ilaiyaraja, the South Indian film industry was the poorer because of this virtual monopoly and tyranny of Raja. The quality of the movies had dropped, the content had become repetitive, skilled technicians (the ones Ilayaraja didn't like) were being sidelined and incompetent loyalists were being pushed to the forefront. Something had to give.
There is this interesting exchange between Arjuna and Lord Krishna from the Mahabharata. Arjuna is in a state of shock and remorse after knowing that Karna, whom he had just killed on the battlefield, was his eldest brother.
"Oh, Krishna! How can I ever excuse myself for killing my own brother?" he laments. Krishna parts with his all-knowing, NTR-like smile.
"Arjuna, you are letting your supposed success in the war get to your head. Do you seriously think that you were the one that killed Karna? Karna was killed six times before you shot that useless arrow on him. He was killed by Lord Indra who took the impenetrable armor away from him. He was killed by Sage Parashurama who cursed him for taking training from him. He was killed by Kunti who took a vow from him to fire the Naga astram only once...and so on*," Krishna reels off the list of six, like in a Visu drama. He continues, "There were six people, including me, that tied his hands and killed him before you shot the arrow on someone that was already dead. So, don't be so arrogant as to claim that you were the one that killed Karna, the noble warrior," Krishna retorted.
(Disclaimer: I am not even sure if this exchange is from Vyasa's epic. I know it only from BR Panthulu's Tamil movie 'Karnan' starring an aging, rotund Sivaji Ganesan in the titular role. Lord Krishna's role was essayed by NTR, with scary blue, Avatar-like make-up. A high-pitched Muthuraman played Arjuna, the unintended comedian Asokan was Duryodhana; and then you had OAK Devar, Javar Seetharaman, Ramdas, and every conceivable supporting actor thrown into the mix. This movie had the most over-acting per square inch of celluloid of any Tamil movie that I have scene. A few years ago, it was "digitally remastered" and re-released to packed houses. I took my extended family to the theater to watch this movie and they shed copious tears.
"What a masterpiece! Can they make one movie like this now?" My mom told her elder sister, while walking out of the theater. She looked at me accusatorily, as if I was somehow responsible for the quality of contemporary films. I didn't respond. Nothing captivates Tamil people like a good dose of over-acting, I thought).
Why am I suddenly finding refuge in the Great Indian epics? Well, there is somewhat of a poignant parallel here when it comes to Ilaiyaraja and AR Rahman. My cousins used to chide me on how AR Rahman toppled Ilaiyaraja from the numero uno slot. I used to look askance at them and part with a mischievous NTR smile.
"It was not AR Rahman that toppled Ilaiyaraja, you fools, but the 'curses' that he accumulated on his head that caused his downfall," I told them.
Like Karna, he was the classic underdog, salt-of-the-earth, small-towner that shook the establishment and reached the pinnacle of his profession. People loved him for it. He was immensely talented, hard-working, and large-hearted. But he was also petty, abrasive, and egotistic.
The Big Three directors in Tamil: K Balachander, Bharathi Raja, and Mani Ratnam (whose movies till then were defined by Ilaiyaraja's music - Balachander to a lesser extent) had already grown wary of the 'Isai gnani' and were in the lookout for a new music director - someone that would respect them and listen to their opinions; Vairamuthu (the national award winning lyricist) who had a falling out with Ilaiyaraja and was crouching low to make his next move tried a "hundred times" to topple Ilaiyaraja, he acknowledged in an interview; tens of disgruntled producers and directors that Ilayaraja had undercut were waiting for him to fall; Ilaiyaraja's own friend and loyalist, Balu Mahendra, had voted in favor of AR Rahman during the National Awards selection process in 1992 ('Roja' won against 'Thevar Magan' with Mahendra casting the tie-breaker vote). Even then-Chief Minister of Tamilnadu Jayalalitha was allegedly irked at Ilayaraja high-handedness.
It was the proverbial perfect storm that was brewing over the Bay of Bengal. It was left to the 'Isai Puyal'** ('The Musical Typhoon') - AR Rahman's moniker in Tamil - to provide the last gust of wind to uproot the banyan tree of music. Appa! What metaphors! ('Aala maratha saachitiye da paavi!', to Ilaiyaraja's famous 100-violin BGM).
Balu was perhaps not aware then that his destiny was inextricably tied to that of his long-time buddy and collaborator. While AR Rahman and Balu had a superbly productive partnership in the years immediately following ARR's debut, it didn't last long. ARR had become a national sensation, thanks to 'Roja', Bombay', and 'Rangeela'. A young, assertive, and liberalized India was looking for a more modern expression to their aspirations and ARR fit right into that mold. He loved introducing new voices. Rahman democratized singing like no other composer before. Balu's clout and importance as a playback singer gradually diminished. Not before they had had some memorable hits together: songs from 'Gentleman', 'May Madham', 'Pudhiya Mugam', 'Duet', 'Indira', 'Indian', 'Tenali', 'Sivaji', and others. It was great while it lasted.
My pick for this episode is a song from the Hindi dubbed version of 'Roja' - 'Ae haseen wadiyaan'. The original song ('Puthu vellai mazhai') is very well sung by Unni Menon. I like the Hindi version better, because Balu uses his signature lilt to take the song to an altogether new level. I would still rate 'Kadhal Rojave' ('Roja Jaaneman') as the song of the album but this is a beautiful song as well. The horrendous lyrics are by the dubbing lyrics specialist PK Mishra.
* For the really attentive ones, I had not completed NTR's dialog from 'Karnan' and his explanation of why Karna was killed six times before Arjuna's arrow pierced his heart. Again, highly debatable whether this is in Vyasa's epic. Anyway, here it is:
- A brahman cursed Karna that his chariot will stop during a critical juncture.
- Lord Indra took the impenetrable armor (the 'Karna kavacham' and the 'kundalam' or the ear rings) away from Karna.
- Krishna pressed the chariot down when 'Naga Astaram' was to take Arjuna's neck away.
- Sage Parashurama cursed him for taking training from him (he had vowed to train only Brahmins) and said that he will not be able to use the 'Brahma astram'.
- Kunti who took a vow from him to fire the 'Naga astram' only once.
- Karna's charioteer Shalya deserted him in the middle of the war.
** Everyone in Tamil cinema and politics (well, is there a difference?) has to have a nickname. It has been a mandate from times of yore. Musicians are no exception. MSV was 'Mellisai Mannar' (King of Light Music'), Ilayaraja is 'Isai Gnani' (Musical Saint), Balu was 'Padum Nila' (Singing Moon), and AR Rahman is 'Isai Puyal'.
Let us get one thing straight as an arrow, folks. Sripathi Panditaradhyula Balasubrahmanyam , aka SPB aka Balu is the God of playback singing. Well, you may shrug your shoulders and say, that is too much of a sweeping encomium, even for someone as accomplished as Balu. Bestowing godliness upon a musically untrained film singer just because he is the recent sentimental favorite, is not how it works, you may argue. You may further contend that India brims with eminent musical talent that can perform unfathomable feats. Artists that: hit perfect pitch effortlessly; sing chittaswarams at the speed of Usain Bolt; utter swerving sargams @ a thousand rpm without moving a facial nerve; and milk the essence of seventy-two melakarta ragas in an eight-minute kirtana. So, what is the big deal about this Balu guy, you may ask? My counter to you would be: Yup. I get all of that (ok, I don't). But when it comes to film music, the most popular and the most egalitarian form of music there is i
The term "Golden Age" has its origins in Greek and Roman mythology and is perhaps maligned in its casual overuse, especially in the filmy context. Many a superannuated artiste and film technician have tried to usurp that moniker for the era that they had peaked in. The Greeks had referred to the Golden Age to mean a mythical age of harmonious utopia, where everyone lived a virtuous life like MGR (of his movies). The gods and humans freely co-mingled and were often indistinguishable. Hindu mythology had an equivalent for it called the "Satya Yuga". When scribes and historians ascribe a certain period as a golden age, they are probably thinking of a few things: convergence of talents, great partnerships, and memorable creative output that stands the test of time. For example, the 1950s and 60s are called the Golden Age of Hindi Film music because great music composers, singers, lyricists, actors, and directors descended into Bombay at almost the same time and produced
Let us start from where it all began. SP Balasubrahmanyam was born in Konetampet (present-day Tiruvallur district, Tamilnadu), a year before India’s independence, in an orthodox, Telugu brahmin family that hailed from Nellore in Andhra Pradesh. His father, SP Sambamurthy, was a Harikatha exponent and his mother, Sakunthalamma, looked after the bounteous family of three brothers and five sisters, that included SP Shailaja, who would go on to become a popular playback singer later in life. A TWIST OF FATE Growing up, in the early 60s, SPB had a typical Indian, sub-urban dream: to become an engineer, qualify to be a khaki-clad gazetted officer in his native Nellore, and ride around in an official Jeep eliciting salutes from his subordinates and the public. He was definitely artistically endowed. He sang and won prizes in music competitions, acted in school plays, and even formed a music band of his own, but had never taken his talents seriously. He enrolled into Jawaharlal Nehru Technical
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