A purist who sought simplicity in music and life

The year was 1987. I was impressionable, idealistic, and an enthusiastic member of the cultural renaissance movement, SPIC-MACAY. The cultural movement was in its infancy in Tamil Nadu and needed a boost for a greater presence in the state. February 1987, made that happen. And central to the quantum leap of SPIC-MACAY in Chennai, was the violin performance of Lalgudi mama (as we deferentially addressed him) in what was then a trendy premier college, Stella Maris. We had never witnessed such an overflowing hall for a Carnatic artiste. Begum Parveen Sultana had just performed the previous evening with tens of people thronging even the gates to be let into an already packed hall. But Lalgudi mama sustained that momentum the very next evening. Young, fashionable students came in hoards out of curiosity to see what all the fuss was about. One week later, we had at least 50 more enthusiastic volunteers and 10 more colleges seeking to be a part of SPICMACAY. That was the power of Lalgudi mama’s music. 

Cut to 2004. I was sitting in Lalgudi ma ma ’s living room, for the tenth time in six months, trying to convince him to compose the music for my debut feature film that I was planning, called Sringaram.

By then, I was well aware of the innumerable film offers that he had turned down although he had selectively contributed to a few. But I got tenth time lucky! We sealed the deal but what I did not foresee was his undivided attention to a project that he had committed to. His mind was now fully occupied with Sringaram and the musical conceptualisation had begun. Until then, I had heard of the genius of Lalgudi, but now I was going to work with it myself! The first piece that we discussed for composition was the elaborate temple dance of the Devadasi. Together, we discussed the visualisation of the scene. He seemed to instantly understand even the shots of the entire scene context. We decided he would compose an entire Mallari for this audio-visual sequence. Twenty four hours later, he had the structure laid out. It was to be a purely instrumental piece using only the traditional Nadaswaram and Thavil, interspersed with the temple Rudram. He had factored in the contextual shots and included the Rudram as the aural backdrop for those visuals. Simultaneously, he had given “mind blowing” a whole new meaning, since the Mallari was uncompromised in rhythm and melody. Somehow, Lalgudi mama had also given it an energy that makes you sit up and listen. This piece was so grand that we brought in the ace Nadaswaram maestros, Injikkudi brothers, from Madurai, and hired a wedding hall for the rehearsals to give it a suitable ambience and feel. And then Lalgudi mama gave the recording studio a hard time since he didn’t want the sound to be compromised. So he insisted on the old school way, where long phrases would be recorded at one go, for continuity and authenticity. Further, the complex musical phrases challenged the musicians and technicians equally. The result is there for the world to see.

When Lalgudi mama heard that we would require a folk song set in the 1920s, he immediately set down the criteria. This song should be quaint and authentic, even as it carries a simplicity that the audiences can understand, he said. The lyricist, Swati VAR, had his work cut out. For the next three days, he sat with books strewn all over to string together a lyrical piece that would neither betray its era nor be alien to current audiences. Meanwhile, Lalgudi mama sat with CDs strewn all over, listening to cinema folk songs, only so that he wouldn’t repeat those tunes. As it turns out, the folk song is just plain beautiful in its spatial simplicity, transporting us to another time and place. And there was this defining moment when TL Maharajan spent over an hour on one base note, because he wanted to deliver it to the maestro’s satisfaction. This experience showed the great Lalgudi as a relentless pursuer of the exquisite. 

Composing the Padam for the film was an eye-opener too. He chose a ragam, and a treatment of it, that was seldom heard in cinema. The situation was that of a Devadasi performing for the English collector. Mama kept it pure and classical. The sessions between him and the lyricist, Swati VAR were a treat. Like a composing master class. He placed words and even syllables in their appropriate places in the musical phrases. He paid attention to the emotional graph; and he evoked both the sensuality and pain of the woman with elan. Here was a complete Vaggayekara (a poet and a musician) at work — a composer who integrated the lyric, melody and rhythm in one seamless weave. He relied on two of the most seasoned voices, Bombay Jayshri and S Sowmya to deliver on this gem.

In direct contrast was a song composed, to be sung by a young bride-to-be in the film. A virginal, quintessence, with metaphorical references to “The Lord”. But we somehow were unable to identify the appropriate voice to convey that innocence. Suddenly, when I realised that his own daughter, Lalgudi Vijayalakshmi, who had sung the dubbed version, was the most suitable for the song, Lalgudi mama hesitated only because he didn’t want to be seen as promoting his own daughter. But I insisted, and he yielded. 

His stroke of genius shone when he composed the film’s title music in just two hours, to the exact second and the trajectory of the film opening credits. Just like that. 

The climax instrumental piece in Sringaram called Three seasons sums up Lalgudi Jayaraman the music composer, music visionary, aesthist and perfectionist. And the maestro who invented the phrase, music “choreography”. No wonder then, that when Lalgudi Jayaraman won the National award for Sringaram’s music, some members of the National film awards exclaimed that there were ten shortlists for the award. And all ten were Lalgudi Jayaraman! And like the rest of his music, they said, this too shall stand the test of time.