Nikhil Banerjee - Shree Rag: Live Munich 1976

'My approach to music is very deep. I do not compromise with anybody or anything else in the world. I do not care. I want to really go beyond this materialistic world...not for the sake of enjoyment, entertainment, no. A musician must lift up the souls of the listeners, and take them towards Space. 'I think when any musician is recording, he becomes self-conscious and he cannot give his best. But it is also true that we have lost many great musicians; now at least the next generation can get some sort of idea of their music from these recordings. I think that recording live concerts is a much better way.' --Nikhil Banerjee Nikhil Banerjee sitar * Swapan Chaudhuri tabla Shree Rag * Live · Munich, 1976 1 Alap & Jor 36:09 2 Gat in Jhaptal 22:28 3 Gat in Tintal 9:09 4 Fast Gat in Tintal: Jhala 10:49 Total Time 78:37 · Mono · ADD · Raga 225 UPC: 704482022528 Following is an article written by Jan Haag (an edited version of this article was printed in a recent edition of the 'India Currents' magazine published from San Jose, CA). Reproduced with permission from the author. THE GOLDEN DRUMMING OF SWAPAN CHAUDHURI by Jan Haag Swapan Chaudhuri, one of the world's greatest classical tabla players, celebrates his fiftieth birthday this year. From India to America, England to Mexico, Canada to Nepal, Australia to the United Arab Emirates, in France, Germany, Italy, Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia-wherever North India classical music is played, he is in demand as a soloist and as an accompanist. Over the last decade, he has given an average of 200 concerts a year. Chaudhuri's touring schedule is the kind of which aspiring musicians dream, but it is also a demanding, health-defying way of life. During a typical week not long ago, Pandit (the Indian title given to a distinguished and learned man) Chaudhuri taught a dozen classes at the Ali Akbar College of Music on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, then flew, on Thursday, to Los Angeles to teach, from noon to seven, at the nearby California Institute of the Arts. Friday, he gave a concert in West Virginia. Saturday, he did two recording sessions in New York City. Then, on Sunday night, he performed at a commemorative event at Lincoln Center to celebrate Gandhi's 125th birthday, the guest list of which included, Dr. Venkatraman, India's former President. 'It's not the concerts that are difficult,' he says, 'but the traveling, the constant traveling. And trying new things. At times dangerous things,' he laughs, his eyes sparkling, then adds: 'Tabla is limitless. I never want to stop.' In India, a number of years ago, he gave eight performances in less than twenty-four hours. 'They were all major concerts. I started first with Pandit Ravi Shankar at 7:00 P.M. From there, all over Calcutta, I played with Pandit Nikhil Banerjee, Ustad Amjad Ali, Pandit Jasraj, then a solo, then two dance concerts with Pandit Chitresh Das, then with Pandit Bhimsen Joshi...' his voice trails off. 'How can you even get around Calcutta that fast?' 'At night it is not so crowded.' 'Do you eat between concerts?' 'Before a concert I don't like to eat. I drink just tea. You don't need food, the energy just comes. When you enjoy something, you forget about yourself. Some kind of special power generates in your body, you don't get tired.' Under the auspices of his mentor, the great sarod maestro, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, Pandit Swapan Chaudhuri, as Director of Percussion, has taught for fourteen years at the Ali Akbar College of Music (AACM) in San Rafael, California. At this school, which Ustad Khan founded twenty-six years ago, these two incomparable musicians share their gifts and hospitality with everyone from untutored beginner to the very finest musicians in the world, both Eastern and Western. Swapanji and Khansahib, as they are known to their students, have dedicated their lives to their art and to teaching appreciation for one of the oldest and most complex musical systems in the world. 'Come visit the classes,' is an invitation extended to all at each AACM concert. In the small, green-carpeted room, abundant with growing plants, where Swapanji teaches, he is asked: 'How do you feel about turning fifty?' 'I like it,' he smiles. 'I look forward to getting on with the second half.' His expression becomes serious as he continues, 'It is also very frustrating. There is so much to learn. So much to know.' Seated behind his drums while he teaches, Swapanji's whole being seems to participate in the multiple rhythms as he keeps the beat, shows the pattern, recites the bols (the words of the drum compositions). His hands not only play the tabla with lightning speed, but frequently dance in the air to indicate the movement, to show how the liquid resonance moves back and forth between the two drums that, together, share the single name tabla. He claps his hands or snaps his fingers, or points in a series of elaborate designs to remind the students of the laya, the chand (the tempo, the pattern). Or, metal against metal, he taps his wedding ring against the chromed body of the left-hand drum, which is also referred to as the baya. His dark eyes, as large as a Coptic saint's, fix a student: 'Play that first line again.' A nod or a hint of a smile may follow if each note is clear and precise. Though always gentle in manner, he is exacting. Even when speaking with a visitor or composing the next composition, not a single missed beat nor a misplaced stroke from among his students will elude his vigilant ear. His hearing, his sense of rhythm is so developed that even the lack of a microbeat gap will be remarked upon and immediately corrected. In every lesson, he expects his students to stretch their capabilities. Nor does he ever touch the tabla, his or anyone else's, without respect and a kind of radiant energy, a delight in what he is doing. This energy is almost palpable, almost visible as his hands move or rest on the drum heads. During the briefest demonstration for a student or at any time during a concert, it is almost as if his fingers emit light. This gift of energy, this love, plus infinite patience, and an inconceivably large memory bank may be what constitute the genius of a great tabla player. The tabla, one drum of wood and one of metal, appears deceptively simple, but to play it in the classical manner, with the artistry of a Swapan Chaudhuri, requires some twenty to thirty years of training and constant practice. It takes great dexterity, superb control, stamina and physical strength. He once played solo at the AACM for four hours. 'The first part,' he noted, 'was pure Lucknow Gharana (his main school or style). The second half was from the other five gharanas.' The right hand drum (singly called the tabla, but also known as the daya, which means right), is usually carved of rosewood. It is the higher pitched drum, and carries most of the intricately patterned finger strokes called bols. The baya (which means left), is a bass drum. Chaudhuri can coax the baya to murmur, whisper, sigh, swoon, laugh, cry, or fill a concert hall with the sound of pattering rain and rumbling thunder. Most children are challenged, at one time or another, to try rubbing their head and patting their stomach at the same time. A master tabla player multiplies this kind of feat exponentially. For instance, the right hand plays one pattern of strokes, the left another, a foot or knee keeps the beat of the tal (the chosen rhythm cycle). Then, while drumming two or three separate rhythms and intersecting patterns (which are, themselves, made up of variable rhythms and patterns), the tabla player may be calculating the mathematically precise pattern of yet another rhythm. He may also be memorizing at lightning speed (while continuing to play) the pattern recited by a dancer, or given by a vocalist or instrumentalist, adhering, always, to the strict rules of one of the traditional gharanas, their stroking patterns, their intonations, their bols. In addition, (while continuin