Tag: news

Ilaiyaraaja’s Symphony ‘Valiant’ Rocks London: A Maestro’s Magic at Apollo!

Bro, What a Night!

Picture this: March 8, 2025, London’s Eventim Apollo theatre, all decked up, and our very own Isaignani Ilaiyaraaja dropping his first-ever western classical symphony, Valiant, with the Royal Philharmonic Concert Orchestra. Bro, idhu nijamave oru periya vishayam! (Man, this is truly a big deal!) The 81-year-old legend took the stage—or rather, his music did—and gave the world a 45-minute symphony that’s got everyone talking. Add some of his mass film songs, and the concert stretched to a solid 90 minutes of pure goosebumps. For us Tamizh folks, it’s like seeing our Raaja Sir conquer the world, vera level da!

Raaja Sir: The Man, The Myth, The Maestro

If you’re Indian, especially from the South, you don’t need an intro to Ilaiyaraaja. Born in Pannaipuram, Tamil Nadu, this gaon ka ladka started with a harmonium in a troupe and went on to rule Indian cinema with over 8,500 songs. From Annakili to Thalapathi, his BGM (background music) is what dreams are made of. Padma Bhushan, Padma Vibhushan, Rajya Sabha MP—name it, he’s got it. But Valiant? This is Raaja Sir going international, composing a full-on western classical symphony in just 35 days. Adhu enna speed-u, enna talent-u!

The Symphony: Technical Masala and More

Now, let’s get into the juicy part—Valiant, Symphony No. 1. This isn’t your usual kuthu paatu (dance number); it’s a four-movement masterpiece. The first two movements are pure western classical—think sonata form, with a proper exposition, development, and recapitulation. Strings, woodwinds, brass, all in sync, conducted by Mikel Toms with the Royal Philharmonic Concert Orchestra. Clean crescendos and diminuendos, building up that tension and release, semmaya irukku (superb stuff!).

Then comes the twist—movements three and four bring in our desi touch. You can hear shades of Carnatic ragas sneaking in, maybe a hint of Kalyani or Shankarabharanam, blending with the western counterpoint. The polyphony gets a Tamil soul, and suddenly, it’s like Raaja Sir is telling London, “Idhu namma style da!” (This is our style!) At 45 minutes, it’s tight, no dragging, with each movement flowing into the next like a perfect raga alapana.

The concert didn’t stop there. After Valiant, they played some of his evergreen hits—imagine Ilaya Nila or Rakkamma echoing in that grand Apollo hall. Fans ku oru periya treat-u!

Apollo Theatre Vibes

Eventim Apollo, oru stylish venue in London, has seen legends like The Beatles, but on March 8, it was all about Raaja Sir. With a capacity of 5,000, the place was buzzing—NRI crowd, music lovers, everyone soaking in the moment. The Royal Philharmonic Concert Orchestra, known for lighter classics, nailed it. Fans on X went wild—one guy, RASH, tweeted, “Blessed to see Ilaiyaraaja’s Valiant live. History in the making!” Another, pianist Anirudh Krishna, called it “surreal,” and trust me, namma pasanga (our boys) know how to hype it up!

Why This Matters, Bossu?

Ilaiyaraaja isn’t just a film composer; he’s namma pride. First Indian film music director to drop a western classical symphony in London? Adhu Raaja Sir thaan! He’s been mixing violins with veena for decades, but this is him telling the world, “I can play your game too, and win!” Composed in 35 days, recorded earlier with the Royal Scottish National Orchestra, and now live in London—it’s a hat-trick. Kamal Haasan even tweeted it’ll “blaze a trail across genres.” Nijamave, avan solluradhu correct-u!

Final Dhum

Valiant isn’t just a symphony; it’s Raaja Sir’s sangathamizh meeting Beethoven’s turf and shaking hands. For us fans, it’s like watching our thalaivar (leader) take over the globe, one note at a time. If you missed it, check the BTS video on YouTube—it’s Raaja Sir in his element. Inimel, London-um namma area dhan! (From now on, London’s our turf too!)

So, what do you think? Heard any clips yet? Let’s talk Raaja Sir’s magic!

Remembering P. Jayachandran: The Voice of a Generation

The year was 1979. I was a greenhorn, about a year into my job, in the then Indian Airlines, later known as Air India, and was posted at the Kochi Airport—not the swanky one we see today but the one at the Naval Base, a relic from a time when aviation was more about function than finesse. Back then, Kochi was still called Cochin, and the airport was primarily meant for Coast Guard operations. The runway stretched just about 7500 feet, and the aircraft in use were the sturdy, unglamorous HS 748s, which later made way for the Boeing 737s.

Now, why am I rambling about all this when the topic at hand is a man whose voice melted hearts and whose name was synonymous with melody? Well, dear reader, I am just setting the stage—because if you must know, one of the frequent fliers on the Cochin-Madras (now Chennai) route, Flight IC538, was none other than P. Jayachandran.

Meeting a Legend Over Puttu and Tea

There he was—an aristocratic, slightly rotund man, probably about 5’5”, who often traveled between Cochin and Madras. At that time, I had no clue about the Malayalam or Tamil music scene. My knowledge of music was limited to what played on Chennai’s radios, and the only “melody” I truly appreciated was the sound of the aircraft engine starting on time. But fate, as it often does, had other plans.

It wasn’t at the airport that I truly got to know him, but over several cups of tea and platefuls of puttu at a ramshackle shed just outside what we then called the “terminal.” Either he took a liking to me, or the food was simply too good to pass up, but we ended up sharing many grand breakfasts together. Little did I know then that I was unknowingly rubbing shoulders with greatness.

The Rhythm Behind the Melody

Before he became the celebrated singer we know, Jayachandran was, in fact, a percussionist. He played the tabla (or was it the mridangam I can’t say for sure, but he definitely had rhythm in his veins). This early training in rhythm and beats gave his singing an unmatched sense of timing and fluidity. His deep understanding of taala (rhythm) allowed him to interpret melodies with incredible grace, which later became a defining characteristic of his style.

A Friendly Rivalry with Yesudas

An interesting piece of trivia: during his youth, Jayachandran competed in a music competition at a youth festival. His rival? None other than K.J. Yesudas. Yes, the two titans of playback singing in Malayalam cinema first crossed paths not in a recording studio but on a competition stage. Though Yesudas won that particular contest, it did nothing to deter Jayachandran’s journey. If anything, it was a foreshadowing of the many decades in which both voices would dominate the music industry, often sharing the same playback singing space, yet each retaining a distinct signature.

Jayachandran’s big break came in 1965 when he sang Anuragaganam pole in the Malayalam film Kavyamela, a song that shot him to instant fame. He went on to lend his soulful voice to hundreds of Tamil, Malayalam, and Kannada songs.

The Unassuming Star

Despite being a giant in the industry, Jayachandran remained simple and down-to-earth. My own experience with him reflected this. Years later, after I had left my job and moved to Madras, the music bug finally bit me. I got drawn into Carnatic classical music and found myself needing a guru. Who better to guide me than Jayan ettan (as I respectfully called him)? It was he who recommended me to Trichur Ramachandran, a connection that shaped my musical journey.

A Farewell to a Voice That Never Fades

P. Jayachandran may have left the stage, but his songs continue to live in the hearts of millions. His voice was not just a sound but an emotion—one that carried the essence of love, longing, and devotion. And while I may have met him first as just another passenger on a flight, I now look back and marvel at how life has a way of weaving its own melodies.

Jayan ettan, you will be missed, but your music will forever remain.

Holy Cow! Why We Curse with the Feminine

Ah, the delicate art of cursing. It’s a universal language, a symphony of syllables that transcends borders and cultures. But just like any art form, cursing has its nuances, its regional variations. And in India, my friend, we’ve elevated it to an almost poetic level.

Now, I’m not saying that we Indians have a monopoly on colorful language. Far from it. My American countrymen, for instance, have a rather impressive repertoire of expletives. Take, for example, the classic “son of a…” well, you know the rest. It’s a timeless classic, a go-to phrase for expressing frustration, anger, or just plain old annoyance. And who can forget the ever-reliable “mother…” another versatile term that can be used in a variety of situations.

But here’s the thing: while Americans tend to focus their cussing on, shall we say, less savory aspects of human anatomy, Indians prefer to keep it in the family. Mothers, sisters, daughters – they’re all fair game in our verbal sparring matches.

Take, for instance, the ubiquitous word that rhymes with a certain English cricketer’s name. It’s a crass term, no doubt, but one that’s hurled with alarming regularity across the length and breadth of our country. From the bustling streets of Delhi to the rarified air of the Bollywood elite, it’s a staple of our everyday vocabulary.

Then there’s the Chennai special, a word that shares an unfortunate phonetic resemblance to a popular fizzy drink. This particular gem is a favorite among the city’s auto-rickshaw drivers, who seem to have an endless supply of creative variations.

And let’s not forget the regional variations. Every corner of India has its own unique set of feminine-focused expletives, each more imaginative than the last. It’s as if we’ve collectively decided that the worst possible insult is to associate a man with a woman, to question his masculinity by linking him to the perceived “weaker” sex.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “This is all very amusing, but isn’t it a bit sexist?” And you’d be right. It is sexist. It’s also hypocritical, considering that we often celebrate men who are, shall we say, “experienced” with women.

But here’s the thing: I don’t think we’re doing it out of malice. I think it’s more a case of ingrained cultural conditioning. We’ve been brought up in a society where women are often seen as second-class citizens, and our language reflects that.

But that doesn’t mean we can’t change. We can start by being more mindful of the words we use. We can challenge ourselves to find new ways to express ourselves without resorting to sexist language. And we can educate our children about the importance of respecting women.

It’s a long road ahead, but I believe we can get there. After all, we Indians are nothing if not resilient. We’ve overcome countless challenges in the past, and I’m confident that we can overcome this one too.

So let’s raise a glass (of non-fizzy beverage, of course) to a future where our language is as diverse and vibrant as our culture, and where women are celebrated, not denigrated. Cheers to that!

Bacon, Blue Eyes, and a Booming Woofer: My Madras Days

Ah, Madras. Or should I say Chennai, as it’s now known? My dear old stomping ground, a city steeped in history, filter coffee, and the lingering aroma of jasmine. But the Madras of my childhood, in the early 1960s, was a different beast altogether. A quieter beast. A beast without the cacophony of a thousand auto-rickshaws vying for your attention. Imagine, if you will, a Madras with barely any traffic!

Our family chariot, a trusty Hillman Minx with the license plate MDJ 1345 (or something close, memory is a fickle mistress at my age), would glide down Mount Road – now Anna Salai for you young’uns – with an almost regal air. One of our regular haunts was Spencer’s, a shopping mecca in those days. Now, why Spencer’s, you ask? Well, my dear reader, it was one of the few places where you could find that most exotic of meats: bacon!

You see, my father had just returned from completing his Master’s degree in Tennessee, USA. He brought back with him not just a head full of knowledge and a suitcase full of souvenirs, but also a hankering for American breakfast staples. Bacon, that crispy, salty delight, was top of the list. Whether his accent had acquired a twang, I couldn’t tell you. I was but a wee lad of five, more preoccupied with the fascinating world around me than the nuances of my father’s vowels.

Now, my father wasn’t just a bacon enthusiast. He was also a passionate member of the Indo-American Friendship Society. Their meetings were held at the rather grand residence of Mr. and Mrs. Clark. Mr. Clark was, I believe, some sort of diplomat, but to my five-year-old self, he was simply the man with the lovely wife who had the most mesmerizing china blue eyes. I was utterly captivated. Mrs. Clark, bless her cotton socks, would often find me staring intently at her, probably with my mouth agape. I’m sure she found it rather amusing.

Madras back then was a city that moved at a slower pace. No blaring televisions, no internet, no mobile phones. My window to the outside world was a magnificent valve radio, lovingly built by my father. This wasn’t just any radio mind you. This was a behemoth, sitting atop a massive speaker cabinet that housed a tweeter, a mid-range, a woofer, and a hand-built crossover network. The sound it produced was rich, warm, and utterly captivating.

The raw materials for this audio masterpiece were sourced from the legendary Moore Market. Ah, Moore Market! A sprawling labyrinth of stalls selling everything under the sun. Old World War II radio sets, headphones, valves, resistors, capacitors – you name it, they had it. I would often accompany my father on his expeditions to this Aladdin’s cave, my eyes wide with wonder. Sadly, Moore Market met an unfortunate end in a fire, but its memory lives on in the minds of many old-timers.

Life in those days had a certain simplicity, a certain peace. Maybe it was the absence of the constant bombardment of information and stimulation that we experience today. Or maybe it was just the blissful ignorance of childhood, where responsibilities were few and worries even fewer. Whatever the reason, I can’t help but feel a sense of tranquility when I think back to those days.

But were those days truly better than the ones we live in now? It’s a question I often ponder. We have so much more today in terms of technology, convenience, and access to information. Yet, we also seem to be more stressed, more anxious, and more disconnected from each other. Perhaps it’s a classic case of “the grass is always greener on the other side.”

One thing is for sure, my formative years in Madras shaped me in profound ways. The sights, the sounds, the smells – they’re all etched into my memory. And while I’ve lived in many different places since then, Madras will always hold a special place in my heart.

Now, I realize this nostalgic ramble might only resonate with those of a certain vintage. If you remember Mount Road, Spencer’s, and Moore Market, then you’re probably in the same age bracket as me. And if you too have a deep affection for the Madras of yore, I’d love to hear your stories. Did you also have a father who built his own radio? Did you spend your afternoons sipping lime soda at a quaint Irani cafe? Let’s take a trip down memory lane together and celebrate the good old days!