The Music of India

Its Constantly Increasing Popularity in America

ANANDA COOMARASWAMY

IT is true that the folk-song of Europe is still a melodic art without harmonization, but the concertgoer, if he hears the folk-song at all, knows it only in forms which are changed and falsified, for the folksong with a piano accompaniment is already something other than itself. And yet this Eastern music is of profound significance to the Western student for many reasons: it is the nearest that he can hear to the music of ancient Greece, which appears so mysterious, and it throws a light on the whole development of Western art. More than this, and more remarkable, perhaps, is the fact that from the standpoint of pure art it makes such a strong and direct appeal to the Western virtuoso—a far stronger appeal, indeed, than Western music makes to the Indian connoisseur.

"How can it be that such pure and irresistible delights as these have been withheld from us so long!" enquires Mr. Grainger. "It is not only serious artistry of a consummate kind," says Mr. Schindler, "but a message of the greatest import for Western ears." "Not only technically interesting," Mr. Bernard Shaw (once a musical critic) writes, "but most refreshing and enchanting artistically." Pablo Casals has said to Madame Ratan Devi that he appreciates Indian music, that he appreciates every nuance of her songs, because we find in music an universal language and every race experiences the common passions of humanity." Music is not really American or Indian: it is simply music. This is true of all the arts.

On the other hand, the cultivated arts have always their special conventions developed in relation to the time and place of their evolution, and a certain effort ho embrace these terms is as necessary in music as in literature. And since Ratan Devi, and other musicians, have made this music accessible to American audiences, let us look, for a little, at what Indian music really is. Much of it is essentially an art of personal patronage: chamber music. There are no public concerts in India, The only public music is processional. Some of the finest music is heard in temples or from the lips of wandering triars. Something like an Eisteddfodd is held every winter in Jullunder. But in India, music is very intime—a matter of invited guests and connoisseurship: and yet music plays more part in Indian life than it does in any European country. Of course there is nothing like an orchestra: the ensemble is confined to a singer, solo-instrumentalist or dancer and one or more drums. Neither is there any singing in chorus: the art is far too subtle for this and too much bound up with improvisation. One does not distinguish the performer from the composer so sharply as in Europe, and nothing is identically repeated. Most of the music is traditional, rather ascribed to the gods than to human composers: but the masters of each generation are all composers in their degree, and some are known to fame; for example, Tan Sen and Tyagaraja. The leading musicians, especially instrumentalists and teachers are generally men: but perhaps a majority of singers are women.

THE vogue for Indian music is growing apace in America. Let us see why?

The beginnings of it are lost in antiquity. The Vedic chants descend to us from at least the second millennium B. C. Instrumental music, singing and dancing, were fully developed professional arts in India long before the time of Buddha (6th Century B. C.), and perhaps attained their zenith in the Imperial Age of the Guptas (4th-5th Century A. D.), when Kalidasa wrote "Sakuntala", and the frescoes were painted on the walls of the excavated temples of Ajanta. The modern art is a direct descendant from those far away times, and affords us glimpses of an ancient classic culture which is soon to pass away forever. There is nothing in the American concert-goer's experience to prepare him for the art music of the East.

LONG ago the rajas had their private theatres, and the classic drama was essentially lyrical. But the music of the modern public theatres is not really Indian; like the acting, it is a hybrid and even mongrel product, neither Eastern nor Western nor a true development of either. The widespread use of little harmoniums is nowadays rapidly destroying the character of Indian music and the cultivated ability to appreciate it. The piano might be equally disastrous were it not too costly to be common. If Indian music is dying, however, this is mainly due to lack of patronage, since the wealthy classes are no longer cultured, but merely educated. No attempt has been made by Indian universities to remedy the cultural losses which political conditions have inevitably brought about: inevitably, since the English governor, however well imentioned, does not inherit the taste of the rulers he displaces, and even in those localities where the native princes are still in power, one does not learn from English tutors to appreciate the ragas.

(Continued on page 96)

(Continued jrom page 67)

WE are accustomed here to the piano scale of 12 notes: but we must not forget that this scale is out of tune by hypothesis, since nearly identical notes such as D# and Eb are "merged"', and the whole is "tempered" to facilitate free modulation. But the Indian scale, except in the South, has twenty-two notes, and the intonation is "just". It cannot, then, be played on the piano or written in staff notation. But the violin has been successfully employed in some cases. The classic Indian instrument is the vina, a lute-like instrument with very long strings, where the microtonal grace impossible to a keyed instrument can be produced by deflection of the strings along the frets. There exists in India abundant literature on musical theory; but the songs themselves are not written, they are handed down orally within the guilds of the professional musicians, and can be learnt in no other way than by hearing and remembering. Music, in India, is a vocation, not a social accomplishment, and that is why there has never been felt a necessity for publication.

TO Indian ears all European music tends to appear monotonous, just because almost all the notes of the piano may be used in any one composition. But Indian music is "modal", that is to say, each composition adheres to a set of five, six, or seven notes distributed over the scale, and in any one such "Raga" or melody-type no other notes are used than those which specially belong to it. And thus, although the interval between one note and the next is approximately a "quarter-tone", one does not hear these microtonal intervals except in a few ragas which employ successive notes, and also in the grace or ornament which is so characteristic. In other words, there are no chromatic progressions. But there are 36 or more ragas—every song is in a raga: but it is important to observe that this word originally signifying color or passion, suggests to Indian ears not only, or not so much, the technical definition of a mode or range of notes, as the mood which is the source and meaning of the mode itself. The first thing that a Hindu will tell you about any ragais the hour of the day or night when it may be sung; and very few musicians will break these rules, even in teaching. The mode is really a spell, able to influence the course of nature and the passions of men. It is said that when Tan Sen—a famous master of the 16th Century—would sing a midnight raga at midday, the darkness fell and extended around the palace as far as his voice could be heard; and of another master, forced under protest to sing the raga of fire, that he himself burst into flames. If these effects are not always reproduced at the present day, that is to be accounted for by the imperfect execution of the musicians of a degenerate age.

BUT most of the ragas express the sentiments of love, sometimes of love in union, but more often in separation: and we must remember that this human love has always a background and undercurrent of mystical significance. And many songs are connected with the seasons—"Our songs", says Rabindranath Tagore, "speak of the early dawn and the embroidered midnight sky of India: our song is the worldsundered separation pain of dripping rain, and the wordless ecstasy of the deep madness of the early Spring, as it reaches the utmost limits of the forests . . . our music seems to me to bring to the heart of the crowded gathering the sense of solitude and vastness that surround us on all sides ... it is the music of cosmic emotion".

SOMETIMES the ragas are personified as musical angels: and to sing them amiss is to break the limbs of these divine creatures. The ragas are related to one another by marriage and by blood. Then, too, the ragas are represented in pictures, exhibiting the circumstances appropriate to the mood the hermit in his cell, the lady sighing for her lover, the wild deer captivated by the song, or Krishna dancing with the milkmaids. This association of visual and auditory art recalls that Moussorgsky, Rakhmaninov and other Western musicians have from time to time composed works inspired by particular pictures. The picture is a paraphrase of the song, or vice versa. In India the voice is used as a solo instrument in its own right, and song has a higher status than here, for it does not so much exist to elucidate the words, as to express its own mood. "Song begins where words end", writes Rabindranath Tagore, "so that the less the words of the song disturb the song the better", and this truly expresses the Indian feeling, for the classic form of the virtuoso is the "alap", a song really without words, a vocal elaboration of the melody to meaningless syllables.

THE Indian song with its legato movement and sustained passages—dilatory without being sentimental, passionate without vehemence, as Mr. Fox Strangway justly remarks—makes great demands on breath control. But this is taken for granted—perhaps the breathing exercises that are a part of Indian ritual have made it easy. The singer is always seated—on the ground. It will be noticed that she moves her hands with the music; these gestures are not as a rule mimetic like those of dances, but represent, as it were, the singer conducting her own performance, following with her hands the form of the music. The rhythms are difficult to apprehend because they are founded, as in prosody, on contrasts of long and short duration, while European rhythms are typically based on stress, as in dance or marching. The Indian audience is accustomed to quantitive poetic recitation, quite devoid of rhetorical emphasis. The best way to approach these rhythms is to pay attention to the phrasing, and ignore pulsation.

ANOTHER marked peculiarity appears in the continuity of sound: and indeed, it is not so much a succession of notes that is sung, as a sequence of intervals. To Oriental ears the music of the piano and the type of song which goes with it always appear staccato or "full of holes". And in fact the Eastern melody is a purely linear and flowing form, while the Western music is divided vertically by the harmonic interest. The usual accompaniment of the Indian singer is the drone of the "tamboura", with or without the rhythmic emphasis of drums. The four strings of the tamboura sound the dominant, upper tonic twice, and lower tonic: and being very long, and provided with simple, but ingenious, resonators, the sound is very rich in overtones, and almost orchestral in effect. It is not so much a separate interest, as a background: it is like the curtain of night against which the stars are embroidered, all-pervading, continuous, and perpetually poised. It is like the peace of God which persists throughout and within the activity of life.

And so the Indian singer's art becomes essentially a religious experience, rather than a mere entertainment: it is a release from our close attachment to what is transient and personal. It stills the restless activity of the mind and of the senses, which are the veils of all reality—only transparent when we are at peace with ourselves. And this release is the ultimate gift of art, and the common meeting ground of East and West.