Gurus
Today I shook the hand whose sound has shaken the spirits of humanity. I humble myself against my own egotism. This has nothing to do, I assure you, with ego.
Last night, tabla Ustad Zakir Hussain and his ensemble cast of strings and percussion squeezed tears from dry eyes, and offered rumble and stillness while God was watching.
The classical tradition of music from North (Hindustani) and South (Carnatic) India brings with it a minimum of 800 years of chronological practice. Until the 20th century it was an oral tradition, passed from heart to heart and mind to mind. It's integrity was ensured through rigorous procedure, etiquette, and discipline. And those who devoted their lives to it, whether by their own inclination or the force of their dynastic legacy, became its single embodiment. They were the rare breed of humans who possessed skills and faculties no other could have without a lifetime of change. And they were born into the lap of those most fit to change them. They were a species that required more than 9 months of gestation, spending their post birth lives in the constant womb of their guru-sisya relationship. From here they deliver the stories of our lives in a way only their lives could allow. And they themselves would one day become gurus, offering both discretion and generosity in how, what, and who they might teach their musical ways.
For this reason, celebrity holds no bearing on my impressions. These are not teenagers with an agent and a marketing budget. These are lifelong soldiers, warriors for the human condition, battling with their musical arts and their earthen instruments, while still carrying disciples to carry on their work. It is not the artist that brings the awe, it's the invitation of beauty that only such a gifted artist can enact. And that beauty is what we are, and what we need, and what we hear so clearly in their magnificently respectful hands.
I spit on the floor as I say the name Ryan Adams, and beg forgiveness of my teachers for positing that name in the same space as theirs. But his concert ticket that I regrettably purchased and used last week was on the US capitalist market for just over $40. That, as it happens, was the same price the market would tolerate for last night's showing of the masters. In my mind, that means that those who have money feel that these two events are equivalent, and for that, I weep for the mercy of everything sane left in our future, and pray that the worldwide estheticide done in the name of scalable profits founders against the potency of life.
Ryan Adams was an outrage, unspeakably self-induced, dramatically masochistic, hardly believable, and purely a waste of time and money. True, there are innumerable actors of ego who claim music as their victim, and rape and violate the sanctity of something pure and self-sustaining with someting tainted and parasitic. But Ryan Adams has talent. And his show was as heart-wrenching as the clubbing of a baby fur seal. It was shameless, needless, and should never happen again.
My teacher is Ustad Ali Akbar Khan. Let me say that again so I can be sure it's real. My teacher is Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, the greatest living sarode player and one of the handful of elders of the Hindustani classical tradition, a living spirit forged by the masters before him to teach and deliver what none of us would ever hear without them. Think about this: recorded music has existed for only a century, and in the hands of the common public for half that time. Thus for nearly all time, the musician was the source of music. And the music that lasted a millenium showed its strength in the character and talent of those who embodied it.
Khansahib describes the force by which he took in music, from the age of 3, thousands of hours of practice, tireless unscrupulous criticism from his teachers, and the unwitting role he would inevitably play as one of the sole keepers of something needed by everyone he would ever meet.
I am not qualified to biography Khansahib, nor would I aim to do so here. The reason I mention this is to color the perspective I have regarding the respect I feel for him, my teacher, as well as those like him: men and women who were born into music, lived only music, and generously play and share their magic unique lives.
Today I sat next to Ustad Zakir Hussain, Ustad Sultan Khan, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, and the entire crew of the Masters of Percussion. I felt and realized at some inconspicuous moment during my morning class that the sultry animal of music whose classical form I've been suckling from these past 2 years was suddenly present in multiples. I didn't feel like asking for autographs, or taking photos, or even trying to get the attention of these amazing musicians. I only tried to show in my face and my eyes and my posture how much I am grateful to them for what they have done, and what they have yet to do.
How or why could I tell them my story: that I was so fearful of life that I hid from it and beat it from me when it came too close, until I found music and it convinced me of something completely different. It convinced me that individuals are alone only if they don't communicate, and that we choose to live among others so that we can communicate and thereby pool resources, minimize hardship, and induce mutual strength, and that when we do this we are rewarded by a feeling that we call love. And that love, and its spectrum of nine emotions, can be elaborated and understood, clinically and technically, and that its stories can be remembered and told, gently and artfully, and that because of their sacrifices I was able to learn.
Tomorrow I will audition for Pandit Swapan Chaudhuri, yet another phenomenon of human sacrifice and musical prowess. He may decide to teach me tabla, and if so I will have yet another inconceivable mercy bestowed on me. Having wandered into the Ali Akbar College of Music with nothing but a desire, I had no idea what I would find. The access to the depths of this vital school of study is so available, that I cannot imagine turning away from it. On the contrary, I hope that my future will be lit by its fire, warmed by its sound, and fueled by its teachings. Today I am closer to understanding yet so far away, and I thank my gurus for helping me along.
Last night, tabla Ustad Zakir Hussain and his ensemble cast of strings and percussion squeezed tears from dry eyes, and offered rumble and stillness while God was watching.
The classical tradition of music from North (Hindustani) and South (Carnatic) India brings with it a minimum of 800 years of chronological practice. Until the 20th century it was an oral tradition, passed from heart to heart and mind to mind. It's integrity was ensured through rigorous procedure, etiquette, and discipline. And those who devoted their lives to it, whether by their own inclination or the force of their dynastic legacy, became its single embodiment. They were the rare breed of humans who possessed skills and faculties no other could have without a lifetime of change. And they were born into the lap of those most fit to change them. They were a species that required more than 9 months of gestation, spending their post birth lives in the constant womb of their guru-sisya relationship. From here they deliver the stories of our lives in a way only their lives could allow. And they themselves would one day become gurus, offering both discretion and generosity in how, what, and who they might teach their musical ways.
For this reason, celebrity holds no bearing on my impressions. These are not teenagers with an agent and a marketing budget. These are lifelong soldiers, warriors for the human condition, battling with their musical arts and their earthen instruments, while still carrying disciples to carry on their work. It is not the artist that brings the awe, it's the invitation of beauty that only such a gifted artist can enact. And that beauty is what we are, and what we need, and what we hear so clearly in their magnificently respectful hands.
I spit on the floor as I say the name Ryan Adams, and beg forgiveness of my teachers for positing that name in the same space as theirs. But his concert ticket that I regrettably purchased and used last week was on the US capitalist market for just over $40. That, as it happens, was the same price the market would tolerate for last night's showing of the masters. In my mind, that means that those who have money feel that these two events are equivalent, and for that, I weep for the mercy of everything sane left in our future, and pray that the worldwide estheticide done in the name of scalable profits founders against the potency of life.
Ryan Adams was an outrage, unspeakably self-induced, dramatically masochistic, hardly believable, and purely a waste of time and money. True, there are innumerable actors of ego who claim music as their victim, and rape and violate the sanctity of something pure and self-sustaining with someting tainted and parasitic. But Ryan Adams has talent. And his show was as heart-wrenching as the clubbing of a baby fur seal. It was shameless, needless, and should never happen again.
My teacher is Ustad Ali Akbar Khan. Let me say that again so I can be sure it's real. My teacher is Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, the greatest living sarode player and one of the handful of elders of the Hindustani classical tradition, a living spirit forged by the masters before him to teach and deliver what none of us would ever hear without them. Think about this: recorded music has existed for only a century, and in the hands of the common public for half that time. Thus for nearly all time, the musician was the source of music. And the music that lasted a millenium showed its strength in the character and talent of those who embodied it.
Khansahib describes the force by which he took in music, from the age of 3, thousands of hours of practice, tireless unscrupulous criticism from his teachers, and the unwitting role he would inevitably play as one of the sole keepers of something needed by everyone he would ever meet.
I am not qualified to biography Khansahib, nor would I aim to do so here. The reason I mention this is to color the perspective I have regarding the respect I feel for him, my teacher, as well as those like him: men and women who were born into music, lived only music, and generously play and share their magic unique lives.
Today I sat next to Ustad Zakir Hussain, Ustad Sultan Khan, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, and the entire crew of the Masters of Percussion. I felt and realized at some inconspicuous moment during my morning class that the sultry animal of music whose classical form I've been suckling from these past 2 years was suddenly present in multiples. I didn't feel like asking for autographs, or taking photos, or even trying to get the attention of these amazing musicians. I only tried to show in my face and my eyes and my posture how much I am grateful to them for what they have done, and what they have yet to do.
How or why could I tell them my story: that I was so fearful of life that I hid from it and beat it from me when it came too close, until I found music and it convinced me of something completely different. It convinced me that individuals are alone only if they don't communicate, and that we choose to live among others so that we can communicate and thereby pool resources, minimize hardship, and induce mutual strength, and that when we do this we are rewarded by a feeling that we call love. And that love, and its spectrum of nine emotions, can be elaborated and understood, clinically and technically, and that its stories can be remembered and told, gently and artfully, and that because of their sacrifices I was able to learn.
Tomorrow I will audition for Pandit Swapan Chaudhuri, yet another phenomenon of human sacrifice and musical prowess. He may decide to teach me tabla, and if so I will have yet another inconceivable mercy bestowed on me. Having wandered into the Ali Akbar College of Music with nothing but a desire, I had no idea what I would find. The access to the depths of this vital school of study is so available, that I cannot imagine turning away from it. On the contrary, I hope that my future will be lit by its fire, warmed by its sound, and fueled by its teachings. Today I am closer to understanding yet so far away, and I thank my gurus for helping me along.
posted by Arif at 4:03 PM
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