Lata, Filmfare, and the 1970s…

Anirudha Bhattacharjee

 

The months of April and May are touted to be the hottest of the year in Bombay. And dreadfully humid as well. It was no different on the evening of April 19, 1970. However, harsh weather was hardly a deterrent for half of the Bombay film fraternity to land up at the Shanmukhananda hall. It was the Annual Filmfare awards, and barring a few like Shammi Kapoor and chief guest Satyajit Ray, most men were in suits. Unlike the Oscars, the winners were no secret, but that hardly mattered to the folks that would congregate. Being at the Filmfare award was then a matter of prestige. While the mechanism behind the selection process was always controversial, the very fact that this led to a multitude of debates proved that the award added a multi-coloured feather to the cap while ruffling a few important ones.

***

The 1970 award nite boasted of some novel shows. The director’s dilemma and The grandfathers’ ghost were skits directed by Deven Varma and acted by fresh FTII pass-outs, including Asrani, Suresh Chatwal. Baldev Khosa (who later became an MLA from Bombay) and Subhas Ghai. Of great interest to the audience was a cabaret by Padma Khanna, choreographed by Gopi Krishna. Khanna’s best-known dance item, the striptease choreographed by Suresh Bhatt was yet to hit the screens. Johny Mera Naam would be released later that year.

But the piece de resistance was reserved for the grand finale when there would be music. And Lata Mangeshkar, who had won the best female singer award for Aap mujhe aache lagne lage (Jeene ki Raah) would sing. Minutes after she had left the stage, it was announced, to the surprise of the 3000 odd people present – including Laxmikant and Pyarelal who were on stage conducting the orchestra - , that Lata, henceforth, had decided to retire from being nominated at the Filmfare awards. 

Why did Lata, who had won four best singer Filmfare awards by then, decide to call it a day? Nobody knows, but the official version remains that she wanted to create space for the appreciation of fresh voices. On the flip side, the story which had snowballed was that Lata was not the great singer she was in her prime. She had crossed 40 and was on a tipping point.

The 1970s, per some senior music critics and aficionados, saw the downfall of Lata. Many still feel she should have retired before the 1970s.

How Lata has proved them all wrong. Horribly off beam.

***

To appreciate the Lata of the 1970s, one first needs to recognise that cinema, on a whole, had improved. It was not filmed theatre anymore. No longer was emoting beyond a point essential. A Rajanigandha phool tumhare (Rajanigandha, 1974, composer Salil Chowdhury) was shot entirely in the background. Or an Apne aap ratoon mein (Shankar Hussain, 1977, composer Khayyam), where the shots keep changing, from close to medium to long, and later to an establishing one, with music playing its part in the scheme of things. These songs are among the best melodramatic songs of Lata; yet they are sans the mushiness which used be the major ingredient in the 1950s.  

 

Arrangement styles in Hindi cinema were changing too. Large orchestras continued, but the emphasis was on clarity. The definition of taboo was also under the radar, and women’s sexuality was not something to be ashamed of. Hence you had the sanctimonious heroine (not the spirited free soul of Anjali in Jewel Thief (1967)) singing something as direct as Bahon mein chale aao ((Anamika, 1973), composer R D Burman). In a way, Lata was a competition to Asha, as she had entered her domain and by most accounts, defined the gold standard in the genre Asha habitually dominated.

If her gayaki in the 1950s was of someone not yet out of her teens, and the 1960s was like of a happy-yet-teary-eyed soul (most evident in her pathos-laden songs of Madan Mohan), the 1970s found a Lata who had seen the world. Her emotions were more controlled. On Madan Mohan, Hai tere saath meri wafa (Hindustan ki kasam, 1973) is a perfect example of a sad song where emotions are never over the top. While the credit goes to Madan Mohan for the soulful composition, Lata’s no-nonsense style of emoting, and especially strongly holding on to long notes deserve no lesser applause.

Straight notes were gradually getting acceptance as part of mainstream music too. In as much that composers Laxmikant Pyarelal who prided themselves on a genre which was a mix of Madan Mohan, C Ramchandra, and Shankar Jaikishan, in a deviation from their normal style, composed many songs for Lata with straight and sometimes fast-changing notes. Roz sham aati thee (Imtihaan, 1974) is one such composition, robustly and interestingly structured, where you tend to run out of breath between phrases. Lata negotiated the notes with a skill so divine that it is nigh difficult to imagine anyone replicating the same – without taking resort to a false voice.

Suffice it to say; there was hardly any limitation in the Lata of the 1970s. From the devout (Tera mera saath rahe (Sudagar, 1973), composer Ravindra Jain) to the sultry (Yeh raatein nayi purani (Julie, 1975), composer Rajesh Roshan) ; from the haunting (Sun man ke meet (Mrig Trishna, 1975), composer Shambhu Sen) to the spirited (Abhi abhi thee dushmani (Zakhmee, 1975), composer Bappi Lahiri); from the panoramically romantic – Nainon mein darpan hai (Aarop, 1974), composer Bhupen Hazarika) to the overly teasing (one just needs to hear her modulation while in Aajke kho jayen khabon khayalon mein in Yeh Mausam aaya hai (Aakraman, 1975), composers Laxmikant Pyarelal), she ran the entire gamut of emotions in a dazzling manner. With the perceptive mind of a 50 something but with the heart modulated to the colour of the song. I must admit that the voice, with age, had become slightly brittle. One cannot defy nature. But Lata’s natural ability was at such a high level that mere physical constraints failed to become arduous barriers. A song like Yeh dil aur unki nighahon ke saaye (Prem Parbat, 1973), composer Jaidev) could have been one of the most visited videos on YouTube ever had the film not been destroyed by fire. 

Nostalgia is like a soothing balm for restive nerves. However, it could be criminally imperceptive in places where objective vision is mandated. The critics, blindfolded by political correctness, were sorely mistaken in their estimation of Lata’s prowess. The voice of Lata which they identify with was the voice of the schoolgirl or the young wife. They wanted it to remain that way. Instead, Lata pushed back the boundaries of music with her overwhelming skill. And dedication. Her 1970s songs remain among the most heard ones, and incidentally, among the most loved ones too. Even today. when she steps into her nineties.    

***

That Filmfare nite had one of the best musical shows ever. Lata, draped in customary white sang a few songs including the raging hit around that time, Bindiya Chamkegi (Do Raaste, 1969 censor, 1970 Bombay release). The male singer on stage was the Filmfare award winner that year. Kishore Kumar. Apart from Roop tera mastana (Aradhana, his award-winning song), he also sang Mere naseeb mein aai dost (Do Raaste). He and Lata presented a study in contrast. Lata, the disciplinarian, had her song book in her right hand. Kishore sang without lyrics and made a mistake too in Mere naseeb mein. Except during the interludes, Lata hardly moved away from the mike, holding on to the stand with her left hand. Kishore carried the mike with him, and moved around on the stage, especially during Roop tera mastana. After the parting song, Accha toh hum chalte hain (Aan milo sajna, 1970, a film not yet released then). Kishore left by the right side of the stage, and Lata by the left side. Lata’s decision to quit Filmfare awards was announced just after that.

Kishore, who was dressed in a maroon coloured kurta and a white dhoti, had changed to a suit and a tie and was later found signing Vijay Merchant’s autograph book. Merchant was not only a cricketing great, he was also a very dear friend of Lata. It was as if Lata were passing on the baton to her co-singer, who would, in a few years, host continuous shows at Shanmukhananda hall.

And always charge one rupee less than Lata for playback assignments. 

(The author thanks Dr. Mandar Bichu and Kaustubh C Pingle for some inputs)

Quite a journey

A journey of three and a half years

Last to last week, on May 3, me and my friend Vittal Balaji were at the Vigyan Bhawan taking the Swarna Kamal from Vice President Hamid Ansari for our book ' R D Burman, the man the music'. As I almost marched ahead to take the coveted gold medal, the entire journey passed through my mind in a flash - the thought of writing the book, Balaji's first trip to Bombay and the subsequent ones that followed, my interactions with Pancham's friends and well-wishers in Kolkata and over the phone, how we wrote and re-wrote the manuscript from time to time, the multiple discussions with Shantanu Ray Chaudhari, the editor of the book, the launches at Bombay, Kolkata , Delhi and Jaipur (I was not party to the Chennai launch)..and how the news of the National Award generated a flurry of smses and phone calls.

It has been a fascinating journey into the psyche of Pancham and his sound. Without his well wishes, his guidance, his aura, nothing could have happened. I am sure he is there somewhere above looking at us and smiling , probably singing - Dam hai to unase chheen ke le aayenge :)

the Kalyanji we forget...

Last week's Telegraph..
Yaad aaye kabhi to mat rona...
Kalyanji died five years ago, and it’s time to recall what the Kalyanji-Anandji duo meant to Hindi film music. By Anirudha Bhattacharjee and Srijit Mukherjee


If the 70s in Hindi film music was to be mapped, there is no iota of doubt about who the Holy Troika would be. The musical team of Laxmikant-Pyarelal would be Vishnu, hugely popular with an enviable appeal that would reach the commonest of Puja rooms. LP battled and duped the demons of Box-Office Failure with Vishnu-like cerebral use of power; choosing the right banner and rationing their talent.

Blissfully unaware of most worldly matters and lost in the marijuana of music would be R.D. Burman or Shiva: destroying all established notions of rhythm and arrangement in HFM and dancing his Tandav to the tune of true World Music within the paradigm of Bollywood.

But moving away from these charismatic gods and the bloodless wars between Shaivites and Vaishnavis, our cynosure is the third of the trinity. Like Brahma, who has only a sole temple after him, even at the peak of their powers in the 70s, the Kalyanji-Anandji duo always remained in the shadow of the two giants. KA’s contribution is scarcely the stuff drawing room uproar or tumultuous exchanges on e-forums are made of; it is hardly evaluated with the same intensity. But, almost quietly, they continued to rub shoulders with the big names for two decades or more, with fervour and tenacity.

Kalyanji Veerji Shah, the life and soul of the duo, was the son of a prospective grocer who took interest in musical instruments from a very early age. At an age when a child learning an instrument is wowed at, he developed a musical instrument called the Pattar Tarang! His innovative streak continued as, after being incorporated in SJ’s orchestra, with Hemant Kumar, he ushered in HFM’s first electronic sound through the German instrument claviolin. Remember the haunting snake-charmer’s been theme from Hemant Kumar’s immortal score in Nagin? Yes, that was Kalyanji himself creating magic. And with these musical escapades he finally caught the attention of Subhash Desai in 1958, and was offered his first independent assignment — Samrat Chandragupta. This was followed up by Post Box 999, which among other creations had the Hemant-Lata dulcet declaration of insomnia — , neend na mujh ko aaye. With his third film, Satta Bazaar, younger brother Anandji joined him and the rest, as they say, is history.

The early 60s were difficult, but KA scraped through given the support of producers and directors like Baburao Mistry, Subhash Desai, Ravindra Dave, Pramod Chakravarty and Suraj Prakash who couldn’t afford topnotch composers. But come 1965, and all that changed. Four of their five films, Himalay Ki God Mein, Jab Jab Phool Khile, Purnima and Saheli made it to the top of the charts. In JJPK, they moved away from Kalyanji’s earlier use of heavy orchestra in the SJ or Naushad mould, with startling results. In fact, the year’s success landed them with a couple of prestigious projects like Saraswatichandra and Upkar. While the former had among its National-Award winning score, the hugely popular love ditty in Raag Yaman, Chandan-sa badan; the latter had the ethereal Kasme vaade pyaar wafa sab which became the rage of the nation.

By this time, KA had developed their late 60s- early 70’s style, which was quintessentially an extension of the Bengal School of composing heralded by SD and Hemant Kumar. This mandated the use of limited Shudhdha notes, sporadically interspersed with Komal or Teevra notes, all stressed upon for a lasting impact. In the mellifluous Kishore-Asha duet Aankhon aankhon mein from Mahal (1969), the mukhda is an exposition of this skill, where only the first three notes of any form of music (Sa, Re and Ga) have been woven into the fabric with mind-boggling results. In fact, the same note progression often formed their signature tune and was recast intelligently in fractionally different moulds to create classics like Zindagi ka safar (Safar, 1970), Dil to hai dil (Muqaddar Ka Sikander, 1978) or Mera jeevan kora kagaaz (Kora Kagaz, 1974).

The period 1970-73 found KA at their commercial and creative zenith. The roll of honour included films like Safar, Blackmail, Johny Mera Naam, Purab Aur Paschim, Geet, Ghar Ghar Ki Kahani, Kathputli, Chhoti Bahu, Mere Humsafar, Samjhauta and Victoria No. 203. A very successful relationship was forged in 1973 when they proved to be the mascot for a lanky newcomer from Allahabad who redefined anger on celluloid. Numerous stage shows and hugely successful shows at that, were a direct and important byproduct of this association. However, as years went by, by the late 70s-early 80s, quality began to watch from the wings as the appeasement of the galleries took centerstage. And the trough crept up faster than the crest had arrived.

Viju Shah, one of Kalyanji’s five offspring, tried to give the last shot in the arm with Tridev (1989), but the success was fleeting. The man who brought electronic orchestra to Hindi Film Music, eventually lost out when technology became the heart and soul of the recording rooms. And when Anandji was quizzed on AIR FM, Kolkata, about his favourite Kalyanji creation, on August 22, 2000 little did he know that it would be prophetic. Hum chhod chale hain mehfil ko,/Yaad aaye kabhi to mat rona…

Within 48 hours, Kalyanji had passed into posterity.

Some Rare Gems of Kishore da..my Guru

This is an artcle which my friend Srijit and urs truly wrote recently in the Telegraph, Kolkata. Would be thankful if this generates interest in the unreleased works of the Master

Come August 4th, Kishore Kumar aficionados will indulge in discussing myriad aspects of the maverick who dabbled in most crafts of Hindi Films, but above all was the supreme playback. And songs which are likely to be invoked will be amongst the gems he has bequeathed for billions.

For eliciting melancholy, strains of ‘Chingari koi bhadke’ or ‘Kiska rasta dekhe’…the euphoria of frolic in ‘Main hoon jhumroo’ or ‘Ina mina dika’…the superlatively philosophical in ‘Zindagi ka safar’ or ‘Kuchh to log kahenge’. But search the hinges of the treasure chest, the inner lining of the box covered with the velvet timbre of his voice and one will find a glistening diamond here, a bloodshot ruby there; songs, which courtesy the music companies or the still born films to which they belong, never drifted in to plebian hearts and ears through records, tapes or CDs. The unreleased or not properly released gems of Kishore Kumar, on their own, can give a lot of his more popular numbers a run for their money.

Though handpicking unreleased beauties should have been relatively easy, reality throws up a different picture. And the three songs which come up after a lot of indecision probably vindicate our faith in the Underdog, the Unsung. The first of these also comes with an element of very pleasant, almost divine, surprise. For those who have savoured RD Burman-Asha Bhonsle’s Bengali Puja numbers, the popular ‘Phule gondho nei (1973)’might ring more than a musical bell; it might uncork the sparkle of the nostalgia of their respective decades. This, only till one chances upon the Hindi version of this song ‘Phulon ki zubaan khubsurat ho gayi’ from an untitled production of debatable lineage. The Bengali original is an Asha solo, but here Kishore Kumar joins to take it to hitherto unchartered heights of ecstasy. The song is better arranged, the lyrics are improved upon (the Achilles Heel of Bengali Puja Numbers from RD’s stable), the emoting is optimum- but if not for anything else the song stands out for the incredible entry which Kishore effects with his resonent baritone proclaiming ‘Aakaash koraa hai,aur chand kanwaaraa hai’. Though he goes on to play ideal foil to Asha’s delicious rendition, it surely has to be one of the greatest openings in a Hindi Film Song…unexpected, stunning, regal.

The second in the collection could contend to be the ultimate song in the minimalist tradition of composing. Very little accompaniment, a hint at slight percussions, more like muted heart beats of the song. And truly, ‘Akela hoon main is jaahaan mein..’lives; Kishore Kumar’s virgin voice from the late fifties takes care of that. Inspired by the theme of ‘River of no return’ and written and composed by himself for the unreleased “Neela Aasmaan”(1960), the song had been released around a decade ago in a double cassette by Amit Kumar without finding many takers then.
Kishore delivers this song so lucidly that the listener is left almost breathless. One can actually hear him pour out the solitude from the deepest recesses of his heart through the conduit of the refrain…O sticklers for the grandeur of simplicity, a must!

Finally, the third song - probably the brightest jewel of them all. Based on Raga Puriya Dhaneshree, Kishore composed this ghazal in D major scale, using chords in characteristic Kishoresque manner, defying the established norms of chord progression in the particular scale. And all this, in a matter of ten minutes while recording for the theme song of the film Pyar Ajnabi Hai (1980)- another shelved production starring himself and Leena. Much like isolated chapters of a rare manuscript, the song currently exists in two separate clippings of about 50 seconds each. But be warned - don’t hastily conclude anything about the impact of the song from its duration.50 seconds is a significant amount of time. Someone atop the WTC was planning an exotic weekend 50 seconds before the plane intervened. The baker at Pompeii was happily contemplating the shade of the loaf 50 seconds before Vesuvius burst open. In 50 seconds the hummingbird flaps its wings 3900 times and showcases the wonder of Nature. In 50 seconds, Sun’s rays cover 1/10th of their expedition to Earth in order to support photosynthesis or an even coat of tan.

For 50 seconds Junoon-e-ishq captures each and every spark of emotion created when the arrogance of persuasive love takes on the wall of stoicism.

As Potter mania grips the world, can’t help but listen in awe to this one true alumnus of Hogwarts School of Wizardry from Hindi Filmdom!!

A choice of 10 Kishore classics which did not have a proper release, in no particular order

1. Baaje baaje baaje re kahin bansuria – Suhana Geet – 1960 – composer – Kishore Kumar
2. Akela hun main is jahan mein – Neela Aasmaan (1958-1960) – composer – Kishore Kumar
3. Zindagi hai tarapna – Ramu to deewana hai (1960s) – composer -Chandra Hingorani
4. Junoon-e-ishq bhi kya sheh hai zamane mein – Pyar Ajnabi hai (1980) – composer – Kishore Kumar
5. Aaj mujhe jal jaane bhi do – Rehnuma (1970-73) – composer – Madan Mohan
6. Phoolon ki zuban – Untitled (recorded sometime between 1973-76) – composer – R D Burman
7. Zindagi ban jaati hai sargam – Laathi (1980s) – composer – R D Burman
8. Kaise dekhun meri aankhon ke- Bharosa (1980s) – composer – R D Burman
9. Lo shaam hui din doob gaya – Suhana Geet – 1960 – composer – Kishore Kumar
10. Zindagi hai hansna – Ek Ladki badnaam si (1980s) – composer – Bappi Lahiri

the tipsy tipsy me 

Pancham da.. as I perceived him

In the business of music, the ultimate merit in the eyes of peers is success. Everything else is secondary, if at all, relevant. Paradoxically, if Rahul Dev Burman, the best loved music composer of Bollywood ever inspires universal awe, admiration and nostalgia, it has more to do with the longevity of his compositions rather than sheer success. It is also the rediscovery of musical essence of the vast repertoire of melodies that did not do well during their times, mostly due to bad promotion.
Is there a key to the secret of RD's success? There are some obvious, facile answers. Like, he cared a lot for the situation, that he poured every ounce of his inspiration and creative energy into planning the movement of the song, that he knew how to best use the voices of Kishore and Asha, that he knew when exactly he needed the little extra from Lata or Manna Dey. But there was something more. RD could feel the need of the era. The early seventies was troubled times. Hippie Cult, Flower Power, Naxalite, Leftist, etc. were words that were no longer taboo. The common denominator was that the term 'youth' was growing in importance. RD, himself a rebel, understood the pulse of the youth. And that was his most coveted secret in the string of success he had in that period. As more and more films were being focussed on the youth, RD used this opportunity to compose with the young listener in mind. It was with this force that RD brought to our film music a new look, a new vitality, as a composer who understood Western harmony, Indian melody, recording technology and unexpressed sentiments of the youth. And in the process harped upon the basics of any creative pursuit: innovation. His thorough knowledge of both Indian classical music and Western chord system also came in handy in composing songs that were a mix of multiple ragas and chords. For example, Kuch to log kahenge from the film Amar Prem, uses the ragas Khamaj and Kalavati, while the progression is definitely chord based. Innovation was not restricted to composing the songs only. They extended to use of new instruments, recording technology, beat forms, composing without using the tabla, creation of special instruments to convey a specific effect in mind, capture natural sounds, and a lot many more. Who can forget the memorable banshee wails created specially by an instrument developed by RD for Gabbar's signature tune in Sholay?
Is there a key to RD's longevity? If one considers the fact that RD could compose an exceedingly soulful number like Aja piya tohe pyar doon (Lata in Baharon ke Sapne) where the entire rhythm has been maintained on an electric guitar and not use the tabla at all, way back in 1966, yes. As a composer, he was, in the opinion of many, light years ahead of his peers. Rahul Dev Burman's foremost desire when writing music was to express himself in a simple and unadulterated way. He regularly consulted his panel of assistants and musicians for genesis of ideas that could later be translated into complete songs. He believed in the concept of jamming, a term of common usage in Western music, and many of the tune and rhythm forms were the result of his jamming sessions. But in carving out the final output, he kept his own counsel and ultimately, like his father Sachin Dev, followed his own hunches and judgements.
Like any successful personality, he too plagiarised, but kept his unique stamp of authority over the number. Today, most of the originals may have been wiped off from memory, but the inspired numbers remain. His inspiration was not the commonly understood syndrome, 'copying the tune'. It extended to incorporation of different forms of tunes and rhythm patterns into his music. This stemmed mainly from his deep knowledge of jazz and Broadway/Off-Broadway based musicals. For example, he was the only Bombay composer to use the song as the medium of conversation, the basic technique of Hollywood musicals, for instance, in the song Suno, kaho (Aap Ki Kasam). Here, lyrics needn't be verbose, only basic conversation would be needed to be conveyed in a vibrant and colourful manner. This also reflected the changing attitude of the youth who had lesser time for churning out poetry in praise of a mole on their beloved's ankle. As a supplement to his preference for clarity, Pancham religiously avoided the kind of heavy orchestra, which often used to determine the clout of the composer. When a whole lot of upcoming composers were keen to emulate the number of musicians used by Naushad in Aan or Shankar Jaikishan in so many Raj Kapoor films, RD struck to the staid, modest rule laid by his father who insisted that the number of instruments should never outweigh the singers voice. His brand of listeners, RD knew, loved not only to hum his songs, but also considered them as a way of life. His intention was not to augment the turbulence affecting the listeners. Even his loudest and fastest songs had orchestration that was uncluttered and gave the numbers an unhurried feel.
For all the glory he had earned, RD was an introvert when it came to self-publicity. This resulted in his losing out on many prestigious ventures. Directors who dropped him without any tangible reason included greats like Ramesh Sippy and Shekhar Kapoor. Subhash Ghai had once assured him that they would work together. In reality, he never did. Yash Copra dropped him even after the grand success of Deewar. Manmohan Desai, having used RD for Aa Gale Lag Jaa, his best musical by a mile, never said a word in RD's favour in the future. But these were not isolated incidents. RD was in reality an inarticulate dipsomaniac whose world revolved around his music and his close circuit of friends. Even when he got cheated, he had no real clout in the Bombay film circle to voice his opinion, let alone bloat it.
His last years were rooted in disappointments that were directed at various levels, mainly at the way the music industry promoted non-talents for reasons other than music. Like every superstar, RD needed to be constantly reminded of his greatness, the lack of which forced him into a self-appointed seclusion. Sachin Bhowmick, his chum and confidante, summed it up as, "It was loneliness which killed him. Loneliness which is supposed to be the critical foe of heart patients."

That's me

Not inviting bloggers, passer-bys, netizens, priests, stoics, cry baby killers and juvenile delinquents, for that matter anybody. My blog is utterly useless. Certainly not an affair to remember, so if you want to peruse my blogs, do at entirely your own risk