Interesting. What too me by surprise though was his reference to Dil Se Re as an "unstaisfying number" *Its opening fifty seconds are reminiscent in tone of Anwar's "Symphony in Blue", but "Behne Do" then veers back into a more traditional direction (this track is about transporting love; not the victim of society at Anwar's core), combining a conventional tune-structure with the mood of "Dil Se Re" (Dil Se). Over a decade on from that unsatisfying number, though, Rahman is now more adept at composing testimonials to hopelessly overwrought desi love in a semi-Western orchestral setting. * On Wed, May 5, 2010 at 9:01 AM, Gopal Srinivasan <[email protected]>wrote:
> > > http://qalandari.blogspot.com/2010/04/music-review-raavan-hindi-2010.html > Music Review: RAAVAN (Hindi; > 2010)<http://qalandari.blogspot.com/2010/04/music-review-raavan-hindi-2010.html> > > <http://www.abhishekbachchan.org/gallery/albums/movies/ravana/stills/raavanstills0028.jpg> > > > The music of "Raavan" -- supposedly a modern day re-telling of The Ramayana > -- wasn't what I was expecting. Instead of a self-contained album confining > itself to the world of the film like several other collaborations between > composer A.R. Rahman and director Mani Rathnam (such as "Alai Payuthey", > "Yuva", or "Kannathil Muthamittal"), this album hearkens to the music of the > greatest Rathnam film of all, "Iruvar", in its anthologizing of almost an > entire film music tradition. But whereas Rehman's mode in "Iruvar" was > history, with each song representing a different Tamil film era (Rehman's > genius ensuring that none of the songs seemed derivative or stale, as merely > nostalgic numbers would have), the "Raavan" album cannot imagine such > continuity: the Hindi film musical tradition is here, but in shards as it > were. The cumulative effect of the album is thus somewhat disorienting, as > musical moments from Bollywood's past -- a 1990s song here, a Punjabi beat > there, a tapori jig elsewhere, even strains reminiscent of some who have > followed in Rahman's wake, such as Mithoon -- occur when least expected. > Fitting: for nothing so linear as chronology (even where history is > refracted through Rathnam's eye) makes sense in the realm of myth (and the > power of myth), even if, in the case of Rathnam's Ramayana, by virtue of > being a contemporary tale, the myth is itself is heir to several > histories... > > The first song on the CD, "Beera", would have been more at home in "Yuva" > than at least one song in that Rahman/Rathnam/Abhishek Bachchan film (think > of "Kabhi Neem Neem"): the soaring, clean instrumentation, the in-your-face > lyrics, the urban vibe (that is to say, not music targeted at the > self-consciously urbane, but music that takes its bustle and restlessness > from cities) that was practically invented in Hindi and Tamil cinema by > Rahman -- "Beera" shows that six years on, the Master still has it, and he > doesn't need to repeat himself to show it. Gulzar's lyrics owe more than a > few debts to his earlier work on the title song of "Omkara", but musically > the two are as different as can be; and if the lyrics of "Beera" are nowhere > near the equals of those in the earlier song in terms of epic grandeur and > the sort of myth-making this sort of "hero" song cries out for (although > Gulzar shrewdly uses the word "Beera" ("brave"; or "warrior") as a refrain > for entire lines of song, almost seeking to obviate the need for any other > poetry), musically the solid and assured "Omkara" cannot match "Beera" in > fleetness of foot or deft touch. And if this emphasis on charm seems a bit > incongruous in a film named after Hinduism's most famous villain (or, from > the perspective of Dravidian nationalists, its most vilified hero), perhaps > it tells us something about the film: virtually all of the album's > quintessential "hero" songs are lighter, more upbeat, than its dark, fretful > love songs. A quibble: at just a shade over three minutes, I wish it were > longer -- Keerthi Prakash, Vijay Prakash, Mustafa, and Rahman's vocals > didn't begin to satisfy me, giving this song the air of a tease. > > Its opening fifty seconds are reminiscent in tone of Anwar's "Symphony in > Blue", but "Behne Do" then veers back into a more traditional direction > (this track is about transporting love; not the victim of society at Anwar's > core), combining a conventional tune-structure with the mood of "Dil Se Re" > (Dil Se). Over a decade on from that unsatisfying number, though, Rahman is > now more adept at composing testimonials to hopelessly overwrought desi love > in a semi-Western orchestral setting. Think of it as the frontier between > "Dil Se Re" and "Satrangi" from the same film (certainly singers Mohammad > Irfan and Karthik seem to think so, with their Sonu Nigam-inspired vocals) > -- while I doubt "Behne Do" will ever rise to the level of the best neo-Sufi > love song in Bollywood history, Rahman's integration of the Western > orchestration into a completely Indian emotional landscape bodes well (in > the past, his attempts along these lines have more often than not been > unsuccessful). Ultimately, though, the song, splendid in itself (except for > the fact that not for the first or last time in the album, Rahman relegates > his own vocals to the background), suffers from the presence of "Ranjha > Ranjha" in the same album, almost as if two different attempts at fulfilling > director Mani Rathnam's brief have been preserved in the same album. "Behne > De" isn't completely subsumed by the later song's spell, but what is its own > is poorer. > > With respect to "Thok de Kili" a real pity that the album's most > politically daring lyrics -- turning on childish rhymes between nails > (killi), a common Indian street game (gilli), and of course, the national > capital (in lines reminiscent of the 1857 battle-cry "Delhi chalo!", itself > appropriated decades later by Subhash Chandra Bose for his rebel Indian > National Army) -- should be housed in the least impressive musical number. > Its certainly early days for me and this song yet, and it is perhaps the > most inaccessible (and deceptively so) of the album's songs. But while the > instrumental portions have a chocolate velocity to them that is hard to > resist, the vocal portions (by Am'nico, Sukhvinder Singh, and Rahman > himself, although one is hard-pressed to make out anyone but Singh) drone on > without getting anywhere. Gulzar's daring appropriation of the rebel trope > for some of contemporary India's least popular political militants > (Abhishek's "Raavan" character has long been rumored to have Naxalite > antecedents; the stinging criticisms of Delhi's neglect, and references to > the color red, appear to provide confirmation), deserved better. I'm curious > to see if the Tamil version will showcase this song's music to greater > advantage. > > The folly inherent in predicting which number in a Rahman album is going to > stand the test of time in my iPod playlists is not going to prevent me from > nominating "*Ranjha Ranjha*" as my favorite song from this album. Rekha > Bharadwaj's chorus-refrain is addictively catchy, but insistently and > urgently so, and no less mournful for it -- a worthy metonym for a song that > re-treads old ground about love being both blessing and curse, loss of > identity and derangement, slave and master, and -- not coincidentally given > Raavan's theme -- kidnapper and captive. Thanks to Gulzar, who is at his > best where, as here, he borrows bits of folk songs and poetry to use as a > springboard, the lyrics are that rarest of things in Hindi romantic numbers: > fresh. The song's urgency -- devoid of aggression -- is crucial in rescuing > the song from the merely conventional, far removed from the strains (too > familiar to place with precision, in too unfamiliar a setting to be placed), > left over from other songs, other musical moments wafting in and out of this > seductive yet unsettled number. Who knew that a khichdi everything from > Nadeem-Shravan's mediocrity (often by means of Javed Ali's callow-sounding > voice); Sufi-kitsch the Bhatts specialize in; the generic urban sound of > countless "male bonding" songs; held together by the promise of intimacy > always suggested by Rekha Bharadwaj's voice; could combine to yield an > ambience so compelling? > > I'm not a huge fan of Rahman's very slow Hindi numbers, but "Khili Re" is > the way Goldilocks would have liked it: just right. Rahman gets it right, > first, by using a female solo (most of his slow misfires are male solos, > such as Bombay's "Tu Hi Re" (Hindi)/ "Uyire" (Tamil); and second, by keeping > things simple for the first minute and a half with restrained > instrumentation accompanying Reena Bhardwaj's delicate voice. Just when you > begin to think the song might have trouble sustaining interest over five > minutes, tabla beats (of a decidedly traditional dance bent) break into the > song, inflecting this song with a structure and balance it might not > otherwise have had, even after it has returned to Bharadwaj's vocals. Over > all, the purity of this song is reminiscent of some of Rahman's earliest > works (such as "Dil Hai Chota Sa" from "Roja"; or "Karuthamma"), and while > it is too polished to completely blend in with that company, it is > heartening to encounter Rahman's continued readiness to compose work in a > decidedly minor vein, especially nowadays, when the combination of the Oscar > for "Slumdog Millionaire" and the fact that (unlike in Tamil, as even the > far-from-great Vinaithaandi Varuvaaya will attest), he makes music in > Hindi mostly for Big Films, threatens the mellower pleasures his music > affords. > > "Kata Kata Bechaara Bakra" has to be the most rambunctious, fun, Rahman > number in quite some time, a wedding-song that reminds the audience there > was one (far more lewd) in the album that brought Rahman India-wide renown > ("Rukmini Rukmi" from Roja). Despite all the throwback fun -- the backup > vocals, the percussion, and the speed all might have been transposed from > the era when Rahman unleased *Kathalan *on us, while the lyrics are clear > kin to those in "September Maatham" (Alai Payuthey)/ "Chori pe Chori" > (Saathiya) -- this song is not fluff. In any film that purports to engage > with the Ramayana, the question of marriage has to loom large; and while I > don't know if this song is set at the wedding of the purported Ram and > Sita-characters, the conch shell-sounds that punctuate this track never > allowed me to forget that this film is supposed to re-imagine an epic, that > something cosmic is in the air. That extra dimension, unncessary in the > analogous songs from Roja or Alai Payuthey, is also expressed in Ila Arun's > vocals, which take this song into a more traditional (and surprising) place, > the North Indian "household" women's songs that are now virtually extinct in > urban India (but not, apparently, for Rahman, whose "Genda Phool" (Delhi-6) > is also in this vein). In a little over five minutes, distinct Indian spaces > -- the urban South, the North, and the western deserts it is impossible not > to think of when confronted with Arun's voice -- bubble up and vanish. This > song (like its mythical progenitor) has geography on its mind. [My one > reservation: while my non-existent grasp of Tamil will mean that I'll miss > Gulzar's lyrics in the Tamil version, I can't help feeling that language's > more definite consonants and springy rhythm will do greater justice to the > mood of this number than Gulzar's playful lyrics; I mean, could "Kummi > Aaadi" (Sillunu Oru Kaadal) have been nearly as much fun in any other > language?] > > >
