Sureshkumar P. Sekar

Happy Birthday A R Rahman!
From the ARRchives - On "Naetru Aval Irundhal"

​It has been a week since this new A. R. Rahman song was released on iTunes. I heard it once. Only once. I couldn’t hear it again. I shouldn’t hear it again. I just can’t let this song play on a loop in the background while I’m doing something else. It is not that kind of song. This one demands a quiet ambience and my undivided attention. I have not been able to give that to this song. The world around me would not allow it.

Yet, I thought I’d listen to it now, maybe once, just once, on my way to work. I take a bus and I find myself a window seat. Outside the window is the city of Bangalore—India’s Silicon Valley. A commute by public transport in Bangalore is one through a barrage of sounds: buzzing bus engine; the whoosh of the passing vehicles; the incessant honking in the peak-hour traffic; the chitter-chatter of the fellow passengers; the effervescent voice of the radio jockey booming from the stereo system inside the bus, and a symphony or rather a cacophony of several other indistinct sounds emerging from invisible sources. Noise-cancelling headphone cancels little on Bangalore roads.

I relax, recline, wear my headphones, move my fingers over the click-wheel of my classic iPod. Tick, tick, tick. I find the song, press the button at the centre of the wheel, and enter the song’s universe.

The song begins. He sings first, then she whispers. Her voice husky, angelic, intimate; there’s moisture everywhere: in her tone and singing, in the dense backing strings and the soundscape. She sings as if she is speaking. Or rather, she speaks as if she is singing. She calls for him. It sounds both a command and a plea. He was kidnapped and is now being held hostage for ransom in a land far away. She wants him to come back. Before she completes singing the first three words, the driver of the bus I’m in applies a shuddering brake. Someone has tried to suddenly cross the road in front of the bus. The high-pitched screech of the tyres fills the deliberate stretches of silence between the three words she just sang. The jolt pushes my body forward and pulls me rudely out of the song and lobs me back into the real world. I switch off my iPod. I shouldn’t listen to this song. I shouldn’t listen to it now.

I reach my office, an air-conditioned space insulated from the noise of the world outside. But work has been hectic this week and it is going to be hectic today. I don’t think there will be time or space for music. I did a bit of coding, a bit of gossiping, a few emails, some conference calls and meetings, then I find myself doing nothing for a few minutes post lunch. I disappear from my desk. I grab my iPod and seek refuge in the toilet. And now creeps in the worst of all noises, the voice inside my head: it screams thoughts related to work. I tick the boxes on a virtual checklist in my mind. I think about the status reports I am yet to prepare, time sheets I have to fill, and the piece of code I have to peer-review before the end of the day. Meanwhile, the song’s been playing on loop, with me paying no attention to it. I gather myself. I sit up straight, take a deep breath, and close my eyes. The song calms my mind, slowly takes me in. The cloud of thoughts clear. Finally, in the toilet, I listen of the song, pay attention to some of its sonic details, but only to some of it.

I hear these: the orchestration is dense, there are layers upon layers of instruments, and yet the whole somehow feels sparse—instruments floating as cotton clouds around the delicate main melody. The song arrives at that line where the poetry sets a fantastical scene of romance: a sky that has a hundred moons and a flock of bluebirds flying everywhere. It is in here the contour of the melody reaches its romantic summit. The song is pivoted at this peak, and throughout its length, all else in the song ascend and descend towards and away from it. The song smoothly ebbs and flows and I ebb and flow along with it. The man is now singing. He is requesting the vast skies to bring back the past, bring back the time they spent together, bring that time back to here and now. Then there is a pause. Stillness. Silence. A sudden burst of a jarring, comical jazz tune disrupts the silence. It is my mobile ringtone. My project manager is calling. I answer. He wants me to send the weekly status report immediately. I run to my desk. I couldn’t listen to the song again at work. I must wait till this evening, wait until I reach home.

A few hours later, I’m home. I rush to my room. Change my clothes. I’m getting ready to sit with the song for a while. I have big Bose speakers in my room, but I can’t play the song aloud on those. The windows are open, and the landlord is living downstairs. They may not like the loudness. But I can’t close the windows either. It’s summer. It’s too hot inside. I need some fresh air. The Apple earphones too are of no use, because the sound of the ceiling fan sneaks through the gap between my ears and the earpiece; it is an unwelcome accompaniment to the song. So, I go to the terrace. There is no one here. There are a few stinging mosquitoes, but that is only a small inconvenience I must bear to listen to this song in solitude for a few minutes before I go to bed.

It is still warm outside. I hear the rustle of the leaves; a slight breeze, but it has no effect on the sweat pearling on my forehead. I return to music; the vroom of the vehicles on the street whizzing past our house stabs the silences in the song a few times. I settle for a corner far from the street and sit on the rough, corrugated terrace floor. I play the song on my iPod, plug in my earpiece and focus hard.

I hear the celestial chorus. I hear those thin, sparkling bell strokes. A quiet piano riff is omnipresent and is pecking at the cheeks of the vocal melody. The sprinklings of accordion pieces around the melody evoke a dreamy, languid aura. The man sings. Her voice is sweet as honey, he says, and the strings of sarangi respond and agree with him. The strings section whirl and stir, soar and fall, flutter and float underneath throughout the song. I hear them. I hear them all. However, something’s amiss. It doesn’t seem enough. I want to go further and deeper. I want to absorb the absolute silence pregnant with all the varied sounds. I want to hear those nanoseconds of silences whence many little worlds of the universe of the song are born.
I can’t wait to watch the film this song features in in a controlled environment of a cinema theatre. The entire space will be filled only with the sounds and silences of the song. To quash the noise of the song’s visuals, I will close my eyes the moment the song starts to play. I don’t want my mind to process any new data apart from that of the sound of music and the music of silence. The film’s release, however, is a few months away. I can’t wait that long.

I decide to go home the following weekend, to my parents, to Salem, which is five hours by bus from Bangalore. In Salem, I could get the space and time the song deserves.

Friday night. I board a semi-sleeper air-conditioned bus from Bangalore to Salem. The in-bus entertainment is already on; a Tamil film is playing on a large LCD television screen dangling from the roof next to the driver’s seat. The television is connected to multiple speakers placed in the overhead baggage space that runs on both sides along the length of the bus. The atonal voice of the film’s hero espousing his ideologies is echoing inside the bus; it is the worst sonic accompaniment the song could ever have. I wear the earpiece and try to listen to the song, but I couldn’t. It feels disrespectful to hear the song in this environment; I switch off.

I reach home at around midnight. My mother insists that I eat something. I eat something. I go to bed. I remove the batteries from the wall clock in the room so that its ticking sound doesn’t become a dissonant metronome to the song. At last, I get to hear the song in an ambience I wanted.

The neighbourhood is quiet and asleep, except for the chirp of a little lizard crawling on the walls of my room. I switch off the ceiling fan and turn on the air-conditioner; AC’s hum, a constant, unwavering buzz, much quieter and less harsh compared to the fan’s whirr. I push the earpiece as tight as possible into my ears. I play the song and listen mindfully for an hour and listen more in a quasi-sleep state for another hour. I hear at once all the intricate instrumental layers of the song I gathered in parts over the past week.

I don’t know when I fell asleep. I wake up. I find the earphone cable wound around my neck. I scratch my left cheek to find a sleep mark the size of the thickness of the earphone cable. The song is still playing on my iPod.

I have heard the song. Or have I? I wish I could mute this universe once, just once for five minutes, so I could listen to those sharp nodes of silence that precedes the sound. Or, better yet, someone fit me into a space suit with this song and toss me into the cosmos.

Oh.. also 30 years of Kaadhalukku Mariyaadhai! My more recent work on the film's score is a publication in a Turkish academic journal - an abstract audiovisual piece One film, two remakes, three composers and an article.

“…This video essay is a comparative study, analysing how three different composers have musically delivered tension, emotion, and drama in three different films made from the same story and screenplay. Aniyathipravu (1997) in Malayalam is the original film; Kaadhalukku Mairyaadhai (1997) in Tamil and Doli Saja Ke Rakhna (1998) in Hindi are the two remakes of the original Malayalam film. In my blogpost, I embedded within the written essay multiple videos, each video is a compilation of a specific moment from the three films. At the time, when I was compiling the clips from multiple films on Windows Movie Maker, when I was mixing the score from one film with the visuals of another, I did not know that I was making some sort of a fragmented video essay. I had not even heard of the term video essay. I was appropriating the sources, replacing the score, compiling the manipulated clips into a sort of a simple supercut. I understood more about music in films in the process of making it; when you place a piece of music over the visuals, you place it so that it precisely begins at a certain frame, and while doing so you realise how if you placed it a few seconds/frames before or few seconds/frames later, everything that follows fall out of sync and that this lack of synchronicity could be immediately perceived. […] Through the written-word part of the blogpost I explicitly communicated my analysis. There is no ambiguity about my arguments. Also, most of the readers/viewers were already familiar with the films. If I ever make a voiceover-less video essay for those who are already familiar with these films, the narrative structure of the video essay would be entirely different. This video essay, on the other hand, is an experiment; it is an attempt to see if this voiceover-less audiovisual adaptation of my blogpost is as engaging and educating to a viewer who is not familiar with Indian films, or at least with the films that are the subjects here. I have not provided any context in the video essay. If you are reading this after watching this video essay, here is a simple synopsis: The film(s) is a typical Indian romance drama with a surprise at the end. Boy meets girl; love at first sight; warring families, and they do not approve; the couple elope; then, they decide to part ways because they do not want to hurt their family; immediately after she returns, the girl gets betrothed to another guy chosen by her family; a week before her wedding, the ex-boyfriend and his family get an opportunity to visit the girl’s place; the anger and animosity between the families seem to have simmered down; then, the boy meets the girl again in this moment you see in the video essay, and then finally comes the surprise at the end, which I have not included in the video essay. I always wondered if practitioners of videographic criticism consider their audiences and the audiences’ familiarity or lack thereof with the film or media object they are working with. If they do consider, it would be interesting to understand what aesthetic and narrative choices they make so that their work is intelligible and interesting to those who are totally unfamiliar with the footage they are working with. This is what I struggled with the most when making this video essay. I have made some narrative choices to make it interesting and engaging to those who are unfamiliar with these films or Indian films. I do not know if I have been successful.”

Rockstar album review I wrote 15 years ago, a day or two after the CD was released...

That one can never predict how an A. R. Rahman melody would flow in a song is common knowledge, but even by Rahman’s standards, the flow of the melody in “Phir Se Udd Chala” is stunning. There is no groove to groove to. There is no hook line to hook on to. Not a single phrase unfolds as you would expect it to. There is no comfort for a listener here, only twists and turns, surprises and more surprises. Rahman does give you a hook at some point (“Tu too du”), but by the time you catch it and prepare to settle, the song ends. But, of course, to give us some comfort, there is that riff played on the mandolin/rubab that Rahman introduces right at the beginning, which goes on a loop in the background throughout the song. That is how A. R. Rahman, even when experimenting with melodic structures and patterns, does not completely alienate the listeners.

Who else but A. R. Rahman could have the audacity to use those zany, delicately stacked “Ya Ya Ya” phrases as the sing-along phrase of a rock song in “Jo Bhi Mein”. I cannot yet hum that phrase while I am not listening to the song. Rahman does not leave even the format of the qawwali (“Kun Faya Kun”) untouched. Yet, the deviations in the structure of the song happen not at Rahman’s whim in this song; they seem to have emerged from the demands of the situation in the film. Rahman whips up a divine fervour in every Sufi-qawwali composition in the way only he can. Rahman sound, here, is in the melody. In my opinion, since Minsara Kanavu, the meaning of “Rahman sound” has changed. Rahman sound, now, is not characterized by dense layers of synth loops. Even when he decides to build a soundscape with synth loops, there is no one who does it in the way he does—sample “Aaj Dil” from Blue.

These forever-revealing layers in Rahman’s soundscape are now constructed using acoustic instruments, like he does so brilliantly in the groovy “Hawa Hawa” with multiple layers of all that is tango. The contour of the main melody in the “Hawa Hawa” song has not yet revealed itself entirely to me, but I am instantly hooked and it is not just because of the “Hawa Hawa” hook. The melody, with its short phrases and sudden pauses, has an infectious charm despite the zillion turns it takes on its course. And that “Tango for Taj” is a jaw-dropping amalgamation of Argentinian tango and Mughal music. The other instrumental track “The Dichotomy of Fame” with the jugalbandhi of Balesh’s shehnai and Kabuli’s guitar has a familiar template—“Yeh Jo Des Hai Tera” instrumental version from Swades.

With just one guitar refrain, Rahman Rahmanises even a simple, conventional Punjabi melody (“Katiya Karoon”). When that guitar refrain looms large in volume, in the final act of the song, it is comforting; you feel positive, feel everything is alright in the world at this moment. Nothing could explain Rahman’s process of Rahmanising a song better than the incredibly funny and funky “Sheher Mein”. A composer (Is it Anu Malik?) is teaching a song to the singer, and what the singer does with the basic melody that is given to him is what Rahman does to turn even the most conventional melody into his own.

Have you been longing for a vintage 90s A. R. Rahman song? Then, “Tum Ko” (or “Tum Ho”) is for you. The haunting main motif (Aaaaaaaaaah Aaha Haaha), pristine piano pieces, flute, tinkle bells, breezy strings and soft synth pads come together to take us to a romantic wonderland far away. Want more? There is another version of the song that uses the dulcet registers of Kavita Subramaniam’s voice to its advantage, and with even more enchanting layers of sarangi and tabla.

Rahman’s soundtracks have always been eclectic. I thought Imtiaz Ali would finally make Rahman stick to one genre for the entire soundtrack. But he didn’t. Rockstar is amazingly eclectic. Even within rock, all the rock songs in Rockstar are entirely different from each other.

A. R. Rahman has always maintained that his music is a collective effort, and that his job is to musically realise a director’s vision. Imtiaz Ali’s vision has been triumphantly realised by Rahman in the Rockstar soundtrack. The music, though enjoyable on its own, is connected to the film, which is why you hear a voice whispering the “Tum Ko” melody in a layer under Orianthi Panagaris’s guitar interludes in “Sadda Haq”. A. R. Rahman has come a long way as a “movie” music composer, and that is why he is the darling of all great Indian filmmakers, and he would remain so. Is there any other Indian composer who has remained the most sought after by most of the Indian filmmakers (whose films matter), even in his 20th year in business?

(This is an edited version of my original blogpost, parts of which are too embarrassing for me to read now, to be honest)

A. R. Rahman and Hans Zimmer’s wall-to-wall score in Nitesh Tiwari’s Ramayana (2026) is a seamless combination of the composers’ individual styles. More a brassy, bombastic score than one brimming with bhakti rasa (something the film isn’t going for either), though. The background score works incredibly well within the film and would be thoroughly entertaining as an extra-filmic listening experience once the original soundtrack album is released. There are at least 40 different musical cues in the score. Those who are familiar with the composers’ works can easily hear who composed what in the score. There are several cues that are entirely A. R. Rahman, some entirely Hans Zimmer, and some other cues where Zimmer and Rahman’s layers are in perfect harmony—for example, the Indian electric violin parts that find their space in between and over the phrases composed by Zimmer for Ram (can be heard in the track “Rama Theme”).

All the electric violin parts heard throughout the film (used for Dashanan’s Tapasya, Indra’s dive into the deep ocean, Bharat Milap sequence) are by A. R. Rahman. This is a brilliant choice; the instrument’s timbre is modest and muted compared to the traditional violin or sarangi (typically used in emotional sequences in such films) that even in high registers it doesn’t squeal, which might sound sappy and excessive to a Western audience (and a cello might sound too low and Western), and so it offers a perfect sonic solution for what the film is attempting here—to appeal to both Indian and international audiences. The distinct tone of this instrument is most pronounced in the Vanvas theme that is heard in the film when Ram, Sita, and Lakshman bid adieu to Dasarath and Kaikeyi in the throne room.

A. R. Rahman's rousing cry for Ram makes a moment in the leaving-for-exile episode pivotal (the film should have cut to intermission immediately after this episode). The film by itself does not earn the emotion an audience member might feel at this moment; the audiences’ past encounters with the story could do it instead, and A. R. Rahman’s high cosmic wail matches the register of this emotion. The visual in this sequence looks stunning on the big screen—the carriage lit in golden yellow passing through a sea of darkness, almost a painting.

Equally visually stunning is the moment when Ram meets Sita for the first time, a moment made all the more glorious by Rahman’s music. The ascending strings as Sita approaches the temple, the musicality of the Sanskrit verses themselves, the meditative melody the verses are set to, the musical conversation between male and female voices as Ram and Sita exchange glances, the rousing orchestral coda as Sita leaves—the spatio-temporal congruence and the emotional congruence between the music and the moving image in this sequence are magical.

There are several other cues that are entirely A. R. Rahman: a sweet female solo for Surpanakha who is now smitten by Ram; the music that plays in the Swayamvar sequence (music heard after Ram picks the bow is more Zimmer, a variation of the Rama theme)—the warm, whimsical, bouncy strings we hear as men fail to lift the bow (reminded me of the track “Shark” from Couples Retreat and the strings heard throughout the The Hundred-Foot Journey score); the orchestral version of the song "Jai Jai Ram" is played a few times in the film—when Dasarath makes Ram wear his crown and when a forest blooms and comes to life after Ram kills the giants whose spell the forest was under. While the melody of “Dharti hai ambar” is A. R. Rahman, the accompanying deafeningly gargantuan chorus and orchestral layers are typical Zimmer. In other moments, where there is chorus singing Sanskrit verses, for example, in the sequences where Ram fights the giants in the forest, the music is largely Rahman, even if entirely orchestral.

Ram and Ravan get distinct leitmotifs, the orchestral variations of which are heard throughout the film. The four-note Ravan motif is Zimmer, but there is a secondary theme, a low, grunting, rumbling male choir (singing some non-linguistic syllables) which is clearly Rahman and sounds derived from the track “Ravana Thandav.” And the thandav track is thunderous and effective within the film. The version played in the film’s prologue is much longer, with Zimmer’s Ravan theme dubbed over Rahman’s densely layered percussive Indian parts. This opening prologue is made all the more breathtaking by the accompanying score to which both Rahman and Zimmer seem to have contributed equally. There are several more interesting musical cues in the score. I can’t wait to listen to the original soundtrack album. Might watch the film again just to hear the score. For now, I’ll leave you with the beautiful Vanvas theme.

Chinmayi’s version of Judi Jodi is officially out

From Ramayana Audio launch event

youtu.be/tkptiob8iKw?is…