One of the most captivating (albeit secondary) aspects of listening to classical music performances live is getting to hear how the audience responds. From soberly appreciative, reverential murmurs, to corroborative and approving ‘haans’ on the sama, to more raucous wah-wahs and kya-baat-hais, music audiences in both Hindustani and Carnatic music traditions are a varied lot.
In Maharashtra, you hear the ‘aha-ha-ha’; in the South you hear a kind of tongue clicking, tut-tut-tut, that’s usually a pan-Indian sound of regret or commiseration; but in the music room becomes an expression of agony-ecstasy, as if the listener is saying, ‘you’re slaying me, man’. Another shout-out word is a heartfelt ‘Jiyo!’ There are also the ‘once-mores’, and, if the performer signalled that he or she was done, one once heard the quaint ‘stay, stay, I say stay’ in Chembur and Bombay Carnatic music circles long ago.
Sometimes, in recordings of Mallikarjun Mansoor or Kumar Gandharva or other greats, you hear the audience expressing anticipation, surprise, delight as they are carried along on the singer’s journey. At the end of a particularly long, sweet and mesmeric taan, the singer too half-laughs — as delighted as his listeners. At times, the audience does a small sing-along, of the last few words of the composition. A kind of Indian auditory version of the Mexican wave.
Inward mode
When you see photographs of these audiences of yore, externally they look quite sober, dressed simply, sitting formally, but they are all ‘tripping’ inwardly, going by what you hear in recordings. ‘Inwardly’ is the operative word here. This seemed a kind of code, that no one showed appreciation in any big physical way, except for nods and sways and limited hand gestures.
Most seasoned musicians have a good sense of the audiences in different towns — ranging from the pure to the pretentious. Pune was once hailed as something of a benchmark — audiences here were seen as discerning, not very demonstrative, but deeply appreciative and disciplined. On a cold winter’s late-night concert long ago, at the Sawai Gandharva Festival, Vidushi N. Rajam praised Pune audiences. The electricity had gone off mid-performance, she kept playing, and the audience kept listening without any sign of irritation or restlessness at the mike going off. When the power came back, Rajam said that she had heard about the legendary Pune audiences, but that she had witnessed it for herself that day.
This was, of course, in the BC or Before Cellphones era. Today, audiences have to be enjoined several times to switch off phones, not record the performance, not let screens flash as they text. At the large sammelans, the audience is a shifting sea of humanity. Continuous trips to food stalls, restrooms, texting, sibilant whispers. There are also the older people, endlessly wearing or folding shawls, opening or closing water bottles. It is an age of restlessness.
The novelist is a counsellor and music lover who will take readers on a ramble through the Alladin’s cave of Indian music.