The high-volume kombu heralds a fresh page or chapter in Kerala’s traditional mega orchestral concerts. Typically, such phrases from the wind instrument retreat on a sustained note. Chengamanad Appu Nair personified this aesthetic essence through the seven decades of his career; only his death was abrupt.
The tall man held aloft the C-shaped horn and blew into it with practised ease. He led with panache a line-up mandated to add resonance to certain passages. The unhurried music, filtered through patterned beats, would announce an impending gain of momentum — often subtle, occasionally stark. Such extra-loud harbingers embellish panchavadyam and melam in the classical yet popular temple ensembles that span two to four hours.
Much like the smooth curve of the metallic kombu, Nair arched gracefully above his colleagues. He inspired youngsters and won the trust of the anchor drummers of the timila or chenda who face the caparisoned elephants. Be it festivities at day or night, the kombu row guaranteed a wholesome treat when Nair stood in the middle.
Until the last ‘pooram season,’ that is. The post-Onam revelry slackened this summer, following the Covid outbreak in mid-March. Then, this month, Nair, 85, died of cancer at a hospital near his residence off Angamaly in Ernakulam district. The curtains fell suddenly on a life steeped in disciplined routine and dedicated rigour.
Ilanjithara Melam, part of the Thrissur Pooram festival | Photo Credit: K.K.NAJEEB
Chenda maestro Peruvanam Kuttan Marar recalls Nair’s capability to adapt to changing times without compromising on the basics. “If the melam is panchari (of six beats and its multiples), the supporting kombu can afford to enter some 15 minutes after the start. But Nair would join us right from ‘go’ (at extremely slow pace) till the frenzied climax,” says the Padma awardee Merar. “Over the past 50 years, he succeeded in popularising the bassy baari variant of the kombu in place of the relatively shrill timiri.”
Odakkali Murali, who is widely regarded as the flag bearer of the Nayathode school of kombu vitalised by Nair (1935-2020), explains his guru’s eclecticism. “Our style has elements from Machad,” says the disciple, referring to the heritage village near Wadakanchery, 20 km north of Kerala’s cultural capital of Thrissur. “My teacher explored the possibilities of improvisations. That expanded the frontiers of the kombu pattu.”
The ‘pattu’ is a kombu-centric concert lasting around 45 minutes. Customarily preceding the melam, the main player blows phrases that are then replicated by artistes flanking him. As the ilathalam cymbals keep time, the three-piece kombu, with no holes, demands much lung power to conjure up formulations based on a range of long tala cycles.
This conventional item found an altered presentation from the mid-1970s onwards. That was when the horizontal maddalam was introduced opposite the kombu men. Nair’s collaboration with top percussionist Kalamandalam Sankara Warrier won appreciation. “We retrieved a vintage system that was waning in north Malabar. Today, it is back in some places,” notes Warrier, hailing Nair, who went on to receive the government’s coveted Pallavur Puraskaram among others.
The artiste’s father, Edayakudi Narayanan Nair, was his first guru. The initial lessons equipped Appu to apprentice at the Mahadeva temple in nearby Chengamanad beside the Periyar river.
The teenager pursued higher studies under Vypeen Raman Nair, who used to guide Appu at festivals far and near. A break came at one such venue, where timila exponent Kuzhur Narayana Marar noticed his talent and chose Nair for row panchavadyam.
“There was no looking back for him after that,” says frontline timila player Chottanikkara Subhash. “Some people are benign captains by nature. Appu Nair with the kombu was one such person.”
Sprightliness apart, the master entertained no nonsense, points out Kodakara Ramesh, general secretary of the Kerala Kshethra Vadyakala Academy founded in 1990. “A patron of our organisation for the uplift of temple artistes, Nair was a founder-member. At meetings, he would deftly resolve issues, countering unreasonable criticisms with warmth,” he adds.
Nair was no different in the family. His day would begin before dawn, followed by a visit to the local shrine, minimal food, evening walk and dusk-time prayers. “In 2015, he gave us special classes, which continued almost till his death on July 4,” says Rahul Kochery, 25, a grandson of Nair.
“Grandpa was strict, though he never scolded us,” chips in Rahul’s brother Ranjith. The exercise began after panchavadyam enthusiast Kalady Krishna Iyer prompted Nair to ensure the household endured its legacy. Today, the two siblings are acknowledged artistes.
His kombu, surfing on just the three octaves of sa-pa-sa, could croon umpteen ornamentations. “Nothing is small,” Nair used to say with a broad smile.