RockOm

By Tom Crenshaw for RockOm.net

In music, it is said that the master first learns the fundamentals, then learns to play with music, and finally surrenders to let music play through him. This adage was very much evident during Ustad Zakir Hussain and Pandit Shivkumar Sharma’s performance at the Lucas Theater on Wednesday, March 31 in Savannah, Georgia as part of the world renowned Savannah Music Festival. For more than two hours these two revered masters of their instruments- Hussain, the tabla and Sharma, the Santoor- held the audience mesmerized and in one spirit as they played their way through both Indian classical and folk songs.

The evening began with a standing ovation from the audience as both musicians took the stage. Both then sat slowly with reverence to their undertaking, crossing their legs in traditional fashion. Pandit Sharma, born in Jammu, India is the undisputed master on santoor (Sharma began his career on tabla so naturally knows how to react to what a tabla player is doing, making this is a perfect pairing with Hussain) and is one of India’s most honored film composers. Sharma then began the process of delicately tuning his instrument. The santoor is akin to a hammer dulcimer as we know it in the western world and consists of as few as 24 to more than 100 strings. Sharma’s tuning of his instrument took a few minutes. As he tapped the many strings with two thin, intricately carved wooden mallets and adjusted the pitch, the audience was silent with wonder and anticipation. Hussain sat patiently by Sharma’s side, eyes closed, occasionally stretching his fingers as he prepared his hands and mind for the performance.

The first song of the evening was a northern Indian or Hindustani classical raag. Raag is defined in the Sanskrit dictionary as "the act of coloring or dyeing". In music, this description applies to the impressions of melodic sounds on both the artists and listeners. A raag consists of both mandatory and discretionary rules governing the melodic movements of notes within a performance such as certain specific notes, order of ascending and descending, octave emphasis, pacing between notes, and even the time of day and/or season when the raag may be performed. This is all done to invoke the emotions of the raag for highest impact on the mental and emotional state of the performer and listener. Sharma’s santoor delicately sang with alternating plucks and strokes, slowly setting the mood and foundation of the raag so that later the music would have wings to fly. Once Sharma had set the tone for the raag and improvised sufficiently to establish roots he began preparing for Hussain to join him on the tabla by adjusting and increasing the rhythm.

Ustad Hussain enters the song establishing the taal. Just as the ‘note’ is the basis of the melodic component of music, the taal is established early on by setting a matching pace to the melodic performer, thus providing the rhythmic foundation for the melodic improvisation. Born in Mumbai, Hussain began playing at 12. He is a two time Grammy award winner (2009 is his most recent Grammy) and has composed for, and recorded with, some of the top names in all genres of Western music, including members of The Grateful Dead, George Harrison, Yo Yo Ma, Bela Fleck, Edgar Meyer and John McLaughlin. He has composed for films (his is the music you hear in the soundtrack to the movie Apocalypse Now) and for the 1996 Olympic Games. His father was Ustad Alla Rakha, the tabla player who worked with sitar master Ravi Shankar for more than 20 years, including the groundbreaking performances at the Monterey Pop Festival and the Concert for Bangladesh.

What unfolded over the course of the next two hours is beyond words; I can only try and describe the wave of emotions pouring through me as the music played out onstage and into the audience. My finest written words would forever fail to do justice. Yes, hearing is the best manner of enjoying the unfolding of improvisational musical mastery but one can gain an entire new insight into the mystical and spiritual side of the music by watching the faces and hands of the performers as they play. The level of communication taking place between Hussain and Sharma through their eye contact, their smiles to each other and their hand gestures is similar to trying to describe the magic of the music. The messages and conveyances shared between the two with glances, grins, nods, and gestures while they were performing told a story of love, admiration, surprise, and illumination that one must witness to believe. The manner in which Sharma would play a pattern and then warmly smile at Hussain as he answered in rhythmic return was endearing - one that only a loving, life-long friend would offer. The comportment with which Hussain blasted his eyes wide open from a halcyon daze or mouth the rhythms his hands were pounding out at lightning fast speeds and then whip his head in accenting emphasis revealed an enthrallment beyond the confines of the stage and audience.

Maestro violinist Daniel Hope and the Savannah Music Festival’s associate artistic director joined Hussain and Sharma for two, short improvisational pieces. Never before have I heard the violin paired with santoor and tabla. The result was extraordinary. It isn’t often one hears something so astonishingly original. The experience surely was as refreshing to the musicians as it was to the audience by the smiles on their faces as they concluded the evening’s performance and bowed respectfully to one another.

To witness such an incredible concert makes for a once in a lifetime event. Never again will I be able to hear or relate to this great music and masters in the same manner as before. I have heard and seen with my own ears and eyes and have been part of an experience with others that united us, at least momentarily in a wordless understanding. Music severs all barriers of division and lifts all spirits collectively to joyous heights. From this vantage point and with such lightness to our being old notions and ways of being fall away - all things become new.

Be sure to read RockOm’s two-part interview with Ustad Zakir Hussain as well as listen to the entire podcast from the interview (located mid-way down on the page) conducted in Zakir Hussain’s office at Moment Records in San Anselmo, California in 2008.

Tom Crenshaw is Vice-President at RockOm and can be reached at tom@rockom.net.

[See Part I of this interview, "Every Instrument Has a Spirit," here.]

Trevor: As we at RockOm have been exploring the bond between music and spirituality and deeper meanings, percussion keeps coming up. Do you think there's some sort of essence about drumming or rhythm that's different?

Zakir: I guess rhythm is part of us from the time we're in our mother's womb. The heart is pumping, there is a pulse, so we respond to that. If you notice, most of the songs that are a hit are songs that you can tap your feet to or you can sing while you're walking. The tempos of the songs that have become hits are the tempos that either you walk in, you breathe in, or you make love in. So the rhythm is a central part of music which leaves an imprint on your mind. It's a very important part simply because you as a human being naturally respond to rhythm more quickly than you do to melody. Composers over the past many years have simplified and watered-down the melodies enough so that you can just as quickly relate to melody as well [sings “Na Na, Hey Hey, Kiss Them Goodbye” and the end of “Hey Jude”]. The composers have brought the melodies to the point where they almost are rhythmic. That's why rap is a big hit.

Shiva is shown with the damaru. He is the destroyer, but also the creator. His son, Lord Ganesha is shown with the pakhawaj, he's the protector. So the two very important gods in India are shown with drums. It is said that when Lord Shiva was called upon by the gods to go down to the earth and kill all the asuras (demons) he came down and he did what they call the “dance of destruction,” tandava. Now, Lord Shiva probably smoked a lot of weed. Because when he got into doing something, he just kept on doing it. (laughs) The point was that he started to destroy the demons and then there were not too many demons left, so he kept on destroying whatever was out there. And the gods got very worried and went, “Ok, pretty soon there's going to be no planet earth. So what to do?” So they sent out Parvati and her other name is Lasya, which means lust, romance, whatever you want to call it. She did the dance of lasya to calm down Shiva and established a balance, an order to all the chaos. Now it is believed that since the first word of the dance of destruction, tandava, is ta – and the first word of lasia, the dance of love and peace and order, is la - that's where the word “tala” comes from, which is rhythm.

So it is really written into the whole source of creation and because of that, I guess human beings are born with that connection, that connection of rhythm. The earth, when it rotates, creates a tone and that tone is Bb. When I hit this [hits table], there's no note, but if it's played a million times fast, it becomes a tone - “mmmm” - and that's Bb.

In the old days they used to bang the temple bells and the old drums to call people to prayers. When the king wanted a new law passed people went around the town, beating the drums and having people come and then explain to them what's going to happen next, who was going to get killed. Messages were sent on the law drums and there are talking drums in Africa to talk to. I guess it's all part of our process of living. And rhythm, pulse, heartbeat, and drums are an essential part of it – not just an important part of it. It is necessary to have that.

Tom: Would you say there could be an analogy in “ta-la” and, from the Bible, “in the Beginning was the Word”?

Zakir: Or in the word Om? We all draw upon something that we've heard and appeals to us. For instance, the growing up process of a musician in India is, OK now you want to become a professional artist. So you're to do the Chilla where you go away into the forest by yourself into that little hut where all the old gurus have gone before you. You live off the land, it doesn't matter how old you are - 15, 18, 20, whatever – and for forty days, you play your music. Where did the number 40 come from? And of course when you're living off the land, you're alone, you're with just your music, you're playing your music 16, 18, 20 hours a day. The vibration of it, the sound of it, the tone of it hypnotizes you. You see things; revelations come. You discover many things – what's inside of you. If there's ugliness inside of you, it will emerge, it will manifest and it may frighten you and tear your mind apart. It's like having an LSD experience of the most negative kind. Or if there's honesty and purity inside of you, that will emerge and enlighten you. So, the forty day period – the 40 days of Moses – the 40 days of flood or rain – that's what I wanted to say, that yes, there is this connection where 40 becomes a very important thing.

Why do we all have the same 12 notes whether we are in deep Africa or on the river in China or anywhere? Why do we have do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do and the flats and the sharps? It's the same in India and here and everywhere. And we say our music has been around for over 2,000 years, but we tuned our sitars and tablas to the machine 440, what the pianos are tuned to now. Why is that? Who knows? 4/4 is the same, 6/8 is the same all over the world. It has not changed or mutated into something else. Some people have gone further with the rhythmic signs, but in the west they've mainly still remained with 4/4 and 6/8. Dave Brubeck came in with “Take 5” and then that became known, while we have about 360 different ones in India which we play. The dance of destruction from Lord Shiva was supposed to be 14 beats; Lasya is supposed to be 8 beats.

Tom: Let's talk about some of your work with other instruments. You've worked with some unusual pairings before, pairing the tabla with the banjo, the bass, cello...

Zakir: It's not so unusual to me and I'll tell you why. Growing up as a young kid, our apprenticeship was in the Bollywood orchestras in India, film orchestras. Bollywood orchestras were all in one large room. At one end of the room was the string section: violins, violas, cellos, basses. Next to them on this side was the piano. Opposite the piano on this side of the room was a big riser which set the sitar player, the sarangi player, flute player, sarod player and there were two mics in there in between them. At this end, on the side of the indian musicians were the indian drums, tablas and all that. Opposite side on the piano line were the (western) drums. So, that's where we were and that's where we played. Under the baton of the conductor or composer, we all played together. That's what I grew up doing, playing with western musicians. Some days there would be a horn section there while we were doing the background score for a film. In those days the composer did not arrive with a complete, composed chart. He would look at the film and would see what the timing was and write the music there. So all of us had to be present because then he knew what he had at his command and what he could write for, what he needed at that time. At that time while he was doing that, we were jamming. The sitar player was sitting with the guitar playing and saying, “What do you got there?” – or the flute player is hanging out with the oboe player (coming up with ideas). So this was a common happening, day in and day out. For me, there wasn't anything unusual about these pairings.

100 years back, or even 60 years back, before that period, it was not so common for Indian musicians to play with musicians of other origins. But my generation, yes. My father was traveling with Ravi Shankar all over the world and would come home with records, LPs, of all varieties. That's where I first heard the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Starship, Yusuf Latif, Duke Ellington, The Doors, Bitches Brew or all these milestone albums. Having arrived here (in America) it was like walking right into the recording room with all those (Bollywood studio) musicians – the only thing was that the faces were different, the language was different and the approaches to the instruments were different.

When you pair with people, that's all one aspect of it – the other one is whether you get along. You can be with the greatest of musicians and sitting on the stage together and nothing happens. You just don't see eye to eye. Nothing's wrong with that, it just happens. So the pairings happen only because there's a connection, you see the same lighted path and you walk that path together so that connection is made and never broken.

Trevor: What do you have ahead of you, do you have new pairings you're working at, or what other adventures lie ahead?

Zakir: I'm still trying to strengthen the old pairings. Say, Mickey Hart for instance; I've known him since 1972 – that's when we did our first record called Rolling Thunder and I'm still working with him. The thing is after 10 or 12 years of working with someone, the valleys, the little corners and nooks and all, start to reveal themselves. I was a punk Indian musician wanting to impress the daylights out of everybody; I was gonna get on that drum and play as strong and as fast as possible. And I did that, but by the time I reached John McLaughlin and those guys, I understood that I needed to get to know them as people; I needed to go live where they lived, eat what they ate, go for walks with them, you know? Just be there, day in and day out. I went to the Shaman villages in South America with Airto (Moreira) to hang out there to just learn and to learn what Airto was all about, what Babatunde (Olantunji) was all about. That whole tradition – you can't just learn by listening to a record and saying hello to a person. That's just the surface; you've got to get to know them, then once you get to know them, that's when you can start finding the connection. Unless your hearts meet, your minds connect, and your eyes see the same lighted path, it's not possible to be paired together and make music together. I've been paired with a hundred different musicians over the years but there have been 2 or 3 that I am still working with because that walk has been taken. Sadly, some of those I have not been able to revist and maybe find that road and so the pairings didn't continue. But hopefully there are some more – like working with Bela Fleck and Edgar Meyer. This is something that just began two years ago and has the makings of a very special brotherhood, so let's see what happens.

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More about Zakir

Moment Records

Photography by Susana Millman

Thanks to Regina Grande

Zakir Hussain is a world-renowned, Grammy award-winning percussionist, world musician, and master of the tabla, the popular Indian drum. Zakir has amassed a wealth of awards and accolades and has recorded and performed with many of the world's greatest musicians, including Yo Yo Ma, Bela Fleck, George Harrison, and John McLaughlin, just to name a few.

Mr. Hussain met up with RockOm's Trevor Harden and Tom Crenshaw in the tiny mountain community of San Anselmo outside of San Francisco in September. While leisurely strolling through downtown, Zakir shared about the town's rich musical history and the feeling of community that has led many musicians and Hollywood celebrities to make San Anselmo their home. This interview begins about an hour later with a conversation already in progress as Zakir, Trevor, and Tom, settle in for a longer discussion in Zakir's office at Moment! Records. As the RockOm guys share about a concert they caught the night before featuring Bonnie Raitt, Crosby and Nash, Jackson Browne, and others, Zakir reminisces about his past interactions with several of these performers…

Zakir: We'd be all converging at Mickey's [Mickey Hart, The Grateful Dead] ranch in Nevada in '71-'73 for jam sessions. David Crosby would be walking in and Steven Stills would be there and Gracie Slick, everyone would show up and hang out. Some were just sunning naked outside the barn where the studio was; some were just walking in the fields. It was an interesting time.

Tom: Most of my musical interests come from that period, the '60s and early '70s.

Zakir: For me it was a major change because I came from India, which in terms of visibility is a conservative country. Even when people have to step out to go to the store, they have to put on proper clothes. You did not step out in your "jammies." [laughs] Here [in America] you just stepped out whether you were wearing anything or not.

We'd just play music anywhere. This was so unusual for me. [In India] I would have to take a shower, say my proper prayers, light the incense and everything in front of my instrument by the altar, and then sit down to play the drums. Not in jeans or t-shirts, but in proper garb. No shoes, no nothing – just sit down and focus and play the instrument. Here you're around in the sun and you have your drum or guitar in your hand. And you're walking around naked or topless, with a glass of wine or beer in your hand… it was a whole different connection to creativity than what I was used to in India. It took a little getting used to - just to relax. The condition at the [ranch's] swimming pool was that everybody had to be swimming naked - no bathing suits. So I never swam. I just could not relax like that. It just was not in my upbringing.

One thing that was interesting about the creative part of it was that you got to know your music and your instruments intimately. They were not just modes of worship or meditation or yoga. They were also friends, twins, buddies, lovers. There was that whole concept of getting to know your instrument in a different manner so that your mindset changed. So you could relax into your interaction and connection and plug in with your instrument and your music.

Trevor: And you don't feel like you lost anything by taking this more casual approach?

Zakir: No, because I had been practicing day in and day out for hours in front of my teacher and away from my teacher, for hours on end for 16 years before I arrived here. So that was already in there. I was open to suggestions, I was open to the idea of relaxing and allowing a different kind of thinking into music. And I think that helped me in the long run because it was an interesting balance between a connection with the tradition - and what went with that package in terms with your connection with it, your treatment of the instrument, the music, your behavior – and the relaxed part of it, where the instrument had a voice as well. In India, the idea was: here's your instrument, here's the repertoire, learn this, play this repertoire on the instrument and see how you can embellish it, within the required rules and drawn up dos and don'ts.

You arrive here [in America] and you look at the instrument and say, "Okay, so I'm doing this, but what is the instrument capable of? What else can it do?" In other words, let's take it around the corner and see what is possible with the instrument. The instrument wants to speak. It was a kind of a contradiction because we believe in India that every instrument has a spirit. But in setting up parameters to our discipline, we were not allowing that spirit to have a say. The spirit just sat in the instrument, or slept in the instrument, and watched all this stuff being played and improvised on it. But it itself had no say in how it should be done or what else it could be and so on. There's that concept of looking into the instrument, say in a Zen method of meditation on a flower and seeing the whole world in it, that kind of connection into the instrument, where you not only touch the instrument but you do not tell the instrument what to do. You allow the instrument to transmit to you what should be happening and you make a connection that way.

That was the kind of atmosphere here: a sense of wanting to discover, wanting to find more, wanting to see what else is out there. So a three day jam session was not out of the question. The longest I remember was four days – really, four days! We were just playing constantly, there were at least 2 or 3 people playing, keeping the music going and people drifted in and out. I remember waking up, I was in the barn and had fallen asleep. I woke up and Jerry [Garcia] was playing the guitar, and Crosby was on the rhythm guitar, and Mickey was in the corner on the drums. There were other people asleep or relaxing when I woke up… that's what was happening. I woke up and immediately went on the instrument and starting playing. The discovery, the trying to find out, trying to get to "the more," getting the instrument to speak to you, that's a whole different way of looking at creativity which did not exist in India. That's a major lesson I learned and also was a break-out of the old way of praying and meditating and worshiping.

Trevor: You had mentioned the spirit in the instrument; could you elaborate on how Indian spirituality and classical Indian music are intertwined?

Zakir: I have to say that when it comes to playing a concert or performing for a number of people or being on stage, I do not impose the idea of spirituality through music onto the audience. I simply don't do that. For me, it's a very personal thing. My connection to the beings that have gone before, that have touched that instrument before, that have laid their blessings on it, it's just between me and them. And I hope that my connection with them is so strong that an aura of it appears anyway when I'm on the stage and playing and if people are so attuned, will lock into it and feel it the way I'm feeling it. Because my main function as a musician on stage is to entertain. So, I will do that. If I am to seek spiritual enlightenment through music with others, then it will be with my students, my fellow brothers of music who I'm playing with in a room, like the Sufis call "zikir." We will play and it will get to a point where people see the same light at the same time and that magical moment will be arrived at and experienced and the connection will be made between us that will never be broken, ever.

That being said, our great gurus of old have taught us that this music has its roots in divinity. That means that music emerged or was given as a boon to mankind, at least in India, by the gods and goddesses who existed at that time and so have become a constant part of our lives. Like Lord Krishna with his flute, Saraswati with her vina, Lord Shiva with his damaru. If you look through the statues and the paintings of gods and goddesses in their various forms, they all have at least one little instrument with them. So we believe this is a boon, it comes from them, it is a blessing and must be treated as such – this is why you take a shower, you go to the altar, you sit and practice, you do it that way. For great many centuries, the music stayed in the temples. And then, it somehow found its way to the courts and struggled between being a connection to God and an entertainment art form. It kept struggling until 1947 when India achieved independence from Britain and all the principalities were gone. And so now there were no jobs for court musicians anymore. So what do they do? They had to find a way to live so they brought the music to the stage; so Indian music as an entertainment art form is only that old. It really started to find its way in front of the audience, to communicate to them, to interact with them, to connect with them and to simplify things enough for them to be able to understand and attach themselves to the music in the '50s. It is still trying to find a balance between being a spiritual form of music and being an entertainment form of music. The old gurus and masters, they still want to keep themselves connected to that old way of thinking. What the new generation wants to be able to play the music for the sake of playing the music.

But, if you look at me, when I get on the stage to perform my music, whether I'm playing in a night club, in a concert at Golden Gate Park, a big festival outdoors, or anywhere, my preparation towards arriving at that point where I will hit my first note on the instrument is the same as it has always been. That has not changed. I will still go through that whole process of cleansing myself, focusing myself, and putting on my traditional garb. I will not allow shoes on the stage, I will not allow any kind of outside influence. I want to approach my instrument with the idea that I am in the presence of those beings. And then, once I have approached the instrument and established that connection with myself and them and paid my respects to them, then I open up and start to enjoy the music in a more open manner. That's why you find Indian music is very meditative in the beginning. It's within itself, it develops and then it opens up because that whole first part is for the gods, the gurus, or the masters. [You] establish that connection, pay those respects, and then move on.

I have worked with a hell of lot of musicians and have seen them observing and also diligently following the traditional ways of connection. It's the same: they will wear what's required of them, they will get on the stage and they will start in that manner… and then they will boogie [laughs]. We are still in that transitional zone but the connection of each individual musician with the spirits, it's something that I said earlier: when you make that contact and you see that same lighted path and you walk down that path with your fellow brothers and musicians, that contact cannot be severed ever. It's made. That's why I'm playing with Airto Moreira, the late Hamza Al-Din, Mickey Hart – those guys, for the last 30 years. That connection was made! That connection was made with John McLoughlin 34 years ago and it's still there – and with all the other old musicians of India whom I've been working with. And I'm still working with them because that light was seen, that connection made, and it will never be severed.

Click here to see PART TWO of this interview with Zakir Hussain, where he speaks about the spirituality of rhythm and the drum, the blend of Eastern and Western music, and much more.

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Article edited by Andrew Hoogheem

Photography by Susana Millman