Rhythmic artistry of Swarup and Mortaza

If less can be more, few people can make more out of less than the incredible Swarup Hossain, playing the tabla at this past Classical Music Festival at Chhayanaut in Dhanmondi. Think what a tabla is: nothing more physically than skin stretched over a sounding box. But just as brilliant actors wearing masks can amplify emotions with their facial expressions concealed, musicians like Swarup can turn the seeming limitations of a drum into not only a whole orchestra, but also a troupe of actors playing out all manner of dramas.

Swarup’s playing seemed impossible: His instruments can sound gentle and reflective, and then take off into rounds of complex rhythmic intensity where every sound is heard with absolute clarity. Avoiding the slightest muddiness as Swarup does demands incredible virtuosity; and the coloration that gives life to his music making is an act of genius. Every few seconds seemed to bring a new revelation of rhythm and timbre from Swarup’s instruments and the disbelief grew: how can a musician extract such exhilaration from such a simple device, make a drum more expressive than a trumpet or a violin?

At a different session during the festival, Swarup joined flautist Murtaza Murad, his densely woven percussion fabric offering a trampoline from which Murtaza’s flute could take off into flights of fancy.

Murtaza extracted beguiling sounds from his instrument: he uses the flute’s woodiness to produce rich dark coloration. At times Murtaza’s music was mournfully reflective - a deeply human song without words, perhaps for a lover seeking his lost beloved. And then the music would soar, and Murtaza’s endless agility produced sounds of rapture: perhaps the lovers were reunited after all.

Murtaza and Swarup were perfectly matched. Swarup doesn’t exactly play second fiddle even when in a supporting role. His tabla playing was engrossing throughout, while also serving to propel Murtaza’s flute ever higher. A magnificent duet.

Chhayanaut’s Classical Music Festival included generous servings of khayal singing - but perhaps, like ice-cream, too much khayal can lead to indigestion. Khayal has as its base a short song that serves as the starting point for extensive vocal improvisation, much of it wordless, purely musical drama. If done well, khayal can be ecstatic. Such is the difficulty of pulling off a khayal performance, however, that anything below the best can sound like someone suffering the agonies of toothache, and more than a few minutes of it can lead an audience to seek psychotherapy.

The best khayal performance I heard at Chhayanaut came from Pryianka Gop. Her vocal range just sweeps you away. Her virtuosity is all the more powerful for coming naturally as she paints the most fantastical colours with seeming ease. Pryianka’s sounds were at times haunting, always intense, and ultimately, rapturous. No wonder the hall was packed out when treats like this were on offer.

One more suggestion is about the amplification: the concert hall is small, and the singers and instrumentalists would all sound more natural if the electronics were switched off. As I said, less can be more.

Jonathan Richmond, The writer is a freelance

contributor, music enthusiast, and a consultant in Bangladesh.

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