It is my firm conviction that the songs and films we encounter growing up — typically between the ages of 10 and 25 — will forever remain our favourites, will forever retain the potency to send us back to a time that we will feel was ‘better’. Minsara Kanavu came during such a time for me, and perhaps because I can’t help but be intoxicated by nostalgia, it’s tempting to call those snapshots from the past, magical. It was 1997 — a time when we were still thinking of AR Rahman as belonging to us (even if he’d done Rangeela a couple of years earlier). It was a time when any girl who wanted to show her mettle as a singer chose to sing ‘Anbendra Mazhayile’.
If she sang the ‘Vinmeengal kanpaarka sooriyan thondrumo’ line without too much strain, you knew you were in the presence of some serious competence. You’d try, of course, to sing that line secretly, and have your voice shatter like flung glass. You’d turn to ‘Poo pookum osai’ as that’s a seemingly easier song, but it’s deceptive, of course, and you would realise it to your horror when you got to ‘Sa ri ga me pa da ni sa reeee’. If you were on a singing competition on television, the judges would typically smirk a bit, and then kindly suggest, “Innum konjam practise pannunga.” I will also remember that song for Kajol’s competent lip-syncing, and mind you, the lines weren’t easy. Sample this: “Kanthoongum neraththil, mounathin jaamathil, gadigaarachchaththam sangeedham…”
It was a time when they still tried, but then again, my memory is likely coloured by the deceptive lure of nostalgia. It was a time when neighbourhood audio stores had started making customised playlists. You’d ask for a couple from Mr. Romeo and Avvai Shanmughi which had released a few weeks earlier, but when it came to Minsara Kanavu, you asked for the whole album to be written into the cassette.
You weren’t going to miss SPB bellowing ‘Nerukkame kaadhal baashai!”. You were’t going to miss being astonished by how unusual Strawberry Kanne was, how it seamlessly fused lyrics and dialogues. You most definitely weren’t going to miss the festive spirit of Ooh la la la that took weight off sadness, that added pounds to happiness. A song in which Chithra’s voice is a free-spirited dance, Prabhudheva’s dance is a beautiful tune. The song that’s truly lingered though, of course, is one that’s got a hit film taken from its lines.
The sheer familiarity we share with Vennilave Vennilave means that I don’t have to write any reminders of Hariharan effortlessly hitting the high notes, or Sadhana Sargam’s awkward Tamil turning out to be a charm unto itself. I’ll just point out by drawing attention to the exquisite choreography in the moonlit, derelict space strewn with leaves. The dancing in the song is less two characters moving around to a song, and more a bewitching mating ritual between two reluctant partners.
Rajiv Menon and AR Rahman returned again to recreate magic three years later in Kandukondain Kandukondain. The high notes continued in Enna Solla Pogiraai, a curse for your bathroom singer, a boon for the professional. Quite naturally, it fetched Shankar Mahadevan a National Award. I share much fondness for Kannamoochi (especially the version involving Yesudas) and Kandukondain Kandukondain from the album.
I remember the latter also for the song narrative about the princess in the castle and the knight with the sword who comes from afar to rescue her. Remember that this isn’t simply an escapist song, but is well in keeping with the motivations of Aishwarya Rai’s character in the film, who’s cursed with perennial restlessness and a youthful thirst for adventure. The surprise in this album — call it this film’s Strawberry Kanne if you will — is Suttum Vizhi, which got me spending several nights immersed in Bharathiyar’s work. When I went to the neighborhood audio store for this albun though, I didn’t quite want ALL the songs from the album. Smaiyai, I’m afraid, never really worked for me. But there’s little denying the enduring appeal of the rest of the album.
And now, almost two decades later, Rajiv Menon and AR Rahman are back again. In a recent interview, Rajiv Menon spoke about how this film is about the pervasive ability of music, how it can be found everywhere if only you cared to look. The title, Sarvam Thaala Mayam, is an obvious reference to the same idea. I couldn’t but instantly get reminded of lyrics from a song in his first film, that indicates that this idea about the omnipresence of music has been with the director for a while now: “Bhoomi oru veenai, adhai kaatrin kaigal meetudhae.” Pay attention to the lyrics, and you’ll see that the whole song runs home this very point.
Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, Rajiv and Rahman, it’s good to have you guys back again.
Sudhir Srinivasan
@sudhirsrinivasn
The writer is the Entertainment Editor of the organisation