At a time when Ravi Basrur’s calendar is packed with some of the biggest cinematic projects — including a Telugu collaboration with Prashanth Neel and Jr NTR, Swayambhu with Kartikeya, two Kannada films with Sri Murali, a Tamil venture, two Hindi projects yet to be announced, and a Malayalam film — the composer has chosen to pause for Ravi Basrur’s Titan.
Not a film. Not a background score shaped by visuals. But a bold, original score album created purely for listening — an experiment, a personal exploration, and a quiet rebellion against creative boundaries. For a musician whose sound has powered the scale of KGF, Salaar and Singham Again, Ravi Basrur’s Titan feels almost intimate — cinema without a camera, emotion without instruction.
Looking back at his journey — from his first collaboration with Prashanth Neel in Ugramm to arriving at Ravi Basrur’s Titan — he sees it not as a climb, but as a continuous process of learning. “We learn something all the time whenever we work. Ravi Basrur’s
Titan focuses more on learning about music. I wanted to experiment, but in some places I didn’t get that opportunity. So I wanted to mold myself and see how far I can reach and what I can do,” he shares.
The emotional trigger behind Ravi Basrur’s Titan came from a simple but profound question: what else is possible? About seven months ago, he decided to begin this journey with nothing to lose, and only experiences to gain.
Ravi Basrur’s Titan was shaped during the stillness of lockdown — a silence that sharpened emotion rather than dulling it. For him, emotion is universal and immutable. “Emotion is like the soul. You can’t change the soul. Whether it’s Hollywood or Indian cinema, the soul remains the same. Only the presentation changes. I wanted to create something larger than life, without any boundaries,” he says.
That philosophy runs through tracks like Every End Is A Beginning and Roar of Tornado, each unfolding like chapters of an unseen film. Even musically, the album mirrors this duality, blending orchestral depth with modern textures, including a contemporary approach to the cello.
Rather than guiding listeners toward a fixed interpretation, he wants them to create their own worlds. His own life journey informs this openness. He reflects, “I came to Bengaluru as a choreographer. But destiny had different plans, I became a music director. I haven’t always done what I planned, but now the talent within me is finding its way out.”
Despite being associated with large-scale cinematic worlds, he is selective with his time. He states, “I only do four or five films a year. I sit with the director, align ideas, and make sure the job is done. I love this field.” Pressure, he insists, never enters the equation. “I come from a village. I don’t carry stress. I believe I’m like a tap — thoughts flow from somewhere else. It’s God’s gift,” he enthuses.
Talking of his creative process, it is intentionally insulated. He notes, “I stay off social media. I don’t listen to other movie songs because unconscious influence can affect creativity.” Inspiration, he says, arrives anywhere — even in transit. For example, he shares, “We composed the love song of Bholaa while travelling in a car.” He lets ideas rest before committing to them: “If after four or five days I’m still humming it naturally, I know it’s special.”
To the younger generation, his advice is rooted in patience and faith. He expresses, “Don’t chase success. I worked on 63 films before I got my break as a music director. I waited 14 years.” Expectations, he warns, can be destructive. “They kill creativity. Just keep working silently. Success will make the noise eventually,” he concludes.