Music is the greatest art form. It works across ages, languages, and moods. A song can move a child who doesn’t even know what music is — which is why four-year-old boys are so ‘gay’ (happy in old English) dancing to Aaj Ki Raat on Instagram, and random oldies in Japan are dancing to Naatu Naatu.
And have you noticed musicians in Hyderabad? Their humility could put Rajinikanth to shame. The more skillful they are, the more humble. But are musicians humble in general? NO. You’ve seen rockstars break guitars like they’re drumsticks (the vegetable ones). The reason Hyderabad musicians are humble is because Hyderabad audiences humiliate them.
Take Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasia, flute superstar of India. The man who gave us the first viral tune of Hero and the song Tu Hai Meri Kiran. In London, he sold out Royal Albert Hall. In Hyderabad, at Chowmahalla Palace, people ignored him like he was selling pens at Hitech City traffic. He didn’t complain, but he never came back. He’s even played flute while battling Parkinson’s — but I bet he’d never play for Hyderabad again.
Even local singers suffer. At Mehfil, I once saw sufi singer Sikandar Khan — not as popular as Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, but just as good. He had just floored me with Ranjish Hi Sahi when a drunk uncle shouted for an RD Burman song. When it didn’t happen immediately, he scolded Khan the same way he must’ve scolded the waiter for delaying his Butter Chicken. Once you cross 60, you think the world owes you quick service because you might die before dessert. The poor sufi, seventh in his lineage, had to apologise, stop mid-Ghulam Ali, and launch into Mehbooba Mehbooba. Hyderabad: where centuries of training bend to one uncle’s impatience.
And newer musicians? They have it worse. Cover bands start with rockstar dreams, but end up stuck with drunk requests. My friend Aaron Wesley, drummer of the band Akshara, grew up on English rock I could never understand. Now, in his 30s, he plays Telugu songs I wish I didn’t understand. The crowd waits till their third drink and then demands Bangaru Kodi Petta. The band smiles, plays it anyway, and goes home to quietly fold their Metallica T-shirt.
And yes, I’ve been part of the problem. A band called Goli Soda once gave me a brilliant night, fusing Yamaho Nagari with Mitwa, my two favourite songs. My correct response should’ve been applause and a cab home. Instead, six Jägermeisters later, I went up to them asking: ‘Are they in the same raag? You know I also play flute?’ They politely humoured me when they should’ve blocked me. That’s the life of a Hyderabad musician. His heart might be full of Linkin Park, but he has to cater to the taste of Lumbini Park.
Which is why, even if I’m reborn, I’d still choose stand-up. Because a comedian gets paid to abuse the audience for one hour. A musician gets paid less — to be abused by the audience for five.
(The writer’s views are his own)