I’m
not Indian. I don’t speak Hindi. Yet that hasn’t stopped me from enjoying a
long love affair with Hindi film music. The movies are pretty much all
subtitled. So they’re definitely accessible. I have lots of favorite Hindi
movies, stars and songs. Still, I’m essentially on the outside looking in. So,
clearly, the statements I make here tend to be personal speculations and
conclusions. Hopefully, I’m sufficiently immersed in the music itself that what
I say has a certain amount of –if not authority – then at least sincerity and
enthusiasm.
It’s
my understanding that, historically, music and song were such integral parts of
Indian theater that when sound cinema came along (in the early 30’s for India)
it was considered both natural and necessary for films to feature songs. It’s a
development that was easily accepted by the movie-going public. So, from the beginning, virtually all Hindi
films were essentially musicals. Now, as far as I can tell, there were other
countries where song seemed just as crucial a part of traditional stage drama.
Say, Japan. Yet when sound film came to that country, the Japanese film
audience didn’t insist that every movie be a song-fest. Songless dramas were as
common in Japan as they were in most other countries.
But different strokes for different folks. Each country had specific priorities and
imperatives embedded in its cultural makeup. And – for whatever reason – the
Indian masses wanted songs. So songs
they got. And since Hindi was India’s single most widely spoken language, it
wasn’t too surprising that the Hindi film and music industries emerged as
pre-eminent. Hindi movies supplied the successful template most other regions
emulated.
Now,
of course, commercial cinema requires stars. And given developments in India, the
industry needed stars who could not only act but also sing. Certainly – through
the years – there have been examples of artists who could do both very
well. But such prodigies were rare. As a
general rule, compelling and attractive actors usually came up short in the
singing department. And brilliant singers were seldom great actors – or even,
for that matter, photogenic. The solution came rather quickly to Hindi film
makers. Topnotch singers would be
enlisted to record the songs. And dramatically savvy, spiffy-looking actors
would learn the art of miming those songs. The audience immediately accepted
this as the best of both worlds. And though the more naive might believe that
singer and star were one, this info wasn’t really kept secret from the public.
Movies were all about surrendering to enchantment. And audiences gladly
accepted this bit of movie trickery if the end result was illusion perfected.
Thus
began the shadow hierarchy of stars called - then and now - playback singers.
Audiences became familiar with their names. And those that could afford to
bought their recordings - in droves.
But when it came to seeing the songs performed, the real,
complete experience lay in watching the actors “sing” the songs. Certain vocalists
regularly supplied the singing voices for specific actors. Star personality and star voice completed one
another, seamlessly joined for maximum effect.
Certainly
in the west dubbing was not unknown. But it was seldom if ever publicised. And
movie musicals – though a lucrative genre – were not the be-all and end-all of
the cinema landscape. Mysteries, dramas, adventure films and horror movies all
got along quite well without having their protagonists regularly break into song.
Not so in India. All these types of films existed there too. But whatever the
genre, the pictures always had to make room for song intervals. Give the people
what they want.
Till
the end of the 40’s, there were several singers who also acted with success.
K.L. Saigal, Noor Jehan, Suraiya. All
did their own onscreen vocalizing. But they were the exceptions. And as the
50’s wore on, that particular brand of multi-tasking became even more rare.
Handsome singer Talat Mahmood, for instance, enjoyed some success as an actor. But
as the 50’s turned into the 60’s, Kishore Kumar was probably the one major
exception left. He was a special case, though - a one man entertainment dynamo.
Terrific singer, expressive actor, especially in comedy – and prolific composer
too. And - as if all that didn’t keep
him busy enough – he supplied playback vocals for other actors. And found time
to marry one of the era’s screen goddesses, Madhubala. When did this man sleep?
Behind
the scenes machinations in the entertainment business have seldom been
characterized as fair. So one can only guess at whatever backstage maneuvering went
on to maintain what some might view as a closed shop situation. Because, for whatever
reason, a very small number of singers effectively monopolized the musical side
of the Hindi film industry for decades. They were all gifted, inspired vocalists. K.L.
Saigal, Noor Jehan and Shamshad Begum were early favorites. But practically from the end of the 40’s on, Lata
Mangeshkar and her younger sister Asha Bhosle ( born Asha Mangeshkar but Bhosle
was her first husband’s family name and she used it professionally ) were the
go-to girls for what seemed like 90% of the female voices in films. The public
just seemed to accept that this is what a film heroine should sound like. Case
closed. Some others did get a look in. Geeta Dutt, who’s now revered, developed
a following in the 50’s but faded in the next decade. And two other Mangeshkar
sisters, Usha and Meena, popped up occasionally, but usually as auxiliary
voices joining their siblings. Talented Suman Kalyanpur operated as a kind of pinch-hitter for Lata
sometimes . The voice was close enough that many radio listeners just assumed
it was Lata. But at least through the
80’s – for prolificity and popularity - all other songbirds were minor leaguers
compared to Lata and Asha.
Most
of these ladies – and their male counterparts – had extensive musical
educations that went back to their childhoods – and were well-grounded in the
techniques and principles of Indian classical, traditional and devotional music.
Their gift was an ability to adapt these techniques to the looser forms of
Indian film music - a mixture of Eastern and western influences that hit a
bull’s eye with the musical tastes of the masses. For me, Indian classical
music has always been something of a hard pill to swallow. Most of it seems too
difficult, too complex and demanding . Often lengthy, taxing and
uncompromising. Designed for musical eggheads to ponder. But not to entertain. I realize that the problem lies in my own limited musical sophistication.
But I guess –like the Indian masses - I want more direct and melodious
gratification. Not scholarly theses in musical form. Give me something that flows
right to the heart - something I don’t need a trigonometry table to interpret.
Post-war
Indian film music, largely through the efforts of composer Naushad, whom I’d
consider the Indian Gershwin, developed just the right fusion of western pop
influences and eastern exotica. I love the minor key colours in Indian movie
music. The fascinating, extravagantly mysterious instruments. And – of course - the undulating beats. Along
with jazz, Latin American music had introduced some compelling new rhythmic
patterns into the 20th century American musical experience. To me,
the Indian rhythms seemed to create even more intoxicating dreams. And I’ve
always been surprised that – outside the soundtracks of some sword and sandal
epics, these Asian motifs – never fully entered the American pop music scene.
Early
female vocal favorites on Indian soundtracks – Noor Jehan, Zohra Ambala,
Shamshad Begum – exhibited a soulfully throaty approach to their vocals. Carrying
almost a suggestion of the American female blues voice. There are certainly
precedents in Indian classical music. But when Lata Mangeshkar ascended to
popularity in 1949, she brought a different sound. High-pitched, keening – it
was a voice that could soar to the skies, though to some western ears (among the
few that were exposed to it), it sometimes veered precariously close to dog-whistle territory .
This kind of voice also had its classical precedents. But when it was applied
to film music, it hit an incredible chord with the Indian public. Lata and her vocal
style came, in some ways, to guide and almost define Hindi film music. And it’s possible
that her rise was a factor in limiting widespread western interest in Indian
film music. Of course, there was the language barrier. Still, singers like Edith
Piaf had broken through in America. But Piaf’s style, unique though it was,
bore a definite musical connection to the Garland school of emotional belting. A style North Americans already loved. Lata Mangeshkar’s wailing train whistle may
have been impressive but it was just too far removed from what most western
ears could comfortably handle. Not the
case in India, though. There, Lata’s voice was instantly triumphant. She simply
seemed to touch something vital in the Indian soul. At this point, the idea of Hindi film music
without her is unthinkable. Her voice quite simply exists as its history’s
centerpiece. Sister Asha achieved prominence two or three years later, mining the same
general territory. In 1971 Lata, seldom one to give up the head seat at the
table, did rather grandly withdraw
her name from contention for the annual Filmfare music award to “make room for
new talent”. Her sister followed suit
several years later. But Filmfare awards or not, Lata remained Queen Bee. Still,
Asha enjoyed tremendous success as well. Her vocals may not have been quite as stately as
Lata’s. But she could do things her older sister couldn’t or wouldn’t. Freshness
and fun were qualities Asha Bhosle communicated with ease. And she also
developed a nice line in vampy songs – naughty nightclub singers and such. She could be regal when needed – but
generally left that to Lata. Asha had
the edge when it came to more lighthearted material. Still, it’s undeniable
that both were born to sing. Whatever their differences and similarities, the
two ladies covered the musical gamut – at least as far as Indian film music
lovers were concerned. And right into the 90’s, they continued to dominate the
scene – a really impressive feat. To these ears, Lata’s voice became a little too
tight and shrill in the 90’s. Fans who loved her still heard what they wanted
to hear. Her songs from the 1997 film
“Dil To Pagal Hai” were blockbuster hits. But listening to that now venerable voice emerge
from the mouth of some teenage actress on screen in the late 90’s seemed
jarring to me. Oddly, Asha’s voice, though it generally operated in the same
Himalaya-high range as Lata’s, endured quite beautifully. The last time I heard
new material from her was just a few years ago – and she sounded –in her late
70’s- as warm and rich and youthful as
ever.
There
was a slightly larger core group when it came to male singers. Mohammed Rafi,
Mukesh, Mahendra Kapoor, Manna Dey, Talat Mahmood, Kishore Kumar – these were the names at the
top. And this fraternity held sway for decades. Other male artists came and
went. But in the eyes of the public, they were pretty much second tier names.
As I indicated, it seems a bit strange that such a small group of singers -
most of whom looked like retiring homebodies – were able to maintain such an
iron grip on the Indian music charts. Especially since in a country the size of
India, there must have been scores of others talents, some just as great. Yet
year after year, decade after decade, these unknowns remained just that, far
from the spotlight. Without ever getting a chance to perform as playback
singers. It’s an odd situation. Let’s
name ten American singers from the 50’s – Doris Day, Ella Fitzgerald, Rosemary
Clooney, Patti Page, Peggy Lee, Tony Bennett, Johnny Mathis, Bing Crosby, Frank
Sinatra and Nat King Cole. Formidable performers all. But just imagine that 90% of all material on
the American hit parade from the 50’s to the 80’s had been recorded by only
this group. Seems highly unlikely, right? Yet that’s pretty much what happened
in India. Hindi hit parade charts were made up almost exclusively of film
songs. Each month’s crop of films supplying a new batch of radio hits for an
insatiable public. And they were mostly sung by the same dozen or so vocalists.
Certainly the playback singers were admired, respected and honored. And when it
came to buying their recordings, the public definitely remained loyal. The favoured
faces onscreen changed from decade to decade – but the voices that emerged from
them remained largely the same. But in
India it was still the glamorous actors onscreen for whom the public reserved
their wildest adoration. Fans worshipped them. The singers never quite generated
the kind of delirious fan frenzy whipped up by the movie stars who mimed their
songs. The playback singers enjoyed a kind of peripheral stardom. They didn’t
have to – and usually weren’t equipped to - maintain movie star personas. Yet
their art was essential to complete the images of those that did. They gave the
movie gods and goddesses musical credibility. And – for music loving Indian
film audiences – this kind of credibility was every bit as essential as beauty
and acting ability.
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