Delhi 6 audio music songs review

Perhaps it is only appropriate that I begin my review of an album that
seems to channel just about every significant Hindi musical genre from
the film industry's (now mostly dead) past, with the track featuring
the central figure in Hindi filmdom Noor is a fifty-second declamation
by Amitabh Bachchan, preaching a neo-Sufi message of loving God by
loving those around us. It would be a mistake to approach this track
as simply an opportunity to listen to Bachchan's legendary voice in
action; rather, the man is an actor, and this track only makes sense
in the context of the role he is playing -- evidently that of a
genial, old-world figure whose ideas seem at once high minded and
noble, but perhaps also a tad quaint. Bachchan "acts" wonderfully here
(aided by Prasoon Joshi's lyrics, of course), etching all this in
under a minute in a manner worthy of a radio play. But the very
existence of this track itself took me down memory lane -- back to a
time when film soundtracks often featured dialogs from the film as
well (and certainly, the likes of Sanjeev Kumar, Pran, and of course
Bachchan, had voices crying out to be heard). Joshi isn't kidding when
he has a lyric in one of this album's other tracks say "ye sheher
nahin mehfil hai" -- for Mehra, and thus Rahman and Joshi, seems to be
paying tribute not just to a place, but to a state of mind, perhaps
even a way of being.

Aarti (Tumre Bhavan Mein) is a reminder, if any were needed, that
Rahman is perhaps the last composer in the Hindi film industry who
produces anything like a devotional song. Hindi cinema's rather rich
tradition of qawwalis and filmi bhajans has dwindled almost to one,
which makes one treasure every such offering from Rahman like a jewel
(it certainly is far rarer than the bling bling that dominates so many
Hindi film music videos these days). And this Aarti is indeed gem-like
in its perfection, its ability to invoke beauty with great economy,
and its delicate size (at just about three minutes). Yet, like the
equally perfect Alai Payuthey from the film of the same name, its
pleasures are not cold ones: the quavering, neo-Carnatic-style vocals
Rahman has Rekha Bharadwaj, Kishori Gowariker, Shraddha Pandit, and
Sujata Majumdar employ here, combined with the sharp throb they manage
to compress into the word "ambAA", ensures that this track tugs at the
heartsrings. Indeed, the contrast between the intimacy of the vocals
and the traditional-yet-impersonal instrumental backdrop, illustrates
the loneliness of the endeavor: organized religion might not be
understandable except as a communitarian program; but devotion is a
solitary enterprise. It is clearly this solitude, and its fragility,
that interests Rahman in this delicate, oddly forlorn song. In an era
when perhaps nothing is so endangered by the re-casting of religion as
a political project above all else, as the space of a personal
religiosity that seeks the freedom to duck the political projects of
the day, perhaps the song's sad tone isn't odd at all. But Rahman's
own attachment to the quiet devotional song, and his many
contributions to that tradition, are also grounds for optimism. The
tradition won't die out if Rahman can help it, and "little" numbers
like the Aarti here might yet prove indestructible: the maestro may
cast himself in the role of supplicant in these songs, but one would
do well to remember that Lord Shiva too wandered in rags.

Bhor Bhaye is another sensational bit of traditional wizardry, but as
unlike the Aarti as any two tracks could be: this semi-classical
number appears to sample the voice of the late Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali
Khan with the very contemporary Shreya Goshal. My amateur ear was
blown away by Goshal serving as a foil to the legend of Hindustani
classical music; coming just a few months after her wanton turn in
Ghajini's Lattoo, this track confirms that Goshal possesses
versatility and range her contemporaries do not. And her voice appears
to be getting better with age, every year losing more of the generic
sweetness that marred her early work. The master of ceremonies is of
course Rahman, who manages to pay tribute to both the "classical" as
well as the "popular" traditions by deftly integrating Goshal's into
this dense pattern of tabla and other traditional instruments, and the
Ustad's voice. This synthesis is key to any appreciation of even
Rahman's "traditional" music -- he has always been a renewer, not a
disciple; promiscuous, not monkish in his musical proclivities.

Genda Phool is the third stop in Rahman's tour of traditional musical
forms that seem to be dying out in Hindi film music: if the two songs
above represented Carnatic and Hindustani classical idioms,
respectively, Genda Phool (credited to both Rahman and Rajat Dholakia)
is squarely in the tradition of North Indian folk/wedding songs. This
isn't a first for Rahman, who seemed to hew quite closely to the
traditional paradigm in Banno Rani (1947: Earth); but scratch the
surface and it is Genda Phool that perhaps more authentically
represents the tradition, largely by way of Rekha Bharadwaj's singular
voice, which could manage to suffuse both sex and sorrow into an
advertising jingle (to be fair, Banno Rani didn't need to do much more
than juxtapose the incongruity of the lyrics with the horrible
child-old man marriage that occasioned the song). Combined with the
simulated horns and street calls that punctuate this song, it seems
Mehra doesn't have an idyllic wedding celebration in mind, but one in
which the world has already intruded. This shouldn't surprise us,
given the amount of world-weariness, perhaps even cynicism, the
traditional wedding ditty manages to pack in -- the epic inter-family
struggles and romantic trials and tribulations these songs testify to
are a world removed from the greeting card romances much of Bollywood
has insisted on peddling as the summa of Indian traditions for some
years now. Rahman can do both puerile and adult with great gusto, but
no-one selects Rekha Bharadwaj for anything infantile; one can only
hope for more extended collaborations between the two (at under three
minutes, this one simply whets the appetite).

The qawwali is one of the few traditional forms that is doing quite
well for itself, partly due to Rahman's own interventions, and partly
because the rhythms and energy of certain qawwali traditions are
easily transposed in bastardized form into more contemporary film
music forms. But the specific kind of qawwali Arziyan pays homage to
-- more reflective, and specific to the Gangetic plain (as opposed to,
for instance Punjab; recognizing that these are both rather sweeping
generalizations that conceal a variety of differences) -- has never
found much of a following in Hindi cinema, except through the rather
diluted medium of (admittedly splendid) songs like Na To Karavaan Ki
Talaash Hai/Ye Ishq Ishq (Barsaat Ki Raat). And as with Bhor Bhaye,
Rahman wishes to keep both poles in mind: this Janus-like approach is
reflected in Arziyan by the use of Jawaid Ali and Kailash Kher, with
the former (wittingly or unwittingly) paying tribute to the sublime
Rafi, and Kher's muscular voice reminding us why he might just be the
most soulful singer in Hindi today. Over the last year or so, Rahman's
qawwali-style numbers have taken a turn for the quieter and more
mellow mood, and Arziyan is certainly in the tradition of Marhaba Ya
Mustafa (Ar-Risalah) and Khwaja Mere Khwaja (Jodha-Akbar). Where it is
richer than either of those is in its length (over eight-and-a-half
minutes), which enables the singers to "take time" to get through to
the listener, relatively ubnconstrained by a four or five minute
straitjacket; and in the fact that it goes through several tunes, akin
to a "true" qawwali, including an unusual (albeit disappointing)
rendition of "Mora Piya Ghar Aaya" (disappointing because Rahman seems
to have drained all the intensity and passion from this masterpiece,
leaving mere catchiness). But no such charge can be laid against the
central "Maula Mere Maula" motif, quietly urgent and straining to get
at the Lord. Arziyan is unlikely to be my favorite track from this
album -- it lacks the intricacy and freshness of this album's other
offerings; as well as the wounding sentiment of Marhaba Ya Mustafa --
but it might be the most complete musical experience this album
offers: it does so many things, and in a gentle manner that envelops
the listener (as opposed to bludgeoning him into submission), that one
feels a sense of loss when the song is done: the silence is deafening.

When Ash King began crooning "Dil Mera... Dil Mera", my heart sank at
the rather pedestrian beginning to Dil Gira Daffatan, a song I had
heard was one of the album's highlights. I needn't have worried: at
around the forty-second mark Rahman jettisons the generic lovelorn
song in favor of some glittering stringed arrangements; when Ash
King's vocals return, it is with a stunning love song that is lean,
yet not so much minimal as imbued with the sort of precision we heard
in Ye Haseen Vaadiyan (Roja). In both songs Rahman allows the words
the freedom to be surrounded by an instant of silence that is just a
shade longer than expected -- the effect is that of notes hanging on
the winter air, their meaning amplified. While not as laser-like as
the masterfully orchestrated Tu Bin Bataaye (Rang De Basanti), the
pleasures of Dil Gira Daffatan are less abstract, more accessible: the
former impresses you with its balance and its unsettling mood; the
song from Roja has no equal for evoking the wide mountain spaces the
song's lyrics evoke; but this is a song that embraces one, melting
fiddler strains, romantic lyrics, and a chorus tune that is simply
ravishing (all the more so when King's "Dil...gira kaheen, daffatan"
is accompanied by Chinmayee's "Kyun goonj rahee hai dhadkan?"). The
tempo of the vocals is slower than the background music, heightening
the auditory effect of an intricate structure that might well be on
the verge of collapse: the slowness marked by the genteel vocals does
not seem sustainable in the long run, not in the face of the velocity
of the passion invoked up here.

If Delhi-6 is going to have a signature tune, it is bound to be Mohit
Chauhan's drunken, wandering Masakalli (Lyrics), bringing a much
needed whiff of the street to this album, and (if the film's previews
are anything to go by) charmingly choreographed by Vaibhavi Merchant.
The song begins with an unmistakable "NRI hero" signature, Rahmanized:
Yashraj-style "Hey hey" vocals that quickly give way to a simple
harmonica strain that catches you and won't let go, not least because
it is tantalizingly brief. Soon Chauhan unleashes his ode to a pigeon.
The whole concoction sits lightly on the listener, without ever being
trivial (the robust "udiyo, na dariyo / kar manmaani manmaani
manmaani" refrain is too strident to be dismissed lightly; one would
do well to remember that pigeons were traditionally serious business,
as both aristocratic sports and gambling opportunities); rather, if
Delhi-6 were a meal, this surely would be the souffle at the end. It
is early days yet for this album, but on the strength of the day or
two I have spent living with it, Masakalli is a charmer, and I suspect
its attractions will stand the test of time.

Hey Kaala Bandar is quite obviously the weak link in this album -- so
obvious, in fact, that it merits some closer attention. Beginning with
its lyrics, which aren't the upbeat balanity of something like
Paathshaala; instead, by making light of the "Money Man" hysteria that
swept Delhi some years, the song appears to be mocking both our
propensity for hysteria ("It wasn't me, I swear / Everyone's looking
for the monkey out there"), as well as our complicity ("hamaam mein
hum saaray nangay"). Slowly, the song's refrain ("Hey kaala kaala
kaala bandar / Baahar hai ya andar") begins to make sense: the dreaded
monkey isn't out there but in here. And he evidently has his uses,
enabling both greater outlays on security, and the creation of a
common purpose for the community. The contrast between the song's
chilling lyrics, invoking our political, blood-stained traumas ("Aao
hum sheesha dekhen / Us mein sandesha dekhen / Apna ghaayal hissa
dekhen / Apna asli qissa dekhen"), and the song's cheerful, almost
inane, tempo, is unsettling. This is manifestly a "situational" song,
and it is difficult to "read" outside of the context of the film.
While hardly a musical tour de force, the mournful strains
interrupting the seeming revelry, and Prasoon Joshi's satirical
lyrics, mark it out as the conscience of the album, a reminder,
perhaps, that the Delhi Mehra seeks to invoke in his film is not
simply an exercise in nostalgia.

Rehna Tu is the sort of jazzy song that at first blush sounds like it
should have been the centerpiece of Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na (perhaps even
in place of the title song of that album), but just when you begin to
think that Rahman has deprived Abbas Tyrewala's directorial debut of
the pick of the maestro's recent jazzy numbers, you feel Rahman's
vocals prick at you, especially when he croons "thoda resham, tu
humdum/ thoda sa khurdura / kabhi to adhja, ya ladhja ...", and
straight away you know nothing so poignant, so evocative of loss,
could have been appropriate for a film about happily resolved puppy
love. In Delhi-6 this belongs, and its combination of seamlessness --
Rahman's vocals have perhaps never been smoother, and seem of the
music, not an accompaniment to it -- and limpid sorrow, maddens me at
points, bringing to mind every lost love, almost a re-enactment of
every loss. As with more than one Rahman-Mehra collaboration, Rehna Tu
is not musically groundbreaking: Rakeysh Mehra prefers a music of tone
and nuance, and like Rang de Basanti's Tu Bin Bataaye, this too is a
masterpiece of tone and mood. The song knows it too, and ends by
abandoning all vocals in a mellow instrumental finale that wends well
over a minute, a movement that would not be out of place in Talvin
Singh's Ha (specifically, in the sublime It's Not Over). That extended
conclusion enables -- even forces -- the listener to contemplate the
song that has preceded it; it is not so much music as afterglow. By
the time the album gives way to the next song, we get it: Rehna Tu
pricks because its mellow music knows that the lyrics, about one's
beloved always remaining the same, are not so much a lie but a tragic
impossibility: only the loss of what is, slipping away even as one
contemplates it, confers meaning. Contemplation of the beloved is
simply remembrance.

I'm not sure which of the three female vocalists credited for Ye Delhi
Hai Mere Yaar is responsible for the refrain that wafts across as if
from a radio (think of that other Delhi Rahman song crackling over the
airwaves, Ae Ajnabee from Dil Se), or even a dream, but my money is on
Tanvi: "Ye Dilli Hai Mere Yaar," the voice not so much singing as
insinuating into your ear, that is to say, you're better off asleep,
your memories those of the body, a sense of smell, a gesture, an
angle, but no less ephemeral for all that: she will be there when you
wake up, but receding. Yet wake up you must, because the one who
tantalizes you is, in this song, a lover, and also a city. Rahman is
in tune with that dissonance -- between the intimate reverie you want
to return to, and the public clamor of the city you cannot forget and
can never return to simply by travelling there -- and rudely jolts us
with Benny Dayal's and Blaaze's neo-rap that is at once irritating and
necessary for the song to achieve the desired effect. Rarely have I
encountered a song that is so brief (barely over three and a half
minutes) and that seems to traverse such a distance, from the
bedroom's rumpled sheets to Connaught Place (and a detour by way of
the French lyrics of Rahman's last Tamil album, Sakkarakatti. Or
perhaps no distance at all: it ends as it began, with the faint
mockery of "ye Delhi hai mere yaar" hanging in the air, "bas ishq,
muhabbat, pyar." "Bas": you want to go back to sleep now, not to
escape, but to try and return.

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