Anantha R. Krishnan

Most know Anantha R. Krishnan (Anantharaman Krishnan) as a skilled mridangist and the grandson of Sangita Kalanidhi Palghat R. Raghu. However, the Ivy League educated Anantha cannot be encapsulated in a single sentence. He is an artiste who looks at art itself with broad horizons – well beyond the mridangam he is known for. His maturity in views extends to empathy towards all stakeholders – with an ability to examine issues both top down and from others’ standpoints whilst being most out-of-the-box. Vibrantly refreshing is the very deep vein of honesty – no false humility, no humbug, and no hesitation to call a spade a spade either. All in all, this was a chat where time stood still and the interviewer’s own perspectives were widened.

Do you feel spirituality when you play?

Faith is a blessing whose gift I have not received in its fullest potential. But I have deep respect for life – I try to avoid killing even an ant or a mosquito. Spirituality exists differently for each person.

I wouldn’t unanimously say that this music is all about spirituality. If the music is so bhakti and bhAva driven, does that exist when you are out of tune? Or is it an awesome insurance policy where you are allowed to be out of tune and as long as you close your eyes and you sell the stuff under the tag ‘bhakti’ it works? Can you make a terrible sound and get away with it because your face is decorated with holy colours and your eyes closed in false reverence? Those are the questions I would play hardball with to those who say this music is all about spirituality.

It really annoys people when I say this but, philosophically, if you look at it from a record label’s perspective, all Carnatic singers are similar to cover artistes because the repertoire is technically non-original compositions. But does this mean the exact feeling a Saint had when he composed it is conveyed when the song is rendered on stage? If so, what then is the original part because we also tend to say Carnatic music is fully improvised?  It CAN be all about spirituality for some people. Many others might have felt that spirituality and tried to convey that to the audience – but, to me, ultimately, it is the artistes who make the music, even if they are singing someone else’s compositions and therefore,  I would give them the credit for the music.

If you have a problem with that, take that part away and say I am not Carnatic music – I am just me – and finally, you are coming to listen to me. That is a good thing. Don’t give it unnecessary baggage – all that confusion will be cleared away.

One could argue that the bhakti in Carnatic is only in the sAhitya part – not in rAgam, tAnam etc…

Or the tani, yes? You don’t think we can feel bhakti in those? You could, couldn’t you? Something really pure could be just sound – that is enough bhakti for me. There is bhakti in silence. If you are choosing to break the silence, it better be good. Any music can touch you spiritually – reggae, rap, anything at all. But if it is out of tune, I don’t want to hear it.

Many musicians, when asked how they accomplished something specific they executed in a concert, resort to saying, “It is God’s grace.” I find it irritating to hear this rather than a more descriptive answer. What do you think?

We don’t know if the musicians themselves believe that. When you are in the trade, you are just told to say certain things – you learn to say certain things. It is very rare for someone to come up to you, say “You were very good today” and for you to say “I know.” It is very difficult to do that. The fact, though, is you do need God’s grace to even be able to do hard practice. But if that is not what they are referring to, it might just be banter – baloney.

Though the numbers are less than a decade of two earlier, there are still audience members who leave right before a tani Avartanam. What are your views on that?

I do not have any expectations of the audience. The fact that they even show up there is amazing. They could be doing so many things – to spend even some time with us is a privilege for us. It is draconian to say don’t talk, don’t look at your phone, don’t get up. This is such a niche activity of pleasure – I am happy with whatever attention the audience gives us. I don’t get annoyed if they sleep either – it is a heightened sense of awareness, actually. I get irritated if they are unapologetically rude or nasty – one knows the difference between excitement and rudeness.

Have you heard of the Herd of Buffalo theory?  The speed of the herd is maintained by the slowest member of the group – it is in the herd’s interests to get rid of the slower ones. Similarly, it might be good for those who want to leave, to leave. It is easy to act like a hero when you are behind a microphone and blast an opinion in front of everybody. But It is the audience’s choice.

Did we know they were coming before the concert? There is no guarantee that anyone is even going to be there when the curtain goes up. People walking out does not reflect the quality of what one does and secondly, no one should have to listen to something they do not like. If they need to get up, they should. Some days when the music is bad, they could say this was utterly horrible – please go and practice so that the next time we do not have to hear you sound terrible – but they don’t – they still say it is good. My family is candid with me. My wife (violinist Charumathi Raghuraman) will say that, for instance – “nAdam did not come – you were just loud.”

There is a lack of people telling you what they really think – factual, opinionated, truthful people. Many just say you are amazing. That kind of constant positive reinforcement makes you think ‘everyone is saying I am so good, why should anybody get up?’ It is false. I cringe when I hear superlatives.

Music should be something enjoyable to oneself. I do it only because I love it. Even if they say I am bad, I do something I love and people come to see me doing that. To put conditions on the audience over and above that is not correct. I would not do that.

Compared to many other mridangists, you do not appear to observe the other artistes on stage much – you look straight ahead or a tad towards the audience – as if you are doing your own thing.

This is a very ego-centric music. It is all about the connect. We want that bale and bEsh and ah. Eye contact and the ability to affirm the presence of everyone on the stage is important but is it confined to that? No. It is about performance – it is about making music together, after all.

I usually don’t require eye contact – I am hearing everything. I might appear to look somewhere but I might not be looking there at all – it might be like a blank stare.  There are many times I do zone off when I am playing too. Maybe I am on cruise control. Maybe I am thinking of something else while this is happening. I also wonder how much my beard hides my expression (smiles).

Maybe accompanying is so ingrained in you that you can do it without as much eye contact?

From the very beginning, nobody ever told me ‘let me teach you how to play a tani Avartanam.’ I always played for music, with music, and as early as I can remember. My father (Anantha Krishnan) played the violin, and my cousin (Abhishek Raghuram) sang. That was the first reason mridangam seemed exciting. Therefore, I always had a reverence for melody. If a mridangam player does not reflect that, I cannot listen to that person for very long.

Mridangam can be an extremely potent solo voice. But some of the really beautiful ideas that the instrument has given to the world has been as part of melody – if you want to call it accompaniment, fine. pakkavAdyam? Fine. I don’t care. Just the joy of having each other there for the experience is indescribable. If you have a toddler who has a ball and then another toddler walks in – the joy of passing the ball to each other – there is no necessary grammar there, but they are sharing something exciting.

The ability to play with the melody, to play with the sonority of syllables – violin, kanjira, morsing etc., are some of the things the mridangam has done the best so far. For me personally, I would much rather be an exceptional accompanist and a very good solo player than vice versa. Note that I am using them as two facets of the same unit.

How do you calibrate yourself to those who are on stage?

Sometimes it would not even be on stage. It might be based on a conversation years ago, or something in the green room.

It is a good question. I don’t know how I calibrate myself. How did we calibrate ourselves when we met? How do we adapt to the different people we encounter?

You check the sruti of your mridangam frequently and retune it repeatedly during concerts – more than many others. Is it because you hear a discordant note? Or are you reassuring yourself that you ARE in tune?

It is a combination of all those things. A musician might say he is singing in C+ and I will take a mridangam for that sruti. But on the stage, the actual sruti might be 30 cents over – it is not because anyone is out of tune – it is just the sound pressure of that arena. I typically play on older instruments – usually perfectly calibrated – but the sound can vary depending on where you sit on stage. Also, all the instruments on stage are not perfectly synchronized in intonation. Even electronic tambura-s can sound different due to voltage differences. I frequently record my concerts. When I listen to it, it sounds different – because of the relative orientation of my position (or the position of the recorder) in relation to all the other instruments.

The singer is surrounded by the sound of the tambura – from the monitors in front, the acoustic tambura(s) behind, speakers on the sides – essentially a huge signal from the tambura all over. Their level of singing, therefore, often becomes so much higher than what it is at home. This environment is very difficult to simulate during practice. So, there is no way to get used to it in every venue without a little time  – you go there, you figure it out in a half hour or so and then make some music for a couple of hours – essentially, we are all discovering how to be in tune together during a concert.

I usually tune to the loudest source – so even if there are five sources of tambura on stage, if the singer is louder than that and sharper, I will tune to that. It changes during a concert too, often multiple times during a concert. That is part of making music.

Some violinists have said they often tune to the mridangam at concerts – as a discordance between the violin and the mridangam would be discernibly dissonant.

Well, if it is me they are tuning to, they will be tuning all concert!

Besides the mridangam, you have played many other types of drums. Why? Did you use your knowledge on the mridangam to play these other instruments or did you start with a clean slate? How helpful was it to be proficient in another percussion instrument?

I grew up in the US where I had the opportunity to play a variety of drums in college– the marimba, the timpani, the conga, the darbuka, the djembe, the tabla – it gave me multiple ways of looking at something I have done all my life. I feel playing all these instruments has helped give me a more rounded voice on the mridangam which is primary for me.

With some of the instruments, learning them was just a crude figuring out of what to do. Those that required a stick or a mallet were more challenging – to make those an extension of your hands, especially when you have as strong a tactile phenomenon in them as I do, is very difficult. Those felt terrible initially – and then, I just figured it out. Knowing mridangam was definitely helpful, particularly with the conga or the djembe, because I knew exactly what the technique requires.

But would I be good at it just because I play the mridangam? No. The access was easier but I still had to figure out the technique to actually make sound on that instrument. And I could not have scripted it any better. I had access to instruments, and teachers who said ‘I will make you decently good at it to be able to experience the performative aspect of these instruments’. I had a Western percussion teacher William Winant – you could not ask for a better teacher. If a teacher can figure out that whatever it is you already have and use that to enthuse you to get somewhere, it is an experience that will motivate you in a very positive way – for you can spend a lifetime engaging with just one instrument. Though I spent just a couple of years with these other instruments, they were very intensive at that time, helping me get the best from my skill set and do it well. 

You have played the tabla professionally, including in concerts with Umayalpuram Sivaraman. You look so happy doing it – yet, we don’t see you playing much tabla anymore. Why? I believe you also played mridangam while Zakir Hussain was on tabla.

These incredible musicians were showing me something very interesting which was what made me look happy – it was not happiness at my own playing – it was our having a conversation together and asking what subjects we could meet up on.

I have decided to not expose myself professionally to too much tabla. I feel guilty after a point. Sivaraman Sir and Zakir-ji are super at these things. Here I come saying I will do both. I might play tabla professionally if I put in enough time to practice. I am glad I got to do it at 19 when I had the time. Now it catches up. The audience will get shortchanged – my tabla playing will not be as good as my mridangam playing.

It is how you know the bounds of agency – the best way to say it. I have the performance practice, with enough data in Carnatic, to get the necessary level of comfort. Maybe someone out there is doing enough of both to know the bounds of agency in both instruments. Ultimately, we are there to make some music. If we are there searching for something on stage from a lack of musical clarity, it is going to be a waste of everybody’s time. A minute on stage is like an hour for the audience. It is a very delicate situation.

There are times I might play the tabla if it is part of a bigger ensemble. For the job that the tabla needs to do for that bigger production, I would do it. But the mridangam is what I am best at.

When you do play the tabla, do you use Carnatic of Hindustani fingering? Do you find keeping tEka for Hindustani music easier than playing mridangam for Carnatic concerts?

The perception of what keeping tAL or tEka is for the person playing it vs the person listening to it is very different. A medium developed tabla player (if I may call myself that) would find it easier to just keep tEka than the Carnatic demands of playing with Sivaraman Sir. However, truth be told, it is actually hard to play tEka for a Hindustani artiste in a way that that artiste would feel comfortable. Playing tEka requires knowing the repertoire. I don’t know that. Similarly, a superbly talented tabla player could flounder in a Carnatic concert because he or she might not know the compositions.

What is the canon of music? How do these musicians engage with each other? What is the nature of their conversation? That is also part of my understanding of Carnatic vs. Hindustani. The composition has a lot to with it. But more than that, what can you do with it? What are its possibilities? I have listened to Hindustani from childhood. But I would definitely be more comfortable with not knowing a piece in Carnatic vs. in Hindustani. You can be truly lost in a Carnatic concert too. But it would be worse if that happened in a Hindustani concert. A naked experience.

The tabla fingering that you see me play in a Carnatic concert is pure tabla fingering but appropriated in a very, very strong and natural way to Carnatic music – because I AM a Carnatic musician. It is not the fingering. It is the taste. It is knowing what the music demands and how I fit in that. If you told me to do tEka on the mridangam for a Hindustani concert, I guarantee you it will sound better than what it would on a tabla. You are going to feel something far greater in my presence with the mridangam than on the tabla. It is ironic. It is because of my connection to the music.

For most, the initial training in Carnatic percussion is in isolation – playing for melody being at least a few years down the line. It is often the same for students of non-percussive Carnatic music too. Would it not help for melody artistes to play with percussive artistes and vice versa, from an early stage? With each working in a vacuum, the analogy that comes to mind is a language student who knows the vocabulary and grammar independently but not how to put them together in a cogent paragraph…..

It would definitely help for melody and percussion artistes to practice together, and, can you believe it, I did this every day of my growing up years! What a privilege that was!

To be honest, I don’t know why this does not happen. How difficult would it be for one teacher to call up another and say I will send over ten of my students – let them practice with yours? The sad thing is all the resources are right here.

For your writer analogy, you also need a story, don’t you? But if you really love it and you are doing it for yourself, does it matter?

In a concert, it does matter, right? Because your performance is tied with that of others. It becomes pertinent if one wants recognition, as well.

That is true. Also, if you are getting paid by someone else and/or want feedback or kudos, you do have to be concerned about the end-user.

Why do you think there aren’t more women in percussion? Does it require so much physical strength power that women are inhibited?

There is a deep femininity in that drum – and at some point, some woman will come and unleash it and the art form will be changed forever. But there are so many historical reasons as to why women were dissuaded.

Is it strenuous? Yes. Am I exhausted after demanding concerts? Yes, I am wiped out. Does that mean a woman cannot do that? No, she can do it. If my being vocal about saying more women should do it, as miniscule as I am, encourages some girls to take it up, I am a very happy person.

Literally, the only place where a female is preferred is as a tambura player – that is also ridiculous. If in my generation we can be a bit more sensitive, it would be good.

But so many things have to go right for a female percussionist – even those immensely strong willed about doing it might not see things going the way it is expected to. Wherever they are now would itself have been past several objections and difficulties.

We need this humongously talented person to come and play so well that it shuts everyone up – where no man is going to say I can be louder or better – where not only does she do it better but ten times better. She needs to come past all the objections and difficulties and then be allowed to flower. To be acknowledged and recognised, she would have to be like a Mandolin Shrinivas who blew us away.

You teach Western Music at KM Music Conservatory. Is the situation better for women in percussion in Western music?

I teach western percussion and a composition class at KM. I have female western percussion students but I do not know any female who has taken up percussion full time yet. The barriers are the same in Western or Indian music – men are slowly learning to be better.

Does the standard method of teaching mridangam make sense? You did not follow it. Admittedly, you had it in your blood. But should we look at a change in teaching pedagogy?

The answer to this is the same as in any other field. Whether we understand it or acknowledge it, education, as we know it, is undergoing change – because the idea of vidya as something you would seek from someone else has changed to how do you seek it for yourself. With information technology, the basic job of finding information is now different. A teacher might teach you how to use it – but then you might waste time learning it their way even as you figure out how to use it on your own.

The do-it-yourself-scheme is something more and more people are choosing in many vocations. It is just a question of time before it seeps into Carnatic Music. As I have said earlier, each of the artistes we so adore and respect did something individual. Kids born in 2020 are going to figure out individual things and do them better and faster than the rest of us. When I was born in the 80s, I still had to go to somebody to learn. Now, one can say that all this stuff is online and it is just a question of figuring out what one wants to learn, what one is good at and teaching oneself to do it.

I am not discrediting the glorious place of a Guru – obviously no one can replace that. But it is different. I look at people much younger than me, 17 or 18, who are doing fantastic things. Every subsequent generation is going to take only half the time to get to the content that you took to get to – like a half-life.

When you initiate someone into the mridangam, what you CAN do is to tell them what you did – honestly. I do that – that I learned from my grandfather but I don’t play like him – if I played exactly like him, there would be no point. He would discourage that himself. The fact is that more people are going to do things on their own, and faster, with all the content much more accessible. Everything is available – it is just a question of finding the right things for each person to their strengths and, of course, guidance. But we are our own guides too.

So, what is then the job of a teacher? Update yourself. Don’t sit on a high horse saying I hold this knowledge. Because it is all out there. If a teacher is willing to learn from a student, that is a good place to be for a teacher. And I am willing. Bring it on.

Hypothetically, let us look at a student who is so taken by something you played or executed and wants to learn it from you. Yet, in terms of current ability, he or she is not there yet. Would you tell the student to tarry awhile or would the fact that the student is passionate and interested make you teach it? Would interest and enthusiasm override what chronologically might not seem the logical next step?

This has happened to me. When I was about 8 or 9 and visited Chennai (then Madras) from the US, I had memorized an entire tani Avartanam played by my grandfather – a very famous one. I had worked on it before coming that summer to show him that I could do it. Prior to that, I don’t think he realised that I was serious about getting knee-deep into the art. I was peculiar – I had not learned bAla pADam-s (beginning exercises) – I play them now more as an adult than I did then – but I could play the instrument and I had a decent sound – obviously genetics had a role. I was merely replicating the sound but with some rubbish fingering – my uncle (R. Ramkumar) was the first to teach me some basic fingering. That summer, I played the whole tani to him – without knowing any of the inner details. I was merely replicating the sound I had heard on the recording.

Your question is the classic example of lakshya (goal) vs. lakshana (traits). The teacher needs to have the skill to gauge the student to verify the ability – an intuitive sense of having the commitment to do this music. Then it becomes ‘let me teach you the mechanics of it.’ When I teach, I do that. There are people who say I would like to learn how to play four mallets on a marimba, for instance. As a teacher the challenge, then, is to get them to do that but, at the same time, tell them that this is where you want to get towards – as in step by step. Other than commitment and honesty to the art form, I don’t believe in any rigid rules. Standardized procedure is difficult particularly in Carnatic music – individuality is key. The teacher must do everything he or she can to help students stand on their own feet – so that they can go and figure out the whole world for themselves. I would probably teach a student if I felt that they get the lakshana part of it at least. A teacher can show you both lakshana and lakshya but I think it is better if they just teach one or the other – allowing the student to figure out the other. That is when you get completion of the subject matter. One from the teacher, one from yourself. Because ultimately, we are also our own teachers.

In fusion programs, it seems that the other systems fit in to what the Carnatic artistes do…. And some Carnatic musicians are heard saying that this music is the most rigorous form of music there is. Do you agree with that?

No. I do not believe it is the most rigorous. Yes, it is an amazing form of music where so many musical variables can be manipulated in a way that you can say something immediately potent. Musicians of other forms oblige because these variables we work with are so fun – but the fact is when others oblige, it means the situation is rigged to suit the Carnatic musician.  On the other hand, if non-Carnatic musicians say if you can do this, I will do that – it could get interesting.

Does the tALam run in your head continuously? Do you need it visibly at all?

With most of the standard tALam-s, I do not need to see it. Others saw, before I did, that I could absorb the rhythm rather intuitively. But some tALam-s are meant to be seen. The function of putting tALam might go beyond just keeping metre – it is percussive punctuation – beauty by itself.

That makes a lot of sense. In old recordings of, for example, G.N. Balasubramaniam, you can clearly hear him slam the tALam. The music was almost asking for it! Now the trend seems to be quieter tALam keeping. And the audience also tends to frown at enthusiastic tALam putting by fellow rasika-s.

I would not categorise it as then vs. now. It could, for instance, be the microphones that we use now where loud tALam might be more intrusive. Perhaps.

What are some things you do outside of music?

For the past 2-3 years I have been indulging in perfume making. It began from the first time I smelled oodh, or agar (from where the terms oodhubathi or agarbathi originate). I bought some supplies and experimented with my own natural perfumes.

Oodh is created when the Aquilaria tree gets infected. It is the tree fighting for its life. We have deer musk – the deer sheds the substance in order to attract a mate. Then we have ambergris – it is an ejection by the sperm whale, which floats in the ocean awhile collecting and absorbing many things in it before it gets to the seashores. All of these are naturally occurring products that we adorn ourselves with. It does feed back to music too – perfumes also have a base note, a middle note and a high note, for example.

Other than that, I watch tennis. I played competitively in college and now about twice a month (prior to COVID). I enjoy good history books – I recently read a book on the Trivandrum Padmanabha Swamy Temple by Gauri Lakshmi Bayi – such interesting legends abound.

About Anantha: At age 8, Anantha R. Krishnan played the mridangam in concert for Sangita Kalanidhi Prof. T.N. Krishnan alongside Sangita Kalanidhi Palghat R. Raghu. Anantha has since played (mridangam or tabla) regularly for renowned Carnatic and Hindustani artistes. Born in Chennai (then Madras), Anantha moved to the USA when he was five. His mother, Rajeswari Krishnan, daughter of Palghat Raghu, is a vainika. His IITian father, Anantha Krishnan, is a skilled violinist from the Muthuswamy Dikshitar parampara who has accompanied many stalwarts. Anantha, thus, grew up soaked in music, and learned vocal too. Mridangam came instinctively. “I could produce the correct sound. 6-8 hours a day was spent actively playing, ideating or discussing music at home.” When his uncle R. Ramkumar (father of vocalist Abhishek Raghuram) moved to the USA, Anantha learned some proper fingering techniques on the instrument. Summer visits to India meant further immersion. When Anantha was about eight, Raghu began teaching him in earnest. “He thought I should learn it the correct way,” says Anantha. Each evening, Anantha and his cousin Abhishek would ‘perform’ at home for two hours, with Abhishek singing and Anantha playing the mridangam and their grandfather actively teaching both. Anantha went to Dartmouth College, New Hampshire, where, after dabbling in Economics, he majored in Western Music and Philosophy. He followed it up with a Masters degree in Electronic Music and Percussion from Mills College, California. In 2009, Anantha moved to India. “There was a huge void in me since my grandfather had passed away.” Was he worried about whether he would make it as a musician? “I did not think of it, actually. Perhaps this is where the nepotism part comes in – being from a musical family definitely helped,” he says with characteristic candour. Anantha has won five Best Mridangist awards from The Music Academy, Madras, and has performed from a young age with leading musicians including Sangita Kalanidhi Dr. M. Balamuralikrishna, Hariprasad Chaurasia, Dr. K.J. Yesudas, Amjad Ali Khan and Mandolin U. Shrinivas. He has been in numerous intriguing collaborations all over the world with musicians of different genres.

More on Anantha:

April 4, 2020: Anantha R. Krishnan – The Quarantunes Podcast

October 22, 2020: MridangaMela – Intellectual Property in Classical Music