THE ART OF MAHALINGAM

By P. M. NI TYANANDAN

Though living in an age of tensions and laxities and the frightening insecurity of the atom, I consider myself and a few million others astoundingly lucky to have belonged to an age in which T. R. Mahalingam lived and played his glorious music on the flute. He is one of the few living passports to a rather plane to which we Can retreat, be it for an hour or two, and forget the world and its cares.

What is the secret of his appeal? As a dabbler in the art, but also as one who has heard Mahalingam for many years with equal parts of veneration and analysis, I venture to make a few comments.

Is it his originality? There is no doubt that he is extremely inventive. There is hardly a performance of his which does not contain something new and striking, whether it be one of his distinctive mellifluous flights, or an unusual changing of gathi. And he has the gift of showmanship, producing it when it is least expected. His originality is at once the despair of conservative circles and the delight of the less-exclusive. That he is a tireless experimenter, never static, is indicated by his recent preoccupation with talam. It can truly be said there is little he plays like everyone else. Yet, in a broader aspect, he is not alone in this. Hence creativeness only cannot be his charm. Though he is transcendentally fertile in imagination, this can only be an ingredient.

Perhaps it is due to his perfection of finger-control. His fingers move incredibly fast at times, and his mastery over cross-fingering and doubled notes (with which he produces some beautiful effects) is complete. Time and again one is astonished by the variety and the number of the notes he plays in the smallest compass of time or tala measure. His consummate handling of the delicate nuances of semitone passages, as in the gamut of Todi, is sufficient evidence of his accomplishment, for this is not easily come by on the instrument. He has successfully investigated more quarter-tones on the flute than, probably, anyone else. But yet, is that all? Facility of playing has been achieved by others, who approach him in his own techniques, albeit they were mostly developed by him. We have, therefore, to look elsewhere to discover the uniqueness of his music.

Physical control is of the body, and originality is of the mind. In addition to these, it is my firm opinion that emotion, which is of the heart, is what makes Mahalingam a colossus in the field of artistic interpretation. Carnatic music is very emotional in appeal: with emotion, it is all; without! it is as dead as the dodo. And Mahalingam has a phenomenal ability to translate emotion through his fingers and lips. Two factors conduce to this. The first is his remarkable control over volume, by which he is able to stress a note hard and then reduce it to a tiny squeak without ever breaking the thread. The second, and more important, is what I would call–for want of a better term–his wholeheartedness. (Incidentally both these qualities are axiomatic among singers and instrumentalists who transcend normal capabilities. A good example is Dwaram Venkataswami Naidu.) A keen observer of Mahalingam would notice that there is not a single passage, nay a note, into which he does not put all of himself. Never is he casual. It is only then that every single note is given its correct status of pitch, and, what is equally important, volume. This is apparent in the slow and studied elaboration of his alaapana. That is why his style of playing most closely approximates to the highly individualistic cadences, of Carnatic music in a Singer’s voice, and it is these familiar cadences heard with overwhelming Sweetness on the flute, that form the core of his appeal. That is, I believe, his entire secret. He has very wisely chosen to imitate the human voice and its melody at its best, rather than to set up the instrument as a law unto itself; a law that does not exclude harsh and discordant sounds as long as they are made on the flute.

An emotionless musician is an artistic robot. Virtuosity is attainable, but emotion is inherent: the mark of only an artist of stature. That is why so much music is like animated clay. In our preoccupation with Mahalingam's virtuosity, we are apt to overlook this fundamental capacity of his–a capacity which would undoubtedly have singled him out in whatever art-form he chose to follow.

A word about his critics. There are those who enjoy his music, but complain of his inconsistent playing on some days, to whom I have no answer to make except to say that there are other days on the calendar. There are others who criticise his behaviour and manners on and off the platform. This is so absurdly irrelevant to his music that I forthwith deny them further space in this article.

But all his critics are agreed that he is a genius, whatever that oft-tortured term may mean.

Like all ephemeral things he will soon be a milestone that is left behind, and posterity will be the poorer for it. For, as long as this system of music is in vogue, we may not see a flutist the like of him again. Here, truly, is an artist: when comes such another?

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