In the early 1980s, a Minister at the Indian High Commission in London organized a remarkable series of intimate recitals by some of India’s greatest classical musicians. These were held at the October Gallery, and so I was asked to amplify, balance and record them. In the process, I learned yet again the most valuable lesson of all-how to learn.
I had listened casually and with pleasure to Indian classical music, but knew nothing of its intricacies. There were no scores, no books to tell me what to listen for, and so I placed microphones where I was told and made adjustments as instructed by the musicians, who left the ensemble one by one and listened to the balance among those remaining.
Gradually I began to feel the music as an entity and was able to anticipate and adjust as one musician, then another emerged from the texture for an extended improvisation (which a jazz musician would call a riff) and then submerged again into the totality.
A smattering of applause would often see him out, and I began to appreciate just what had given the audience pleasure.
My proudest moment came when the great Ravi Shankar ended a pre-concert sound check after a couple of minutes with the comment, “It is good. Don’t change anything.”
21 авг 2024
