In retrospect, albums like Delhi-6 seem to have inaugurated
a mellow phase in A.R. Rahman’s career.
The last few years have given us a number of albums (Kadal and Raanjhana
the most recent of these) to confirm the impression that the master has, where
the subject gives him rein, shifted gears: the qawwalis have become more
reflective (contrast “Arziyan” (Delhi-6) with “Noor-un-Alaa” (Meenaxi) from a
few years earlier); the love songs increasingly suffused with a murmuring
longing (“Moongil Thottam” (Kadal)), and even a jazz bent (“Aaromale”
(Vinaithaandi Varuvaaya)); the sounds a bit less ornate, but just as rich.
Maryan is in this vein. It is leaner
than Raanjhana (Rahman’s most recent Hindi composition), and if two of the
lighter tracks are far more trivial than anything in the latter, at its best
(which is to say in its four slower songs) Maryan is more reflective, almost
unsettlingly so: you really miss it when the music stops playing. This is, quite simply, Rahman’s best Tamil
album in years for any director not named Mani Rathnam.
Rahman’s solo, Nenjae Yezhu, leads off the CD, a few
delicate strains reminiscent of water and journeys giving way to soaring vocals
that, in their sense of wonder and consciousness of a new landscape beheld,
preserve a link with the very early Rahman composition “Ye Haseen Wadian”
(Roja). Over two decades and dozens of
albums have barely dimmed the composer’s freshness: while the listener is aware
of too much history to lend his encounter with the later work the same aura of
discovery that forever tinges Roja, Nenjae Yezhu shows that Rahman remains
willing to start again. The traveler is
now older for sure, but his ardor for the journey is as bright as ever.
The same sort of bucolic strains that begin “Ae
Hairath-e-Aashiqui” (Guru) lead to Vijay Prakash’s vocals in Innum Konjam
Naeram; Shweta Mohan joins a bit later, and the result is a melodious, if
conventional, love duet, but one that is immensely satisfying – a reminder, if any
were needed, that Rahman comes at the end of a long tradition. In the final analysis, to take this most
hackneyed of film music genres and keep making music that sounds soulful, not
jaded, might be one of the composer’s greatest achievements.
Naetru Aval Irundhal is apt as the next track: it takes
“Innum Konjam Naeram” a step further, and begins with the low notes and erotic
intimacy of Vijay Prakash and Chinmayi (the simple contrast between the two
voices – Prakash’s resonant bass in the words “Naetru Aval Irundhal”,
reminiscent of Hariharan; followed by Chinmayi’s higher pitched, “thinner”
voice, as she playfully croons “He…mariyaan” – is instantly compelling), before
taking slow flight into less joyous climes.
Love isn’t just balm for the soul here, it is also suffused with
melancholy, as that which will be lost.
My favorite from this album, and a song of heartbreaking
loveliness, Yenga Pona Raasa is intensely romantic, taking you to a place that
is familiar, sad and filled with meaning.
A song of love and loss, but not, perhaps, of loneliness (merely
solitude), it brings “Kannathil Muthamittal” (Kannathil Muthamittal) to mind, although the later song sketches
the contours of a soundscape that is nowhere near as lush, but marked by a
trace: the afterglow of a lover’s absence.
Shaktishree Gopalan soared with the outstanding “Nenjukkulle” (Kadal) a
few months ago, and is unforgettable in this far more introverted track – her
pairing with Rahman looks set to give us magic for years to come.
Sonapareeya is charming without quite being memorable, the
requisite “catchy number” rendered somewhat interesting by the retro – and
vaguely Hindi film-sounding -- “Sonapareeya” refrain that should jar, but
doesn’t. That seamlessness is testament
to Rahman’s skill, but the song is pretty modest and is a bit of filler between
two outstanding tracks. I have long been
critical of Rahman’s bland rap efforts, but Sofia Ashraf’s vocals here (as, of
course, MIA’s outstanding ones in “O Saya” (Slumdog Millionaire)) suggest that
perhaps Rahman’s problem is male rap artists.
This album doesn’t do much to dispel that impression: I Love My Africa
is unworthy of Rahman (although pretty much what I would expect from Blaaze),
and sounds like something cobbled together for the 2010 football World Cup,
with bits of heavy percussion, Brian Kabwe’s “Africa…Africa” refrain, and some
generic mambo beats – in short, an advertiser’s idea of what an “African sound”
might be like. I wish it were the last
song in the album, and thus could more easily be skipped.
Kadal Raasa Naan is actually the last song on the CD, and
the opening ten seconds seem to flow from Yenga Pona Raasa (refracted through a
Middle Eastern prism), before resolving into a fast-paced, and very Tamil,
number sustained by Yuvanshankar Raja’s soulful vocals, combined with
occasional neo-shehnai strains. This
song isn’t new, but it is pitched at an urgent level, and is stealthily
addictive: I dismissed it as trivial for weeks before realizing that I couldn’t
stop listening to the CD until I’d heard its last track.
3 comments:
I am a Huge Fan Of A R Rahman's Music.I just Love His all Compositions .He Is Really a master.
Fajny blog :)
Amazing write-up on Mariyan Music.
Read it the day you posted and came back today to read it again.
And that Neo-Shehnai is Nadhaswaram.
And if I may, my thoughts on the magical Naetru Aval Irundhal
http://www.backgroundscore.com/2013/05/naetru-aval-irundhal-maryan-arrahman.html
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