The Westminster Lobby doesn't do music. But Ilaiyaraaja's half-century? That's a different story. This is about power. Raw musical power. And the quiet revolution of a composer who refused to play by anyone's rules.
He emerged from Tamil Nadu's villages in the 1970s. No formal training. Just raw talent and a head full of ragas. Then he did something audacious. He married Indian classical melodies with Western symphonic structures. Violins spoke like sitars. Guitar riffs danced with thavil beats. It was chaos. It was genius.
For 50 years, he has scored over 1,500 films. Think about that. A thousand five hundred soundtracks. Each one a negotiation between tradition and modernity. That is longer than most governments last.
Inside the industry, they whisper. They say he is difficult. Demands complete control. No compromises. That is how you survive half a century. You don't bend. You make the winds shift around you.
His orchestrations? A cabinet of 100 musicians. Each one bound by his vision. He conducts without a baton. Uses hand gestures. Demands perfection. The musicians fear him. They revere him. That is respect.
The numbers tell the story. 18,000 songs. 1,500 films. A recent concert at London's Royal Albert Hall sold out in days. The diaspora came. Three generations. They knew every note. Every pause.
But here is the real story. The one they don't write in glossy magazines. Ilaiyaraaja broke the system. He showed that Indian music could be symphonic. That ragas could sit alongside choirs. That a film composer could be an artist. Not a factory worker.
His legacy? A generation of composers who now dare to mix genres. They cite him as influence. They cannot replicate his touch.
Critics say his later work is repetitive. Too many films. Too many deadlines. Perhaps. But when a man has scored more movies than most have seen, you listen. You respect the longevity.
The man himself? Reclusive. Rarely gives interviews. Lets the music speak. That is the ultimate power play.
So here is the summary. Ilaiyaraaja's 50 years is not a celebration. It is a warning. A reminder that real talent does not need permission. It just needs a stage. And a conductor who knows exactly where he is going.
Cue the strings. Cue the raga. The revolution continues.
