The great Ilaiyaraaja has turned 50. A milestone, to be sure, but let us not pretend this is a footnote in the annals of music trivia. No, this is an event that has sent tremors through the hallowed, if slightly musty, corridors of British concert halls, where artistic directors are now scrambling to appear culturally literate. One can almost hear the clinking of sherry glasses in the Green Room as they mutter, 'Of course, we’ve always championed global genius. Look at our Diwali concert in 2019.'
Ilaiyaraaja, for the uninitiated who have spent their lives marinating in the tepid bathwater of Western classical music, is not merely a composer. He is a synecdoche for Indian musical genius. He has written more film scores than most people have had hot dinners, and each one sounds less like a soundtrack and more like a fever dream orchestrated by a choir of hallucinating peacocks. The man can turn a raga into a pop hit, a folk tune into a symphonic movement, and a love ballad into a transcendental experience. He has done for the synthesizer what Michelangelo did for paint, which is to say he used it as a brush to daub the sky with sound.
And now, the British concert halls are abuzz. The Royal Albert Hall, that great Victorian colosseum of culture, will host a tribute. The Barbican, a venue so clean it feels like a hospital for the arts, will no doubt stage a performance. There will be speeches. There will be standing ovations from people who have never heard a single track from 'Sagara Sangamam' but who will nod knowingly when someone mentions 'the fourth movement'. They will serve gin and tonics with a slice of lime so thin it might as well be air, and they will pretend that they have always been fans of the Maestro. Meanwhile, in the foyer, a man in a tweed jacket will explain to his date that 'the sitar is basically a guitar with more strings.' He will be wrong.
But let us not be too cynical. The fact that Ilaiyaraaja is being celebrated in this manner is a testament to his genius. It is also a testament to the fact that the British establishment has finally realised that colonizing the world’s music is not the same as appreciating it. They have invited the Maestro to bring his orchestra, his synthesisers, his entire universe of sound, to a nation that once thought 'Karma Chameleon' was world music. This is progress. It is a cultural reckoning, a belated apology, a standing ovation for a man who has written more symphonies than most people have had nightmares.
So let them raise their glasses. Let them applaud with the polite and slightly confused enthusiasm of a British audience. Ilaiyaraaja will sit there, perhaps with a gentle smile, knowing that his music transcends their understanding. He will be 50, and the world will be a better, louder, and infinitely more rhythmic place for it. Happy birthday, Maestro. You have earned every decibel.
