At 50, most musicians are either settling into a comfortable nostalgia circuit or quietly fading into the pages of music history. Not Ilaiyaraaja. The Indian composer, who has scored over 1,000 films and redefined the sound of a subcontinent, is having a remarkable second act. British orchestras, those bastions of tradition and precision, are now queuing to collaborate with a man who once wrote chart-topping hits while sleeping under a railway station bench.
The news from London’s Royal Albert Hall, where the London Philharmonic Orchestra recently announced a residency with the maestro, tells us less about musical notes and more about cultural shifts. This is not a novelty act. It is the sound of globalisation’s final frontier: the symphony hall. Ilaiyaraaja’s music, a dizzying fusion of Carnatic ragas, folk rhythms, and Western classical structures, has always been a bridge. But now, the bridge is being crossed in both directions.
I spoke to a violinist from the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic, who described rehearsals as “like learning a new language.” His bowing arm was sore, he said, not from the notes but from the spaces between them. Ilaiyaraaja’s compositions demand a kind of emotional mathematics. A pause here, a sudden acceleration there. It is music that feels like the monsoon: unpredictable, overwhelming, necessary.
For the British orchestras, this is more than an artistic coup. It is a strategic play for relevance. Classical music is dying in its own cradle. Audiences are greying. Ticket sales are flat. Ilaiyaraaja brings two things: a massive diaspora audience and a younger generation that found him through Kollywood or Bollywood or YouTube. The man who wrote over 7,000 songs is now the unlikely saviour of a 300-year-old tradition.
But what does this mean for the man himself? At a press conference in Chennai, Ilaiyaraaja was typically laconic. “Music has no passport,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses. The journalists laughed. He did not. His austere demeanour hides a relentless work ethic. He still wakes at 4 a.m., still notates scores by hand, still composes on a harmonium that has more dust than keys.
The human cost of this global embrace is subtle but real. Ilaiyaraaja’s health, always fragile, has been tested by gruelling international schedules. His family, particularly his son Yuvan, now a composer in his own right, worries about the pace. But the maestro is unsentimental. “This is what I do,” he said, when asked about the toll.
On the streets of London, the cultural shift is palpable. A taxi driver from Tooting, who plays Ilaiyaraaja’s ‘Thalapathy’ theme on his phone, told me: “It’s like hearing my childhood in a concert hall.” For him, the collaboration is not about classical music. It is about validation. His history, his sounds, being taken seriously by an institution that once colonised his ancestors.
The irony is not lost. British orchestras, funded by the Arts Council and corporate sponsors, are now dancing to the tune of a man who arrived in Madras (now Chennai) with 17 rupees and a dream. Ilaiyaraaja’s rise mirrors the global dispersal of Indian culture. The curry, the yoga, the Bollywood songs. Now, the symphony.
What comes next? The Royal Albert Hall dates are sold out. The albums are being remastered for Western ears. And Ilaiyaraaja, who at 50 is still as prolific as ever, shows no signs of slowing. He is not a relic. He is a river. And the orchestras, with their starched collars and perfect pitch, are learning to swim.
