AN amazing thing is happening in Tamil film music. Allah Rakha Rehman rules, OK. But unlike predecessor Ilayaraja, who was numero uno bar none, a chorus of new composers are jousting with the techno-pop wizard for a place in the marquee. Literally, after Rehman, it's the deluge.
Sure. Vidyasagar, Deva, S.A. Raj Kumar, Aadityan, Sirpi, Karthik Raja, Yuvan Shan-kar Raja, Maragadhamani aren't names that will send car stereos above the Vindhyas into overdrive. In fact, barring the first and the last of the lot, none of them are known outside Tamil Nadu.
But so consistently have they been creating sounds similar to Rehman's, and making music as good as his—for much, much less—that the Pasha of Panchatan Inn, says Vidyasagar, 34, has been forced "to become different to the point of sounding indifferent".
Rehman had just one song on Philips Super Ten against Deva's six last week. It's been like that for this past year. Big-buck films like Iruvar have bombed or just about survived like Minasara Kanavu. Low-key flicks of the other eight have climbed the charts.
No one's saying Rehman, 26, is passe. God, no! In Triplicane, they're taking bets that he'll be around to do Vande Mataram II on the 100th I-Day anniversary. 'Isai Gnani' (music scholar) Ilayaraja still hasn't lost his touch, No 3 'Devathai' is vintage.
But the revolution wrought by Ratnam, Rehman and Roja has shaken up studios like you wouldn't imagine how. The veshti-wearing all-substance composer who played by lyrics and language has given way to daring, irreverent, jeans-clad newcomers flouting every rule.
Monopoly is out. Ilayaraja—whose sagely mug on movie posters swung turnstiles as much as the protagonists'—was not only good, he was also prolific. His son Karthik Raja, 23, who did Ullasam for ABCL, says he composed songs for three hit films, including superhit Chinna Thambi, in half an hour. Because of this prolificacy and because filmdom, like racecourses, backs only winners, there was no place for the others, even if they came cheap. Vidyasagar tried in 1989. It was no-go.
Today, although Rehman is firmly enthroned, he chooses to do only four or five of the 100 films made in Kodambakkam every year to avoid a burnout. That leaves plenty of space for the others. Unlike Rehman who charges a huge flat fee for the package he offers—studio, recording, dubbing—the new kids come cool: they demand anything upwards of Rs 2 lakh. Result: Ranjit Barot, ranked among the world's top five jazz drummers in the '80s, is already wrestling with Rehman's Love Today album with his debut VIP. Aadityan, a projection and sound engineer for a decade, hits the high note with Seevelperi Pandi.
Little-known Sirpi comes out of nowhere to deliver a super-duper Ullathai Alitha. Maragadhamani, known to Telugu aficionados as M.M. Keeravani and to Hindi fans as M.M. Kreem vide 'Criminal', is already ranked by music critics among the greats. Vidyasagar, who had shifted to Telugu after the initial disappointment, has since his return in 1994 scored music in all four south Indian languages, picked up several awards, and rejected 42 films.
They are all riding the electronics wave. Trained better in the fundamentals of western classical than Carnatic music, Ilayaraja stood out for his stunning compositions with traditional instruments. Not a note was out of place. Replication was near-impossible.
Yamaha changed all that. Although Rehman is a whiz on the keyboard, others have been able to create stuff just as good because, says Ilayaraja's other son, Yuvan Shankar Raja, it's just a matter of who handles the Korg X3 work station better. Yuvan, 18, was working on the keyboard for a trailer for Aravindan when the director asked him to do the entire film. Fortysomething Deva, an also-ran in the age of Raja, is a changed man since the synth bug bit him in Aasai. Says Ghanshyam Hemdev of Pyramid Cassettes, which zoomed from nowhere to number one in five years, post-Rehman: "Computers have given the edge to the new guys." What has also helped is the rise of a crop of movie directors, choreographers, art directors and editors who visualise music better. In addition, says singer 'Malgudi' Shubha, car audio's come of age. Youngsters with low attention spans but large purchasing powers want attention-catching, fast-paced music. And they are getting it.
It helped that music also began to be marketed like any other consumer product, complete with teaser ads, posters, trailers, advertisements, billboards. Hemdev bought the rights for Iruvar for Rs 60 lakh and spent Rs 4.97 lakh promoting it.
Change has brought about more change. The monopoly of singers has broken. Time was when S.P. Balasubramaniam and S. Janaki sang all the tracks on an album. Now newer and fresher singers—Chitra, Swarnalatha, Unni Menon, Sujatha—are getting a look-in. At the same time the singer has taken a backseat in the new setup. Asked about his most famous number, singer Mano says: "Not many might remember, it was this," and hums Rehman's Mukkala, Muqabla.
Rehman's Gentleman ushered in an era where music acquired its own USP. The new composers are benefiting from that. Even though films like Ullasam, Raasi, Nesam, Subhash, Aravindan flopped, their music went down well.
Of course it's not all milk and honey. Much of the music depends heavily on promos to stay in the public eye. Out of sight, out of mind. Says Madhav Das of Magnasound: "All of them suffer from the fact that their electronic knowledge is so poor. When you put on a CD, there's an overpowering melange of noise." With so much money being pumped in, music companies want a hit at all costs. So there is, as Shubha puts it, massive "poruki-fying" (plagiarisation). There are rumours aplenty about filched Algerian, Arab, Lebanese or Pakistani songs. One of the new set simply uses a karaoke to fill in Tamil words. Says Karthik Raja: "If they hear a good number, they want to copy it.
They just want to survive." Adds a Kodambakkam insider: "Hindi guys flick from us. The secret is we're quicker in filching it from abroad." With the market growing from 50,000 tapes in Ilayaraja's heyday to 500,000 after Rehman, the music is being targeted more at urban audiences than rural ones. English, Hindi and other foreign words are used liberally. Words like strawberry, Coca-Cola and telephone, and catchphrases like 'Take it easy policy' pop up without a qualm. "They want to catch the attention of the listener at the first shot," says singer Bhavadharini who sang All the Best in brother Yuvan's debut film.
No one's complaining. No one, that is, apart from Dindigul Leoni whose weekly critique of the Pepsi Colonialism of the Dravidian lingo is a rage on cable TV. Music companies meantime are laughing all the way to the ATMs. No wonder on the door of the accounts section of a music firm, there's this legend: "Visitors not allowed."
