Sound of the Sitar (1965)
4 tracks, 41 minutes
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We’ve had quite a few albums from India already so far – from brass band music to acid house-ish stuff, and from Indian-inspired Hollywood soundtracks to Bollywood originals just the other day. Now we move onto the first album of hardcore Hindustani classical music from one of the most revered – and certainly the most internationally renowned – musicians of his style.
As well as becoming somewhat of a household name for bringing the sound of the sitar to the West through his performances in the US in the 1960s and 70s, Pandit Ravi Shankar also has a special place in my own personal musical memory. Although I’ve been attending festivals since I was a little baby, the first real concert I ever attended was by Ravi and Anoushka Shankar at the Bridgewater Hall in Manchester. I was almost 14, we were just seven rows from the stage, me, my dad and our mate Hoghead, witnessing an utterly spellbinding evening of sight, sound and smell. Now there’s a formative moment.
Sound of the Sitar was originally released in 1965, although it’s now easier to find the remastered edition that was released as part of ‘The Ravi Shankar Collection’ in 2000. [Sidebar: the original cover, which I’ve tried to use here, is a really beautiful painting, it’s a shame that the remaster crammed it into a little corner of the cover.] The reason I chose this album in particular is because it shows why Ravi was so respected at the time – this was pre-Beatles collabs and pre-Monterey – both within India and, increasingly, to a Western audience to whom this music and these instruments were entirely new and undoubtedly mindblowing.
The first half of the album is my favourite: a 20-minute unaccompanied rendition of Raga Malkauns, starting with the slow, almost-unmetred alap section before moving onto a faster, more rhythmic jor. Malkauns is a night-time raga, so listen to it between midnight and 3am for maximum tingles. Ravi definitely helped solidify the bluesy Malkauns as one of my favourite ragas. The second half of the album introduces Ravi’s long-time collaborator and master tabla player, Ustad Alla Rakha, with a seven-and-a-bit minute solo in Sawari tala before the two play a piece based on a folk melody, ‘Pahari Dhun.’ For me, the album is defined by that opening piece – it’s actually one of my favourite recordings of Indian classical music of all. With all of the reputation that Ravi Shankar gained for his ties to the hippie movement and his more experimental repertoire later on, it’s satisfying to hear a recording before most of that, and to appreciate the work of a true master.
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