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East and West met in music in one of the earliest such encounters when violinist Menuhin and sitarist Ravi Shankar played together
sation was, of course, a virtue which Western singers are not generally called upon to display. These ancient singers joined the ancient gurus in my mind, joint symbols of a system of values which put time at the service of accomplishment. If not necessarily an inherited trade in the manner of ear cleaning, music making is something to begin practicing early, say at three years old, with the prospect of a measure of excellence before one is thirty. As with other improvised music, a rigorous structure must be mastered if creation is to flower at the moment of performance. Otherwise, to improvise would be to invent a language on the spur of the moment. Grammar, syntax, vocabulary must all be known before the everyday miracle of speech occurs. So it is with improvisation. It presupposes a path between the mind's dictation and the fingers' obedience so short that it can't be measured, but the laying of the path is the work of technique and discipline developed in years of training. I have heard Indian music played by the untalented and the insufficiently trained: it is the most tedious thing imaginable, safely straitjacketed within the laws and observances of the raga, never straying from the worn banalities of the cliche. I have also heard, and indeed helped introduce to the West, the masters-Ravi Shankar, who plays the sitar, Ali Akbar Khan, whose instrument is the older, perhaps less brilliant sarod, Chatur Lal, the tabla player who took the United States by storm, then died tragically young of cancer. None of the instruments in the Indian classical range, developed for temple performance to the greater glory of God, have great carrying power, a shortcoming which nowadays is got the better of by electrical amplification permitting performance in stadiums holding several thousands of listeners. But to be present, as I have been, at a "chamber music" recital by Ravi Shankar and Ali Akbar Khan, each goading the other to new heights of invention, is an experience more magical than almost any in the world. One is in the presence of creation. Given his form and meter before he starts, like a poet commissioned to write a sonnet or a ballad, the Indian musician resembles more a medieval troubadour than a composer sitting before blank paper at his desk. He does not interpret; he is. An oral tradition is a wonderful thing, keeping meaning and purpose alive and accessible. As soon as an idea is confined tq the printed page, an interpreter is required to unlock it. The Indian musician requires no intermediary; he creates in public and does not keep
a record. Naturally I am novice in the matter, having neglected at the age of three to begin the necessary schooling and to anchor myself in the tradition; when I play with Ravi Shankar I must learn my lines beforehand. But even at this subordinate distance from genuine improvisation, participation in Indian music means much to me-urging in sequences which will never be repeated the savoring of each note; heightening the ear's perception of the notes, the rhythms arid the flexible tensions between them; increasing, as some drugs are said to do, awareness of phenomena; safeguarding against the staleness of repetition. A great artist, a Rubinstein or a Rostropovich, does not repeat, but relives his repertoire, assisted by orchestra and audience and the urge to live life to the full with the means at his disposal. But repetition remains a hazard for us all, in the office, the factory, even the concert hall; and perhaps it becomes more crucial as one reaches an age to indulge in fewer adventures, to find acceptable less new music. I have said that Indian music sprang surprises on me, a statement which, while true enough, requires qualification. There had been a long apprenticeship in my devotion to gypsy music, one European debouching of the Indian stream. Among the earliest pieces to move me was Sarasate's "Gypsy Airs," a predictable enthusiasm for a Jewish violinist of Russian provenance, but also an augury of later passions. The phrase "It's the gypsy in me," generally offered in extenuation of disorderly conduct, bears witness, however, to a need wider than mine alone for the refreshment of living with the moment as if one had never known it before. Perhaps because I was by temperament or training inclined, even at the crest of a wave, to calculate its amplitude and momentum, I have always thirsted for abandon. Just as yoga promised release from physical impediments, so improvisation promised abandon to musical impulse. Thus, Ravi Shankar followed the gypsies and, in course of time, Stephane Grappelli, the great jazz violinist, followed Ravi Shankar, successive mentors on a journey to spontaneity. But the desire to travel that path was always latent; as probably it is for other violinists. I was introduced to Grappelli through his recordings, which so impressed me that a few years ago I persuaded him to play with me. Again, my part was prepared in advance (by Max Harris, an excellent musician), but in our recording sessions Grappelli never repeated himself; each "take" he played differently, as the inspiratiOn of the moment suggested. He is a man I envy almost as much as I love him, who off the cuff can use any theme to express any nuance-wistfulness, brilliance, aggression, scorn-with a speed and accuracy that stretch credulity. If we pursue our joint sessions long enough, I may, even at my advanced age, learn the knack of improvising. It is a process that cannot be hurried, however, nor can I give it the time it requires; so at present I am content with the role of novice, happy to take what jazz can teach me. To reach our apogee, we have to subjugate our natures, then to free them. In the venture, each tradition, the extempore and the interpretative, can help the other, and those musicians who synthesize the two are the most complete, the worthiest of our admiration. That is perhaps why I have always adored Enesco. As I have suggested, the lines of my life are mostly simple, rounding the circle where they are not straight. 0