Band misses The Boss

For people who played in R D Burman’s orchestra, music hasn’t been the same since he left the building.

Franco Vaz practised a rhythm on another's man's bare back for two hours until he got it right. When he did, Pancham, as famous film music composer R D Burman was fondly called, recorded it. Vaz was the drummer in Burman’s orchestra. He still feels bad for tabla-player Amrut Rao Katkar, whose back was used as the tabla. “He was big-built and we used to call him pehelwan but it must have hurt,” Vaz says.

Burman and his orchestra turned out some of the best-known Hindi film music hits of the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s. His four-decade career included the music for hit films from Teesri Manzil and Padosan (1960s) through Yaadon ki Baaraat and many more during the 1970s and 1980s, to 1942: A Love Story, a posthumous release in 1994. His last years were not very successful, though even today, nearly two decades after his death, Hindi film music continues to owe his work a huge debt.

It isn’t just the experimental rhythms on bare backs that Burman’s drummer Vaz is proud of. Vaz is particularly fond of his own drumming in “Aa dekhen zara” from Rocky, the movie that debuted Sanjay Dutt in 1981. “After a long day at work with Pancham-da,” says Vaz, “we’d wait for the next day to dawn so that we could go back and learn from him.”

Today it is a different story. Vaz says he is called in by music directors who demand that “Isme Burman ka kuchh daal do” (put in something that is trademark Burman). The 56-year-old complies, not only because it pays but because it is the kind of music that makes him want to continue to be a part of this industry.

“Otherwise,” he says, “it is all about computer programmes and software sequences, with a few acoustic sounds once in a while.” Vaz says he does a lot of studio work these days, including commercials, and also assignments with new-age music directors.

“It’s so damn chilled out now. You just play your part and leave,” he says.

If you sense a disgruntled note, you’re not mistaken. For Vaz and some of his contemporaries were the “dream team” of India’s film industry until the 1980s. They, especially Burman with the help of those who worked with him, did a great deal of experimentation. The bareback drumming, for example, but also such novelties as the sound of a school bell striking under water, of a mouth gargling, of a train passing by, of little-known musical instruments such as the reso reso (remember the scraping sound in Mere samne wali khidki from Padosan?) and the castanet (the rhythmic rapid clicks along with the reso reso in Helen’s cabaret number Matwali aakhon wale from Chote Nawab).

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“When people praise my work in movies, I tell them it’s not me but Pancham who did it,” says Pandit Ulhas Bapat, 61, who played the santoor. He has trouble remembering a lot of dates, but remembers well the day and year he bought his santoor and the day he met Burman. “I was lucky to have worked in the industry during those times,” he says. “Today we don’t even know the mood of the song while playing for it.”

Bapat is still active in the industry and is a well-known name in Indian classical music. He also tries to attend musical gatherings organised by Burman’s fans. Take the Kolkata-based club Euphony, for instance, which has organised several such musical evenings all over India. The group helps keep the memory of Burman’s music alive and fresh, and also helps former members of his orchestra to come together and play. If Joseph Monsorate declines to go to such gatherings, it is only because they are too taxing. “I play the trumpet using my breath. It isn’t easy at my age to take an early morning flight to the venue, rehearse for several hours and then play for the audience.” In Burman’s orchestra, Monsorate played the trumpet and the flugel horn. Remember the trumpet in Bachna ae haseeno from Hum Kisi Se Kum Nahi? That was him.

Monsorate’s current passion is the jazz band — The Monsorate Brothers — he has formed with brothers . “Jazz keeps me alive,” he says. He is still involved with the movies, but says it’s only for the money. “They pay me what I ask for and I just go there, play like a machine and am out. These music people, they come in with their flashy earrings and laptops and think they know music!” Homi Mullan agrees. He would much rather play in Burman’s memory. The 72-year-old played percussion instruments in the orchestra and was paid 50 paise per song four decades ago. “It was enough for people like us,” he says. “Keema pao and chai were just 25 paise at an Irani shop.” Mullan recalls that Burman would visit his home to taste Parsi delicacies.

Ramesh Iyer, the lead guitarist of Burman’s orchestra, remembers the surreal aspects of the journey with Burman. “Now when we look back at all the work we did, none of us can believe it was us.” This engineer from Mumbai faced stiff opposition from his family when he wanted to pursue music as a career. Iyer is still associated with the film industry and is busy with his compositions and classes. “We are practically jobless in the movies now,” says Iyer, with a smile.

Burman defined music and creativity for these and other members of his orchestra. As they muddle along, still trying to find creativity and magic in music, they keep looking back at their collective yesterday, when Burman would share tea and cigarettes with them — that, and the rhythm.