Shahid Ali Khan Concert Review

It was a rather glittering audience that filed into the lobby of the stately Winter Garden Theatre to see Shahid Ali Khan perform with Toronto tablachi Gurpreet Chana at his side. Strolling through the dazzling venue, the commoners among us could have spotted many of the South Asian media darlings we’d been watching on the telly just a few hours back, and nearly everyone seemed to be dressed as ostentatiously as if we were all going to be wedded to one another with great pomp and circumstance (I include myself in this observation; as I plodded down Queen in a chadar I probably looked as though I’d been accidentally teleported from Kabul). It seemed odd, to my mind, to see such a display of dress and power in the presence of the self-deprecating qawwal, as though the audience, and not the musicians, were the centre of the show. But Shahid Ali Khan and his party swiftly made themselves the focus of the evening with their often awe-inspiring and otherworldly performance.

I have to interpose to say something about the effect that this show had on me even before it actually began. Here was a concert that bereaved myself -- and many others, I’m sure -- of a long-cherished stereotype associated with Desi events, which was this: it seems a matter of principle that any respectable Desi performance must needs be introduced by a) a witless anglophone master/mistress of ceremonies cracking awful jokes and pronouncing everything all wrong, or b) a Laurel and Hardy duo of MCs trying alternately to do a sort of standup comedy between themselves and delivering banal commercial announcements. Alas for this time-honoured tradition! For starters, even before the MCs came on themselves, the young woman whose job it was to introduce them pronounced everything quite well, to our collective astonishment, I think. The MCs, Raheel Raza and Sarbjeet Singh sauntered up to the podium immaculately attired, and presented an interesting introduction to the performance, switching between English, Urdu and Punjabi. Shocking.

From Shahid Ali Khan’s own humble self-introduction, it seemed as though he were feeling the weight of his ustad’s reputation. He begged (in Urdu) that the audience should forgive him if he were to make a mistake or to falter in his performance. I admit, I was sceptical, as I suppose I always am, about the quality of his voice. The upstart qawwal proved me wrong as the evening went by, displaying an absolutely unearthly vocal range. Was it equal or unequal to Nusrat’s? Who cares? Why compare? The point is that this man has an awe-inspiring voice.

Beginning with a qaul or invocation and proceeding to sing in praise of God (in "Allahu"), the Prophet, and Ali, the qawwal and his party ably showed their worth. The fervent dhikr or repetition of Ali’s name had a particularly striking edge to it, after the piously self-abasing declaration in Persian: "Ali imaam-i man ast o man am ghulaam-i Ali"; "Ali is my master, and I am the slave of Ali." (Nusrat adds "ke sag-i kuu-i sher-i yazdaan am"; "For I am a dog in the lane of the Lion of God.") What roused the crowd, though, was his renditions of the Punjabi qawwalis, "Kinna Sohna," made famous by Bally Sagoo and Raja Hindustani, and the incomparable "Ni Main Jaana Jogi De Naal." There were plenty of people in the audience who couldn’t understand any of the words but still had a great time; as for those of us who knew what the lyrics meant, it was sheer bliss. It includes a poem attributed to Baba Bullhe Shah, much beloved of qawwals, that sends a tingle of mischief down the spine of the one who understands the biting criticism of the lines:

paRh paRh álim fázil hoyá
kaddí apNe áp núñ paRheyá hí nahíñ
já já waRdá mandir masítáñ
kaddí man apNe wich túñ waReyá hí nahíñ
ainweñ roz shatán nál laRdá
kaddí nafs apNe de nál laReyá hí nahíñ
bullhe sháh ásmáníñ uDdiyáñ phaRdá
jihRá ghar baiThá ohnúñ phaReyá hí nahíñ

You’ve read and read and become a scholar;
but you’ve never read your own Self.
You penetrate all the temples and mosques;
but you’ve never penetrated your own mind.
Every day you do battle with Satan,
but you’ve never done battle with your desires.
Bullhe Shah, you grasp at what flies in the sky
but you’ve never grasped what’s sitting right at home.

The repertoire that night consisted mainly of Nusrat’s material, viz., “Haqq Ali,” “Kinna Sohna,” “Mast Nazron,” etc., most of which songs we almost knew by heart – nonetheless it was a pleasure to hear all of them. Probably this is the single criticism one could make of the performance: it obviously relied heavily on the compositions of the behemoth qawwal who had been Shahid Ali’s teacher, and indeed Shahid Ali Khan’s voice appeared to approximate Nusrat’s at many points. But in the absence of any recordings this is obviously a potent way for a relatively new artist to promote and endear himself to an audience base. More to the point, even when repeating his ustad’s qawwalis, Shahid Ali intermittently showed that he was much more than a mere mimic. There was a point in the concert at which he announced that the next song would be Baba Bullhe Shah’s kaafi “Piya Ghar Aaya,” and as they seemed ready to begin, a despotic voice from the audience started up requesting “Sanson Ki Mala” instead. He looked hesitant for a few seconds, and finally assented, with an “achha” of compliance. Though enraptured by his performance, I know I was thinking that if he choked on the unexpected piece, it would mean that he was too inflexible or too much of an imitator.

“Sanson Ki Mala” (“borrowed” by Madhuri Dixit in the pitiful Rakesh Roshan film Koyla) is one of the few songs sung by Nusrat that I’ve never really fancied; too slow and monotonous for me, and I thought that Shahid Ali Khan would fare badly with it. Instead, he shone so brightly that even his fellow musicians seemed dazed by the proportions of what he was doing. He used the piece to explode into a spellbinding series of ex tempore notes which showed better than anything previous to what heights his voice could soar, and with what awesome power his otherwise meek frame could be charged, so that the distinguished guests, the notable media personalities, the glitterati, and the extravagant theatre itself were eclipsed in the mind of the viewer and the listener by the prospect of that voice and of the sight of the dramatic cross-legged writhing of the body from whence it sprung.

After this hypnotic piece, “Piya Ghar Aaya” went on as scheduled, done very nicely, and with a lot of folks coming up onto the stage and leaving money for Shahid Ali and Gurpreet; at one point there must have been three people doing this at once. It got a bit surreal, however, when a lady came up to the musicians and began pulling what looked like little strips of coloured paper out of her purse and throwing them all over the artists and their instruments in a celebratory manner. (Never mind the eerie clouds of chalk issuing from Gurpreet’s tablas from time to time.) Anyhow, it certainly made the night that much more interesting. The song featured a long sort of jugalbandi in which Shahid Ali Khan would improvise a melody, and Gurpreet would respond with a particular taal or rhythm. I’m not sure whether there must be a one-to-one relationship between the sur (melody) and the taal in this case, but it obviously required a lot of skill, and it was fascinating to see Gurpreet tapping out his replies. Not only this exhibition, but Gurpreet’s entire performance that evening gave the community a reason to feel proud of him, especially as Shahid Ali Khan meted out his own praise, explaining to the audience that what his tablachi had done was by no means a simple feat.

According to the well-known account, when the Prophet of Islam died, his followers were shocked, perhaps because they believed him to be something more than human. His companion Hazrat ‘Umar was in denial, and he hotly protested that the rumours of the Prophet’s death were unfounded. But at last Hazrat Abu Bakr, who knew better, made an announcement: “If anyone here worships Muhammad, let them know that Muhammad is dead; but if anyone here worships God, let them know that God is alive and shall never die.” Shahid Ali Khan’s concert at the Winter Garden Theatre proved that, though artists as great as Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan may come and pass away, qawwali lives on.