Thank you for the music

In 1969 which Rajesh Khanna-Sharmila Tagore song put hearts out of rhythm? We know it was the sensuous Roop tera mastana from Aradhana; SD Burman was the music director, and lovelorn bathroom singers for generations have done their unique copies of Kishore Kumar’s voice. No prizes warranted here.

But, here’s a million-dollar question for the rich, the not-so-rich and the slumdogs:
Who played the piano accordion in the background for the song?

Before disappointment hits you, the answer is Kersi Lord. Symbolising an era of ‘melody’, this is just the tip of the iceberg of the man’s achievements. Songs like Yeh mera dil from Don (1978) and Chura liya hain from Yaadon ki Baraat where he played the keyboard, are sterling samples. The irony, though, is that a nation so obsessed with the staple song-and-dance diet of mainstream cinema never stepped behind the screen to notice these unsung heroes.

In similar anonymity lives an accomplished flautist and saxophone player Manohari Singh, and five hundred other musicians. It was these artists to whom the music directors, singers and actors of an era are forever indebted. Those were the decades when the likes of Naushad, SD Burman, Shanker-Jaikishen, Madan Mohan, OP Nayyar, Salil Chowdhury, Kalyanji-Anandji, Laxmikant-Pyarelal and RD Burman wrote music. The digital age was a distant speck in the horizon and grand orchestras ruled. A good musician was always sought after and he virtually played for all the composers. The scene changed from the nineties, when digital music brought an end to their primary source of livelihood.

Gregory D Booth’s recently published book Behind the Curtain: Making Music In Mumbai’s Studios faithfully recreates that age. But, more importantly, it reveals musicians who always remained behind the curtains.

Kersi now lives the life of a retired king in his sprawling apartment at Bandra’s Almeida Park. Kersi’s tastefully done-up drawing room is a study in contrast. It has a huge LP-CD library featuring almost every genre of music — jazz, Hindi films, western classical, you name it, he has it. Strains from the sixties, seventies and eighties permeate the air when he chooses to indulge in nostalgia.  But his instruments are stacked away in a room, out of bounds for the prying visitor. He has vivid memories of his 60-year-old association with film music. “In those days, music studios were as big as a warehouse, unlike the one-room apartment spaces of today’s digital studios. There were spaces earmarked for rhythm, string, brass, guitar and mallet sections. They could accommodate about 100-odd musicians. But the recordings of Laxmikant-Pyarelal rendered even that insufficient; some players had to stand outside the studio. We used to call them outstanding musicians,” quips Kersi.

Kersi’s father, Cawas Lord, hailed as a pioneer of sorts, is credited with introducing Latin percussion in Hindi films. Kersi himself was no less versatile. He began his career with piano accordion and percussion. Later he introduced Glockenspiel and the synthesiser. His contemporaries call him the grand-dad of electronic music in Hindi films.

While Kersi no longer lives amidst his instruments, Manohari still travels with his concert flute and saxophone. Last month, the 78-year-old played at a live function in Bangalore. A couple of weeks ago he was in Kolkata to attend a musical soiree in the memory of RD Burman.

Like Kersi, Manohari too is versatile, and is equally at ease with Western and Indian classical music as with jazz. He first came to Bombay from Kolkata at the insistence of Salil Chowdhury. Like several struggling musicians of the time, Manohari too took up residence at the legendary composer’s apartment. “In the late 50s and early 60s we were paid Rs120 for eight hours. Then there was overtime, which also brought in a tidy sum,” he recounts.

Manohari juggles his memory to come up with some of his enduring contributions—the title music of the film Junglee, the title song of Dil tera deewana and the saxophone renditions for the songs Bedardi balma and Aji ruth kar in the film Aarzoo.

Many of these musicians spent evenings jamming at Mumbai’s nightclubs. Since they were also well versed in jazz and Western classical, the jamming sessions became an occasion to reinforce the relationships forged at the music studios. “For both Kersi and Manohari, it is impossible to list favourites. Each of them must have played in some 15,000 songs. That’s more than the output of Lata and Asha put together,” says researcher and music critic Kushal Gopalka. “You could not have thought of an RD composition without Kersi being a part of it,” asserts Gopalka.

Not in the same league, but still quite formidable, is Homi Mullan with an impressive body of work. In Calcutta, he learnt piano under V Balsara and tabla from Gyanprakash Ghosh. The shift to Bombay was an obvious career choice. “Playing music at that time was both a creative and invigorating exercise, and not without its fair share of dangers. If you made a mistake, you had it as re-recording was an expensive affair. After 1pm for every half-an-hour, you could charge overtime,” he muses.

These greats aren’t entirely bitter about new-age music. “One learns to live with it. But digital music lacks the imagination, flavour and fervour of orchestras,” says Homi Mullan, somewhat resigned.

While Kersi fondly reminisces about the age of creating melody, he does check out the more recent film music and albums—DevD is the latest. “The background score and songs have an earthy feel to them,” he concedes.

But then for a musician at heart, there is no full stop. The spirit of inquiry plays on.