Pancham Unmixed had no access to live interviews of RD, nor any clips of the genius at work. In comparison, Brahmanand Singh’s first film marks the true breakthrough in this genre. He sought succour and redemption in music and in the process, he created a legacy that we hum along with. The inner strength of the man comes through when he faced the great tragedies in his life. They showcase Jagjit Singh’s quick wit and disarmingly self-deprecatory humour.
PANCHAM UNMIXED AN UNENDING JOURNEY TRIAL
Singh’s film freely draws from TV shows - the inimitable Farooq Sheikh’s warmth and mellow wit on Jeena Isika Naam Hai and the faux trial mounted by the unbearably oily Rajat Gupta (I simply can’t understand his longevity) on Aap Ki Adalat. The way Gulzar speaks about Jagjit is so uniquely his own: to the effect that the maestro’s voice evokes a similar pain and pleasure when the scab over a healed wound is scratched – it’s the grain under that velvety voice. It is with Gulzar’s Mirza Ghalib - a landmark in Indian television, for the way it brought out the complexity of the great poet, and recreated that era with a visual depth rare on the small screen – that Jagjit Singh finally crossed the intellectual bar that was invisible and yet present, despite all that huge popularity. Everyone talks with warmth and gratitude of his generosity, and the many ways he helped out colleagues as well as acquaintances with money, as well as how he used his contacts when the person was faced with a dire medical emergency. There is a lovely story of how he read Urdu magazines and wrote down the poems that he liked, and then hunted for the poet to share the royalty for a ghazal he had already composed.
Singh addresses the criticism often levelled against Jagjit Singh: he chose easy-to-comprehend, lesser-known poetry instead of the great masters Ghalib and Mir. The juxtapositions are organic: extensive clips of live concerts and the singer alone with his harmonium, effortlessly creating a melody to encase a poem he came across. He weaves these together seamlessly, and Jabeen Merchant’s editing - a brutal task when there is so much footage - is fluid, transiting to a new segment with grace. Singh’s research is impressively thorough - family, friends, fellow musicians, collaborators, filmmakers, ordinary fans, the usual suspects - but the way he elicits their memories, insights and recounting of particular incidents is remarkable for its depth. Singh’s film flows like a ghazal, bringing alive the man, his music and the highs and lows of his life. Jagjit Singh is the most popular and well-loved ghazal maestro, whose mellifluous voice and distinct diction seduced the non-cognoscenti into becoming fans of this form, where the poetry is as important as melody. He is embedded in the nuances of classical music, then went on to discard this heritage for western rock and returned to Indian music through the accessibility of film music, thus finding a treasure trove. Here is a filmmaker who was exposed to music from childhood, where a grand-uncle trained in the Aladiya gharana and Brahmanand himself became a shagird of Ustad Aslam Khan for five years or so.
PANCHAM UNMIXED AN UNENDING JOURNEY FULL
Singh has the gift to make two memorable documentaries that do full justice to his chosen subjects, and to leave you asking for more even after the 2-hour plus films are over. Both are one of a kind, and demand passion that is one of a kind. It is difficult to capture and convey the birth of a song, the creative crucible in which the melody simmers before it takes wing and soars free, more so when it comes to a composer like R.D Burman and ghazal maestro Jagjit Singh. What Jagjit did was to create a ledge to get past the wall and thus revived a dying form.
Zakir Hussain elaborates with simple clarity: traditional ghazal singing had hit a wall. This applies to both Pancham Unmixed…Mujhe Chalte Jaana Hai, his first film in the genre that won a national award and now Kagaz Ki Kashti, an ode to Jagjit Singh, who made ghazal lovers of even those untutored in the intricacies and felicities of Urdu shayari.
He invites you to join his discovery of the chosen genius and takes you along the musician’s journey, with marvellous insights from colleagues, connoisseurs and common folk. One can cobble together clips interspersed with talking heads like TV does to fill the weekend slot, which is so predictably boring and eminently missable. Brahmanand Singh, on the other hand, proves that making a film on a popular musician can be creatively enriching, totally engaging and effortlessly educative – for the filmmaker and the audience. Classical music demands a different approach and skill set. It is popular music – filmi and non-filmi – that is the irresistible siren to filmmakers. If music is the most abstract of arts, making films on musicians is paradoxically difficult and easy.