Bliss Infested and Resurrected: From India to Ireland Without Leaving Ashland
By Holly Sheehy
On the evening of Friday, March 3rd, I was at The Unitarian Center to hear Shabda Kahn and his friends play Indian ragas. The warmly lit, spacious non-church provided appropriate ambiance, and as the crowd of predominantly older people milled about, bubbling with idle chatter, I noted that the hefty ticket price seemed to have winnowed out most of my fellow-students. The instruments waited for their musicians on a raised platform draped with lavish fabrics for seating and adornment. Two tambouras lay in back, draped seductively with cloths, one pink, one yellow. The tabla and baya drums were positioned at the front left of the stage, a pair of lovers seated in expectant silence, awaiting the start of their passionate exchange.
When the time came for the show to begin, five Caucasian men in colorful foreign clothing ascended the stage. After the hostess finished her introduction and the tambouras were tuned, front man Shabda Khan told the audience that Hindu music is a form of devotion, a path in itself, a way of awakening the heart. Ragas are literally melodic scales, and more broadly, the melodies that are played in those scales. Shabda Khan explained that, traditionally certain ragas were for different times of day, seasons, and moods. This mirrors the ancient Greek tradition that divided the scales into various “modes” that were similarly accorded special purposes, such as celebration, drinking, mourning and joy. According to the old Vedic rules, musicians were forbidden to play particular ragas except under the appropriate circumstances, but in this day and age, the rules have been moderated, and it is no longer feared that playing a night-time raga at noon might jump-start an eclipse ahead of schedule.
Taking no chances, however, the eastern westerners first played an early evening raga. The tamboura players, wearing the serious faces of dutiful messengers, droned electrically smooth, as Shabda and a bearded man exchanged vocal leads. Shabda’s face modeled sincerity, as though he sought to express something deeply meaningful, and while the other singer emanated comfortable tranquility, I laughed inside when his hands started moving as if he were milking an invisible cow – a sacred cow no doubt, I chuckled to myself. The two communicated with their hands and faces, weaving the air, drawing tonal pictures with a palette of gestures — sharp, strident, fluid, and circular — a language of tone and tempo. The tabla player generally remained aloof, but the looks he exchanged with Shabda allowed the audience an occasional glimpse of the subtle understandings musicians share through their language of glances and smiles. The pair wove harmonies and bandied melodies fluidly against a background of tabla rhythm that occasionally burst forth in spatterings like the sound of wild raindrops. As voices slid through eastern scales, they disturbed and refreshed my western sense of melody. The ebbing and swelling dynamics continually piqued my interest, tugging at some nearly-forgotten primal instinct. Tension built during languid stretches, and I wanted to shout, “Play more vigorously!” Nevertheless I held back, numbed by unaccustomed contentment. As their playing continued, the names of foreign gods flashed by on the horizon and faded behind me as my mind traveled on an ethereal voice spreading like the sky over the virgin wild. Amazed, I reveled in my good fortune – I’m alive in this magnificent cosmos.
On a Sunday afternoon, I took a friend to the weekly Celtic jam at the Black Sheep. The restaurant was bustling with life and human interactions — families laughed as they sat gathered around their tables, friends were burbling as they drank their beer, servers wove among the tables taking and dropping off orders. Searching for a table, we accepted a woman’s offer to join her. The three of us quickly established a cozy rapport that lifted my spirits. The Sheep, with its casual, unassuming atmosphere, provides a perfect home for this weekly gathering. At the far end of the restaurant, musicians chatted, settling leisurely into the chairs ringing a small table that become crowded with pint glasses in various stages of fullness and emptiness as the afternoon wore on. The musicians played just about everything you can blow, strike, strum or pick — a harp, a pennywhistle, a banjo, a mandolin, and multiple guitars, fiddles, and bodhrans found their way into the mix. Eventually, an accordion barged into the experiment, stretching the envelope further than most would consider advisable. But this is Ashland, where the envelope has already been stretched beyond recognition.
The music started sans preliminaries, and continued free of introductions. When the playing started, each musician repaired to his or her private world, displaying nearly expressionless faces, but they returned to our dimension between performances, smiling, laughing and talking like regular folks before they turned back into rapt minstrels. They might have been “jamming,” but not without skill or knowledge of the terrain as they ripped through one lively, danceable tune after another, switching instruments and accommodating new musicians in a swelling unison. I and the rest of the listeners were drawn into the spirit of sharing and celebration. My friend and I shared our lives with the woman at the table, who in turn shared hers with us. Several musicians talked with me about their instruments and music, as I hang on their every word in the midst of the happy din.
Being Irish, the experience provoked reflections on my heritage. Music is fundamental to my life, and as I thought about it, I realized it was also integral to my ancestors, although in a different way. It moved me to learn that the bodhran, a drum made of cedar and sheepskin, evolved from the old tradition of warriors beating on their shields as they went into battle. I felt a proud connection to my heritage, and I felt stronger, knowing that I am one of the Irish people, right down to my genes. Another person explained how the Illian pipes, an instrument like the bagpipe, uses of a bellows to sustain long, continuous tones. I even started learning how to dance a jig!
It would be hard to imagine Shabda Khan and his friend the serene drummer joining into the Celtic jam, but perhaps it would do them good. Both styles of music communicate appreciation for life, but in different ways. The ragas drew my attention to the universe where we can float in a vast sea of vibrations, while the music of my own ancestors drew forth the love I feel for our world and the people I see each day. The exaltation of glimpsing the infinite realms of subtle sound have meaning only when I share it with my human family. Besides, you couldn’t get a beer at the Unitarian Center.
On the evening of Friday, March 3rd, I was at The Unitarian Center to hear Shabda Kahn and his friends play Indian ragas. The warmly lit, spacious non-church provided appropriate ambiance, and as the crowd of predominantly older people milled about, bubbling with idle chatter, I noted that the hefty ticket price seemed to have winnowed out most of my fellow-students. The instruments waited for their musicians on a raised platform draped with lavish fabrics for seating and adornment. Two tambouras lay in back, draped seductively with cloths, one pink, one yellow. The tabla and baya drums were positioned at the front left of the stage, a pair of lovers seated in expectant silence, awaiting the start of their passionate exchange.
When the time came for the show to begin, five Caucasian men in colorful foreign clothing ascended the stage. After the hostess finished her introduction and the tambouras were tuned, front man Shabda Khan told the audience that Hindu music is a form of devotion, a path in itself, a way of awakening the heart. Ragas are literally melodic scales, and more broadly, the melodies that are played in those scales. Shabda Khan explained that, traditionally certain ragas were for different times of day, seasons, and moods. This mirrors the ancient Greek tradition that divided the scales into various “modes” that were similarly accorded special purposes, such as celebration, drinking, mourning and joy. According to the old Vedic rules, musicians were forbidden to play particular ragas except under the appropriate circumstances, but in this day and age, the rules have been moderated, and it is no longer feared that playing a night-time raga at noon might jump-start an eclipse ahead of schedule.
Taking no chances, however, the eastern westerners first played an early evening raga. The tamboura players, wearing the serious faces of dutiful messengers, droned electrically smooth, as Shabda and a bearded man exchanged vocal leads. Shabda’s face modeled sincerity, as though he sought to express something deeply meaningful, and while the other singer emanated comfortable tranquility, I laughed inside when his hands started moving as if he were milking an invisible cow – a sacred cow no doubt, I chuckled to myself. The two communicated with their hands and faces, weaving the air, drawing tonal pictures with a palette of gestures — sharp, strident, fluid, and circular — a language of tone and tempo. The tabla player generally remained aloof, but the looks he exchanged with Shabda allowed the audience an occasional glimpse of the subtle understandings musicians share through their language of glances and smiles. The pair wove harmonies and bandied melodies fluidly against a background of tabla rhythm that occasionally burst forth in spatterings like the sound of wild raindrops. As voices slid through eastern scales, they disturbed and refreshed my western sense of melody. The ebbing and swelling dynamics continually piqued my interest, tugging at some nearly-forgotten primal instinct. Tension built during languid stretches, and I wanted to shout, “Play more vigorously!” Nevertheless I held back, numbed by unaccustomed contentment. As their playing continued, the names of foreign gods flashed by on the horizon and faded behind me as my mind traveled on an ethereal voice spreading like the sky over the virgin wild. Amazed, I reveled in my good fortune – I’m alive in this magnificent cosmos.
On a Sunday afternoon, I took a friend to the weekly Celtic jam at the Black Sheep. The restaurant was bustling with life and human interactions — families laughed as they sat gathered around their tables, friends were burbling as they drank their beer, servers wove among the tables taking and dropping off orders. Searching for a table, we accepted a woman’s offer to join her. The three of us quickly established a cozy rapport that lifted my spirits. The Sheep, with its casual, unassuming atmosphere, provides a perfect home for this weekly gathering. At the far end of the restaurant, musicians chatted, settling leisurely into the chairs ringing a small table that become crowded with pint glasses in various stages of fullness and emptiness as the afternoon wore on. The musicians played just about everything you can blow, strike, strum or pick — a harp, a pennywhistle, a banjo, a mandolin, and multiple guitars, fiddles, and bodhrans found their way into the mix. Eventually, an accordion barged into the experiment, stretching the envelope further than most would consider advisable. But this is Ashland, where the envelope has already been stretched beyond recognition.
The music started sans preliminaries, and continued free of introductions. When the playing started, each musician repaired to his or her private world, displaying nearly expressionless faces, but they returned to our dimension between performances, smiling, laughing and talking like regular folks before they turned back into rapt minstrels. They might have been “jamming,” but not without skill or knowledge of the terrain as they ripped through one lively, danceable tune after another, switching instruments and accommodating new musicians in a swelling unison. I and the rest of the listeners were drawn into the spirit of sharing and celebration. My friend and I shared our lives with the woman at the table, who in turn shared hers with us. Several musicians talked with me about their instruments and music, as I hang on their every word in the midst of the happy din.
Being Irish, the experience provoked reflections on my heritage. Music is fundamental to my life, and as I thought about it, I realized it was also integral to my ancestors, although in a different way. It moved me to learn that the bodhran, a drum made of cedar and sheepskin, evolved from the old tradition of warriors beating on their shields as they went into battle. I felt a proud connection to my heritage, and I felt stronger, knowing that I am one of the Irish people, right down to my genes. Another person explained how the Illian pipes, an instrument like the bagpipe, uses of a bellows to sustain long, continuous tones. I even started learning how to dance a jig!
It would be hard to imagine Shabda Khan and his friend the serene drummer joining into the Celtic jam, but perhaps it would do them good. Both styles of music communicate appreciation for life, but in different ways. The ragas drew my attention to the universe where we can float in a vast sea of vibrations, while the music of my own ancestors drew forth the love I feel for our world and the people I see each day. The exaltation of glimpsing the infinite realms of subtle sound have meaning only when I share it with my human family. Besides, you couldn’t get a beer at the Unitarian Center.