Review: Deepak Raja, Hindustani Music: A Tradition in Transition (2005)

Deepak Raja, Hindustani Music: A Tradition in Transition (Delhi: DK Printworld, 2005) 432 + xxiii pages

Review by Abhik Majumdar

(an edited version of this article originally appeared in 'The Book Review', August 2007)

Deepak Raja’s book is a very interesting, somewhat idiosyncratic compilation of articles. Reviewing it poses a challenge, as it escapes the usual taxonomic classification for writings on the subject. It is clearly not a scholarly work in the formal sense. As is the case with most compilations, the various topics it encompasses cover too broad a spectrum to merit the cohesiveness one associates with academic treatises. Moreover, though some footnotes and other references have been provided, they are sparse and infrequent.

On the other hand, characterising it as a compilation of journalistic essays will be inaccurate. It bears a depth of perception and analysis seldom found in such works, or indeed anywhere else. Moreover, unlike usual collections of short essays, this book seems to have been compiled with a definite, clear-cut objective in mind.

Indeed, so intriguing is Raja’s perspective that it makes more sense to focus on this than to chart out a conventional review. The author makes use of the rather provocative phrase ‘connoisseur activism’ to describe his agenda, which is very apt. Another approach is to treat the book as a response, a quintessentially Indian response, to certain (may I suggest, Western-inspired?) scholarly practices.

The discipline of ethnomusicology is traditionally anchored to a ‘cultural outsider’ approach. Its discourses begin with the assumption that the author has no specialist knowledge as such, and conducts his research using objectively verifiable methods and processes accessible to everyone.

Raja’s methods effectively amount to an inversion of this. In the introduction, he sets out his conception of the writer’s role: ‘A writer is, after all, nothing but a connoisseur who has decided to share his understanding with other connoisseurs. And, as such, he is part of the watchdog mechanism, which keeps art faithful to its elevating (sic) ideals.’

Thus he locates the author firmly within the cultural tradition on which the book bases itself. He assumes both author and audience to be ‘insiders’ to the tradition; indeed, the book is not likely to make sense to someone unfamiliar to it. Furthermore, Raja ascribes to the author the specialist knowledge reserved for initiates within the tradition.

Often, his pronouncements seem to be bare assertions unverified and unsubstantiated by external corroboration. Such an appraisal is misleading. His views are intended to make sense to only those who possess a familiarity with the subject-matter, and often it happens that this ‘making sense’ constitutes substantiation enough for ‘insider’ audiences, a fact that those unfamiliar with the milieu may fail to appreciate.

An example may bear this out. In the essay entitled ‘Archival Music and the Cultural Process’, he discusses the impact of sound recording on our musical tradition. In the course of this, he makes the startling pronouncement, ‘The guru sisya parampara was not very different from a reliance on pre-recorded music in its explicit intent.’ He goes on to point out that this pedagogical tradition invested considerable time and effort to ensure that the disciple emerged as a faithful clone of the mentor.

Fortunately, three human failings prevented this from being successful: imperfect perception, imperfect retention, and imperfect reproduction. As a result of these three, gaps in the disciple’s learning emerged over time, gaps which he was obliged to fill by interpolating his own ideas within the framework of the mentor’s tutelage. And in this manner, a modicum of originality was infused within the tradition. As Raja himself puts it, ‘Because of these imperfections, the traditional system became an effective instrument of continuity within change.’

I cannot imagine how such an insight can be empirically verified. Indeed, seeking objectively substantiate it approximates an exercise in futility. And yet the history or our music is filled with instances of talented musicians being denied recognition as artistes of the first rank, simply because they sounded too close to a Gharana forbearer. Hence, to those familiar with this background, Raja’s assertions make perfect sense; moreover, for them, substantiation in the conventional academic manner is neither necessary nor even useful.

The book is divided into five parts: viz. Culture, Terminology and Economics; Form, Idiom and Format; The World of Ragas; The Major Genres; and The Major Instruments. While all the parts conform to a uniformly high standard of exposition, to me personally, the first chapter is of especial value. Here the author deals with how our music relates to various social, economic and technical developments. In the chapter entitled ‘If Peanuts is What You Pay’, he even uses his background in finance to analyse how market forces have actually promoted a deterioration in musical quality:

The sums add up because of the role of the two dominant intermediaries in the music market: the recording companies, and concert sponsors. They are both playing a progressively larger financial role in the music market – without having either the need or the desire to promote quality music.

In the second part, the author examines musical practices such as Jugalbandis and the use of the Tihai (a threefold repetition of a short musical phrase designed to fill a specific number of beats). As it is, his opinions are forcefully expressed; in this part they tend towards the subjective at times.

The third part is also very interesting. Here, Raja examines certain aspects of the concept of Raga. In ‘Raga Chemistry and Beyond’, he draws parallels between Ragas and concepts of hemistry. Surely an original approach, though how far the parallels are borne out is a pertinent question. On the other hand, ‘Kedara at Sunrise’, where he debunks many commonly-held myths about the time theory of Ragas, is unquestionably a piece of analysis of the highest order.

The last two parts are keyed to more functional objectives. The inside flap describes them as respectively presenting ‘comprehensive backgrounders on the four major genres of vocal music’ and featuring ‘detailed factsheets on eight major melodic instruments of the Hindustani tradition.’

Here, more than his analytical insights it is his familiarity with the nuances of the subject matter that is manifest. In the chapter on the Rudra Veena, for example, he touches upon an astonishing range of topics, including mythical lore; historical antecedents; organology; instrument design; ergonomics; acoustics; and recent performers. These chapters surely constitute valuable resource material, notwithstanding the paucity of external references.

Another thing that stands out is his integrity. For example, he himself belongs to the school of Vilayat Khan the Sitar maestro. However, when discussing the origins of the Surbahar, whose creation has been variously ascribed to Sahebdad Khan (the maestro’s great-grandfather) and Ghulam Mohammed of Lucknow, he freely admits, ‘The latest research favours the latter attribution.’

All in all, it cannot be denied that the book marks an exciting new approach to writing on Hindustani music. To be honest, it is not without its drawbacks. At certain times the forcefulness and candour of Raja’s expression might give the impression of being opinionated. But when one attempts such a strongly individualistic work, I suppose this is only inevitable. In any case, it does not mar the overall excellence of the book.

However, I feel compelled to end with a caveat: A significant part of the book, especially the earlier chapters, presumes a prior familiarity with the subject matter on the part of the audience. For this reason, despite the author’s easy writing style, some parts of the work may not be accessible to laypersons.

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Random Thoughts on Composers

While compositions are integral to classical music, composers are often neglected. I noticed the irony at a concert of Smt. Kalapini Komkali when she announced before beginning that she would be singing a composition of her fathers and after, a traditional bandish. The traditional bandish was a composition of Sadarang whose name is clearly sung as part of the song. Wouldn't it be better to say "a traditional bandish of Sadarang's"?

Considering how ubiquitous Sadarang's compositions are in the classical repertoire, I was surprised that there didn't seem to exist any analysis or listing of his compositions. I recently came across an excellent book published in 2000 that does just that, Hindustani sangit ke mahan rachnakar Sadarang Adarang by Shailendra Kumar Goswami. I have been surprised that many musicians I know were unaware of it.

A few years ago the Gundas Sangeet Sammelan here in Mumbai celebrated their anniversary (was it their 50^th?), with an impressive line-up at Shanmukananda Hall. Although in honor of "Gunidas", Jagannathbua Purohit, one of the greatest composers of recent times, no one made an effort to sing any of his compositions, not even C.R. Vyas, one of his main disciples. Ironically, the night I chose not to attend and instead went locally to hear Aarti Ankalekar she sang Gunidas's famous compositions in Jogkauns.

How many of you are familiar with Abdul Rehman Khan? He was the guru of Nirmala Devi, Lakshmi Shankar, and others including Mahendra Kapoor and Parveen Sultana for a short time. He was also the composer of many, if not all of the thumris sung by Nirmala Devi and Lakshmi Shankar on their LP masterpieces of Punjabi style singing. He also composed one of Shobha Gurtu's most popular thumris, "chod gaya sajan mera". He was a colorful personality and used to record at A.I.R. under the name A.R. Kumar.

Although arguably the most successful composer of thumris since Bindadin Maharaj, he is forgotten today. Even by people who ought to have remembered him. The other day I read an interview of Nirmala Devi's son, the Bollywood star Govinda. There he recalled his mother's guru's name was Abdul Karim Khan!

In public performances, singers often mention the composer's name when it is someone the public is familiar with (Kumar Gandharva, Ramashreya Jha, Balwant Rai Bhatt, S.N.Ratananjankar etc.), but not necessarily for Daras Piya, Sanad Piya, etc. A.I.R. broadcasts do not provide the space for any announcement of the composer, unfortunately.

I particularly like the way Smt. Veena Sahasrabudde announces and recites the lyrics with her impeccable diction before singing. Birju Maharaj has kept Bindadin's thumris alive most beautifully, but hundreds of bandsish thumris notated in the "thumri sangraha" and other books have become extinct, as have the hundreds of bandishes from Manikbua Thakurdas's books and Gokhale gharana bandishes. Thanks to the labor of love of K.G. Ginde we have the collection of S.N. Ratanjankar's compositions in "Abhinav Geet Manjiri" and the recordings of all the compositions done by Gindeji is likely to be commercially available sometime.

Very nice collections of bandishes with recordings have been done by Dinkar Kaikini, Ashwini Bhide Deshpande, Babarao Haldankar and Leela Karanbelkar (Gunidas compositions). Also expected are collections of bandishes of Khadim Hussain Khan and Sharad Chandra Arolkar. As a student of music, I am so grateful to all these great people who have continued in the tradition of the great Pt. Bhatkhande.

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Review: Mashkoor Ali Khan, New Jersey Concert (1999)

Concert: Mashkoor Ali Khan - Princeton Junction, New Jersey - 29 October 1999

Review by Chetan Vinchhi

Mashkoor Ali Khan has enviable Kirana pedigree. But his 1999 concert in New Jersey belied his roots. The air was agog with excitement at the prospect of hearing a direct descendent of Kirana gharana pioneers Abdul Karim Khan and Abdul Wahid Khan. But what does air know, huh? This is a partial review of his performance.

Well past the due time, Mashkoor Ali Khan tuned the tanpura and the surmandal, flanked on his left by Anand Gopal Bandopadhyay on the tabla and on his right by Jyoti Goho on the harmonium. As he casually plucked the surmandal, the Kalyan scale emerged. He started a brief alaap in Marubihag, a good choice for the opening item! This was the first time I was hearing him. His voice has a pleasant texture. Everything kosher so far.

The brief alaap morphed into the the canonical 'rasiya maane naa'. For the first few minutes, the raag structure was held together by the mukhada itself. After that, the mutilation began. There was no palpable design to the raaga presentation. The customary Kirana treatment of sur was conspicuous by its absence. There was a lot of sargam gayaki. In fact almost all his melodic gestures comprised of sargam! The lack of structure was reinforced by the way the taar shadaj was hurled rather gracelessly at us.

The antara was not even sung and there was no development of the antara ang and the laya increased. The faster laya gave MAK the opportunity to diplay some fearsome 'fast-fast' sargam taans. The whole aural spectacle was akin to a WWF wrestling match. And MAK was all over the poor swaras. Thus ended the baDa khayal without any aakaar taans whatsoever!

The chhoTa khayal was just a teentaal version of the latter part of the vilambit. The only faint saving grace was MAK's better facility with the drut laya. Finally, thankfully, the raag ended, the drut also without the antara being sung. Quite easily the worst Marubihag I have had the misfortune of hearing.

The second piece started with drut ektaal tarana in what was intended to be Desh. This is such an evocative melody, but the singer could not summon the romance. Chhayaas of various raags flitted in and out of the presentation, quite possibly accidentally.

We were truly in the presence of greatness that evening. Halfway through the Desh, Vilayat Khansahib walked in. Things came to a standstill as everybody recognized him. After he had settled down, the artists asked for his ijaazat to sing and continued the tarana. Most of the development here too was in the form of sargam. By now, this was par for the course. This was followed by a bandish in ati-drut jhaptaal. This was my first exposure to the taal at that laya in a classical context and I must say it sounds quite nice.

In the brief interval, Vilayat Khan-sahib was seen chatting with the artists. I fantasized about this being a spot tutorial in Desh and allied melodies!

The second half began with Darbari. It was unfortunate that the singer had already spent considerable time in the upper registers and his voice refused to go back to the mandra swaras. I think he attempted the andolit mandra dhaivat once, but could not summon it with any authority. He never revisited the swara. In the subsequent boltaan, there was a brief andolan on the rishabh! There were such excesses galore for the remaining duration of the vilambit.

The general behavioral pattern was along the lines of what had transpired in the Marubihag. Two chhota khayals followed, one in drut teentaal bandish and one in ati-drut jhaptaal bandish (another one!). That was the end of the evening as far as I was concerned. Strains of a Khamaj thumri echoed through the house as we were leaving.

Anand Gopal Bandopadhyay was excellent on the tabla. Even his thekas sounded ever so sweet. His accompaniment was exemplary. Jyoti Goho on the harmonium was quite mediocre. His fingerwork was a little sticky. And was it just an illusion that he first introduced the chhaya of Tilak Kamod in the Desh presentation?

Mashkoor Ali Khan has a cultured voice. His range (especially on the higher side) is very good - he could go to the ati-taar shadaj. But that day's performance betrayed a serious lack of tayyari or at least riyaz.

He attempted a few aakaar taans, but his voice simply wouldn't move, although his head did the requisite oscillations. I think he completed the evening without a single respectable taan! His sense of laya is a little shaky in the vilambit (e.g. he invented the 'chauthaa_ii' in the Darbari baDa khayal). He is a lot more comfortable in the faster laya.

If raagdari is defined as the ability to paint a convincing picture of raaga, he was severly lacking in that department. Perhaps he was just having a bad day, but everything was going wrong and he seemed to be blissfully unaware. If I were to pass judgment based on this performance, he has squandered the heritage of an illustrious lineage.

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Review: Janaki Bakhle, Two Men and Music (2005)

Janaki Bakhle, Two Men and Music: Nationalism in the Making of an Indian Classical Tradition (Delhi: Permanent Black, 2005) 338 + xvi pages

Review by James Stevenson

(an edited version of this article is scheduled to appear in a forthcoming issue of the 'Journal of Indian Musicology')

This book had been recommended to me and i was eager to read it. It was though a disappointment and following are the reasons why. I believe this review is coming out in the coming issue of the Journal of Indian Musicology. I don't know about the rest of you but I object to recent history being hijacked by high-flying American academics like the author of this book. I do not belong to their club and do not speak their impenetrable p.c. lingo. I suppose we ignorants do not understand the post-modernist construct or whatever it is called. I made an effort to be generous and appreciative too of the good things in the book.

At the turn of the twentieth century fundamental changes were taking place in the patronage and performance of North Indian classical music. Two Men and Music by Janaki Bakhle provides a critical view of the recent musical past, with a focus on the modernizing work of Vishnu Narayan Bhatkhande (1860-1936) and Vishnu Digambar Paluskar (1872-1931).

This unpopular musicologist and popular vocalist were responsible for giving “Indian classical music, as we understand and recognize it today, its distinct shape, form, and identity”, according to the author (5). “Bhatkhande tried to classify, categorize, and classicize music, whereas Paluskar worked to cleanse and sacralize it” (8). However, the two men are set up as adversaries whom the author adjudges respectively a failure and a success.

The shift from a declining system of court patronage to one of public performance, and from the control of hereditary Muslim ustads to that of the Hindu elite, is engagingly told in Bakhle’s book. Beginning with the Baroda court of Sayajirao Gaekwad, she provides a fascinating insight into the musicians’ roles in this court, particularly of the pioneering music reformer Maula Baksh (1833-96). The picture presented contradicts a commonly held view on the exalted position of musicians in princely states.

Bakhle follows this up with a chapter on colonial writers, late-nineteenth-century music appreciation societies, and the Marathi theatre. The themes developed in the first two chapters – modernity, colonialism, nationalism, religiosity, communalism, and institutionalized teaching – are pursued in the following chapters on V.N. Bhatkhande and V.D. Paluskar. Biographies of two musicians, Abdul Karim Khan and his daughter Hirabai Barodekar, conclude this social history of North Indian classical music.

Bakhle deserves praise for making a new body of literature available to scholars, for asking critical and sometimes uncomfortable questions, and for demonstrating that Hindu nationalist sentiments and the “cleansing” of music played an important role in the modernization process. While the appropriation of music by the Hindu bourgeoisie is convincingly documented in Two Men and Music, I feel that it is built on shaky historical foundations and some wrong assumptions. Let me give three examples.

1. With today’s knowledge it is hard to maintain that North Indian music was an unmarked practice in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (4). Although Bakhle complains about a paucity of sources (16), there exist numerous treatises and books on Hindustani music that tell us a great deal about musicians, musical practices and repertoire. Using such Persian, Urdu and Hindi sources, Allyn Miner and other scholars have demonstrated that major changes took place took place in the world of music during the eighteenth and early nineteenth century.

Indeed, it was not the period of colonial rule that marked the beginnings of music’s transformation, but the late Mughal period. It was then that courtesan singers dominated the musical scene, the vocal genres khayal and thumri rose to prominence, and instruments such as the sitar, sarod and tabla emerged. In other words, it was not a new “classical music [that] emerged in a period of colonial modernity” as Bakhle claims (15), but a new social context with new patrons and audiences to support it.

2. Was Captain N. Augustus Willard – an early-nineteenth-century authority on Hindustani music – a Christian ideologist with a missionary zeal (55-62)? Willard was neither a typical colonial writer, nor a captain in the British army as Bakhle takes for granted. He was an officer in the service of the music-loving ruler of Banda, Nawab Zulfiqar Ali Bahadur. As a Eurasian who had probably spent most of his life in India, and as “disciple” of the music scholar Hakim Salamat Ali Khan from Benares he should be considered a native writer, not a colonial writer.

Willard and his famous precursor William Jones were responsible for the notion that Indian music had declined, and there is no doubt that Bhatkhande used their thoughts for his own agenda. The mid-nineteenth-century Muslim scholar Hakim Muhammad Karim Imam shared the opinion of Willard that “most native performers of this noble science are the most immoral set of men on earth”.

In Karam Imam’s view, the musicians who taught or accompanied dancing girls were “crazy idiots” who put “even the devil to shame”. Bakhle singles out a few passages and speculates that colonial religiosity played a constitutive role in the making of Indian music’s modernity (95-95, 257). This says more about Bakhle’s own agenda (and her selective reading) than Willard’s “Christian moral outrage”. In my reading, Willard was a positivist and a staunch secularist, like Bhatkhande.

3. Bakhle avoids the topic of baijis and tawaif. She wrongly assumes that these courtesan singers and dancers were low-caste, disrespectable prostitutes who played a peripheral role in the music world. According to her, and thanks to Bhatkhande and Paluskar, “a space was created that women were able to use to enter the public cultural sphere” (11-12, 258). In fact, courtesan singers had always been in the forefront.

As classical and light-classical singers they were far more visible (and audible) than their ustads, not only in the courts but also at public ceremonies and celebrations. At the turn of the twentieth century, Gauharjan was perhaps the most famous North Indian vocalist. The enormous volume of recordings of courtesans produced in the early decades of the twentieth century, and the continued prevalence of their music reaching its zenith of popularity in the 1950’s and 1960’s with Siddheshwari Devi and Begum Akhtar, suggests a failure of the forces of “cleansing” despite the concurrent striving for respectability.

A far more complex and nuanced picture of Hindustani music in the last three centuries has emerged in recent years. But like many autodidacts, Bakhle seems disinclined to build on the work of others, particularly the work of Charles Capwell and Micheal Rosse who deal with the same period and similar topics. Instead, she presents her own, rather straightforward picture of North Indian classical music reclaimed by Hindu nationalists from Muslims through a process of sacralization.

On the one hand, she overlooks the continuity of traditions with Hindu religious connotations comfortably continued by Muslim musicians at the Mughal and other North Indian courts – most obviously in the repertoire, dominated throughout by sacred inspiration and themes. On the other hand, Muslim musicians – male and female – continue to participate comfortably in the public classical music domain. Contrary to the impression given by Bakhle, bhakti-oriented music in the form of bhajans (sometimes seen as a virtuous alternative to thumris) has had no significant impact on the modern classical repertoire.

Writing on Bhatkhande, she calls him “one of Indian music’s most contentious, arrogant, polemical, contradictory, troubled, and troubling characters” making him sound like one of India’s Most Wanted (99). I don’t find her summary of his life and work to support her provocative judgment, and even the negative portrait she presents does not show a “tragic figure”, “flawed secularist” and “failed modernist” (97) – heroic visionary would be more appropriate.

Certainly Bhatkhande’s notation system ingenious in its simplicity has rendered any others, like Paluskar’s, obsolete. His that system of raga classification and his standardization of ragas are some other contributions that have gained common currency in music circles. His Kramik Pustak Malika, the six volumes of 1800 collected vocal compositions, is a work monumental in scope unchallenged as the reference book of North Indian vocal music. Bakhle’s familiarity with the subject is open to question as she states erroneously that the songs were originally composed in Marathi and translated into Hindi (126).

In advancing the communal angle of modernization and attributing motives to Bhatkhande’s modernizing agenda, Bakhle has relied on selectively chosen private correspondence and inferences that are unlikely to withstand scrutiny of a much broader polemic, which involved many eminent musicians and musicologists – arguments not presented by the author but continuing in the present-day.

Bakhle has not given credit to the musicological contributions and success in pedagogy of Bhatkhande’s followers. Many important singers and composers of the last century spent time at the Marris College under S.N. Ratanjankar’s guidance in the two decades of its heyday; among them Kumar Gandharva, Balasaheb Poochwale, D.T. Joshi, Chinmoy Lahiri, Dinkar Kaikini, Sumati Mutatkar, V.G. Jog, K.G. Ginde, and S.C.R. Bhat. Some of these have been well-known authorities and teachers who have taught thousands of students.

Outside this circle acknowledging their debt to Bhatkhande have been musicologists like Thakur Jaidev Singh. The curriculum developed by Bhatkhande and Ratanjankar has been adopted by all the universities with departments of North Indian music. Even now in any discussion of music, Bhatkhande’s name inevitably appears. Clearly, his legacy does not seem a failure, except for the hoarding of important resource material concerning Bhatkande by some of his followers. This is unfortunate, and perhaps the author’s highlighting her difficulties in obtaining this material will result in some re-thinking by those people.

Bakhle also seems to regret that Bhatkhande did not accept the possibility of an Indo-Persian hybrid origin of North Indian music (214), or that he did not include South Indian music (133) or do more to help Muslim musicians participate in his modernizing agenda. In other words, he was not politically correct in conformity with today’s post-modernist and post-colonial theorizing. These are among the author’s most contentious conjectures unlikely to be taken seriously by musicologists.

The polemical portrait painted by Bakhle of Bhatkhande is far removed from the usual hagiography, and thanks to her book his prickly, arrogant personality will not soon be whitewashed from history. While the importance of Bhatkhande and Paluskar is undeniable, presenting them as arbiters of modernism in the national context is overstated and leaves the musicians on the sidelines of history. To put it bluntly, Two Men and Music is another Great Men history, in spite of the fact that the two men are framed in a nationalist context and their weaknesses are exposed. For this and other reasons, Bakhle’s book is likely to provoke much debate and criticism, although many may find the cumbersome academic prose difficult to digest.

Notes:

1 Whether the situation in Baroda can be used to generalize on the concurrent situation of musicians in other courts is debatable, considering a wide variety of experiences in dozens of princely states and zamindaris.

2 Allyn Miner, Sitar and Sarod in the 18th and 19th Centuries, Wilhelmshaven: Florian Noetzel Verlag, 1993; rpt. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1997.

3 Bakhle thinks that khayal rose to prominence in the twentieth century (6).

4 And he did not publish his work in 1793 but in 1834.

5 Joep Bor, “The Rise of Ethnomusicology: Sources on Indian Music c.1780 - c.1890”, Yearbook for Traditional Music 20, 1988: 51-73; “Three Important Essays on Hindustani Music”, Journal of the Indian Musicological Society 36-37, 2006: 5-14.

6 N. Augustus Willard, A Treatise on the Music of Hindoostan: Comprising a detail of the ancient theory and modern practice, Calcutta: Baptist Mission Press, 1834; rpt. in S.M. Tagore, ed., Hindu Music from Various Authors, Varanasi: Chowkhamba, 1965: 29.

7 Govind Vidyarthi, trans., “Melody Through the Centuries”, Sangeet Natak Akademi Bulletin 11-12, April 1959: 14, 19.

8 Suresh Chandvankar, ed., “My Name is Gauhar Jan”, 2002.

9 Charles Capwell, “Musical Life in Nineteenth-Century Calcutta as a Component in the History of a Secondary Urban Center”, Asian Music 18 (1), 1986: 139-63; “Sourindro Mohun Tagore and the National Anthem Project”, Ethnomusicology 31 (3), 1987: 407-30; “Marginality and Musicology in Nineteenth-Century Calcutta”, in Comparative Musicology and Anthropology

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