As a graduate student, I would often stay up late—not thinking about research articles or an upcoming presentation, but listening to my roommate’s nimble, intricate tabla playing over drones from his Shruti box. The sounds were incredibly rich and detailed. I was always mesmerized by how melodic his tabla playing sounded: it changed notes quickly, or glided between notes, or even glided to and from notes within an interval. It felt like the equivalent of watching someone cast stones over a river—its ripples were the reverberations of sound, mixing and affecting their surroundings in a beautiful way—some stones even returned to the caster’s hand, only to be cast again as the song progressed. I’m reminded of my roommate’s meditative performances while listening to your latest record, Adhyatma, except that the performances here are far more complex and rich. I love the fusion of jazz, Indian classical, and electronics you use to create such lush auditory environments. One common element throughout your productions is the tabla.
How has the tabla shaped your understanding and approach to creating solo compositions?
I think it has made me aware that textures and melodies are the same thing. My Guruji who I studied with (Sirishkumar Manji) taught me that all the strikes or notes we play have a pitch, so everything is melody and the feeling in your body and hand will translate to an overall feeling in the music. So in a way our bodies have a harmonic eminence that changes all the time. We can interact with it and influence it too. On a more obvious theoretical level I often use the Taal (rhythmic cycle) system to structure pieces or as jumping off points, or I might transpose a fragment of a traditional tabla composition and make a beat out of it or change its use in some way, which can be really interesting.
I think one of my favorite movements on the album is titled “Liminal Flowers pts. I and II.” These movements aren’t hard-hitting, necessarily, but patient in their progressions, lulling me into a pensive stupor as the warmth of the tones and instrumentals washes over my ears. It’s something to behold! I picture many possible stories that accompany these songs: a bird unsure which direction to migrate as the weather grows increasingly cold, while the song of its ancestors is heard on the wind (or wing?), which guides it ultimately to safety amongst its kin; or perhaps another story about a young woman who can’t decide whether to leave home against her family’s expectations, so she has an urgent but firm discussion with her mother, who tries and fails to convince her that staying with the family is the proper way to live. I could keep going with made-up stories, but I’m trying to show how your art evokes many visions and memories as I listen. It’s cinematic.
Do you see visuals while you create your compositions, and how has art—auditory and visual—influenced your own creative trajectory as an artist? Which mediums are most inspiring to you to create such evocative, emotional art?
I’m so glad you feel these different stories and meanings emerging as you listen. I definitely feel shapes and visions, feelings and colours. It’s all mixed up into one overall sense of what the piece is becoming and I’m not really in control of it. I try to stay very intuitive and roll with what’s happening. Everything influences me and the process, but I knew I wanted to make something that felt homemade and tapped into my inner world as much as possible. That’s probably why cassette tapes were such a theme in its making. I’ve always enjoyed digging through piles of cassettes and seeing what’s on the unmarked ones or hearing a forgotten local artist that turns out to be a genius. I find myself totally immersed and sort of afloat in a nice fuzzy world of clicks and hissy warmth. I wanted to feel that on the album and try to join it up with something more disciplined and clearly focused.
I’m always fascinated by the intersection of jazz and electronics, since the latter is a relatively new presence in recorded music. How artists fuse the two is always of interest, because electronic music is traditionally highly sequenced and rarely informed by the “randomness” or unexpected “butter notes” that Miles Davis coined—elements brought by the surprises that only humans can bring. I’ve gathered from your prior interviews and website that electronics are a major part of how you compose.
How do you retain the spirit of improvisation while using sequenced notes and progressions that the tools of electronic music typically require?
That’s a great question. I spend a long time preparing electronic ideas that are open ended and playing ideas separately that are sort of adjacent to them but equally open ended. Much of the music I’ve made has been a result of experiments and a process of trying to find modalities that would work for live improvisation that has really open possibilities. So I guess I didn’t set out to make a record but instead I was trying to make something compelling that I could do as a performance. But I’d get really into getting takes of an idea and adding details. So it took on a life of its own in that sense and it ended up being more of a recording thing, which is totally fine and probably has helped to keep the improv and live feeling in the final takes.
I know it’s odd to bring up your intro track, “Dunwich,” midway through the interview, but here it is: my first thought was mixing this song with an MC who could add lyrics over the mid-paced rhythms and flute flourishes. In fact, I think a lot of your work would also bolster lyrics, poetry, or speeches from influential figures. The words would express passionate perspectives with feeling and urgency—there’s little room for lighthearted conjecture or supposition; instead, they’d share their thoughts with the purpose of influencing others in a direction they felt was beneficial. I’m curious about your read on this!
Have you ever performed with a lyricist, or considered collaborations with vocalists to further drive home the urgency and mystical beauty that underpin your productions?
Much of my younger years as a drummer was doing sessions with singers and songwriters. It’s something I’ve always really enjoyed playing with because the voice is such a great director and playing decisions are so clear. I haven’t really met the right person to collaborate with yet but one thing I’d jump at the chance to do is work with a poet or rapper or something in between! The first time I heard my Guruji he was playing was with a beat poet.
The self-titled track, “Adhyatma,” is such a lovely progression. I enjoy the plodding, pitch-shifting, synthesized arpeggios that persist throughout the song; they serve as the foundation beneath numerous woodwinds and an evolving percussion section. I nod my head and move slowly from side to side while listening, swaying like trees in the wind as the production grows increasingly busy with what becomes a storm that never threatens to destroy the environment but instead moves its parts around, reshuffling the ecosystem so that after the winds subside, things settle into a new normal that keeps the cycle of vivacity and intrigue in life exciting.
What does your production process look like, and how much of your performance is shaped into the final composition at the editing stage versus during the recorded performance? Do you enter a meditative state as soon as you begin performing, and, if so, does that lead to many unexpected happy accidents?
The process is as I said earlier one of preparing the ground for enjoying the play of it. That’s usually how something starts. Once things pick up pace with a piece I get really really into it and spend every second I can doing it until I have to stop. So it can be quite intense and I often don’t know how half of it happens because it can be a bit trance-like. Playing wise I’m usually trying to find a mode and to stay there, and that can happen instantly or over a few days or even weeks depending on what is going on. But I avoid fixed things, I try to keep my mind open and stay experimental right to the end.