My exploration of music has always led me down unexpected paths. In 2007, fueled by a college grant, I embarked on a journey to Kerala, India, with a mission to immerse myself in the world of South Indian music. I was eager to study the intricate Carnatic style of classical singing and delve into the ancient rhythms and scales that stood in stark contrast to Western music theory. Beyond the classical forms, I was particularly curious about traditional Indian folk songs. Finding authentic recordings or opportunities to learn this vibrant music in the United States was proving to be incredibly difficult, making the trip all the more essential.
Kerala, a lush, verdant region on India’s southwestern coast, presented a sensory feast. Outside the bustling cities, life moved at a slower pace, and traditional customs were still deeply ingrained. I observed men wearing the simple “mundu,” a towel-like garment wrapped around their waists, often going shirtless in the tropical heat. While Kerala boasts a significant Christian population, Hinduism is prevalent, and whispers of ancient animistic beliefs, including snake worship, lingered in the cultural air. The region is also famous for its spectacular snake boat races, events punctuated by energetic rowing songs, each village seemingly possessing its own unique rendition. I even had the chance to hear one version sung by the staff at the Vijnana Kala Vedi cultural center in Aranmula village, where I was staying.
My first real encounter with South Indian folk music, or “nadan pattu” as I later learned, happened unexpectedly during the three-hour car ride from Cochi airport to Aranmula. After over 40 hours of travel, I was exhausted but immediately captivated by the music playing on the radio in my chauffeur’s car. Despite his limited English and somewhat alarming driving style, I saw him as my first connection to Indian culture and began my impromptu interview about the music.
To my Western ears, it initially sounded like Bollywood pop. “Bollywood?” I inquired.
“No,” he corrected me, “nadan pattu…ah (searching for the English words)… folk music.”
I was taken aback and instantly intrigued. I had imagined searching remote villages to unearth these songs, yet here they were, broadcasting on mainstream radio with the same prominence as any pop song. Through our broken conversation, I gathered that these old Indian folk songs were experiencing a revival in popularity. However, this resurgence came with a twist, somewhat akin to the evolution of pop country music in America. Traditional melodies were being remixed with ultra-produced, sometimes cheesy arrangements, featuring singers with a distinct twang and accompanying dance videos. This blend, however, resonated deeply with the rural and working-class communities of Kerala. This renewed interest was also tied to the strong regional pride in Malayalam, Kerala’s unique and increasingly less spoken language. While my formal music lessons at the cultural center were primarily in Sanskrit, the ancient language of the Vedas, I resolved to learn a Malayalam folk song before my time in India concluded.
Fortunately, an opportunity arose to attend a performance by a local folk band at a community hall. This experience offered a more traditional and authentic presentation of these old songs. The hall reverberated with the sound of deafening festival-style percussion, accompanying a lead singer and a chorus of about seven men. The songs were structured around call and response patterns, typically in simple 4/4 or 6/8 time signatures, often accelerating to a frenetic pace towards the end. I found myself practically alone in the vast hall in the middle of the day, but I was completely engrossed. I quickly put in earplugs, switched on my mini-disc recorder, and began scribbling notes, trying to capture the essence of the performance. Regrettably, those field recordings are now lost, but I did manage to speak with the band after their concert. They generously agreed to teach me one of their songs, “Kaithola.” I brought “Kaithola” to my Indian classical voice teacher at the cultural center, and he patiently helped me with the nuances of translation and pronunciation.
Some time after returning home from India, wanting to preserve the song in my memory, I recorded myself singing “Kaithola” with my webcam. On a whim, I uploaded it to YouTube, intending to share it with a few friends and perhaps connect with others who knew the song. To my surprise, the next time I checked YouTube, it had become my most viewed video, accumulating thousands of views and numerous positive comments. Then, in the summer of 2010, an even more unexpected comment appeared, informing me that my clip had been featured in a Malayalam political satire show and that I was now “famous all over Kerala.”
Initially, I was slightly apprehensive, worried that my pronunciation might be ridiculed. However, the reality was quite the opposite. The show, called “Politrics,” cleverly juxtaposed my rendition of “Kaithola” with a video of their health minister’s less-than-perfect English. The satirical message was that Americans were even learning Malayalam to try and understand her! This unexpected exposure catapulted my amateur recording into a different realm of “Indian Song Famous” in a very localized and humorous context.
The song “Kaithola” itself tells a simple yet poignant story of a young girl anxious about her upcoming ear-piercing ceremony. Here is the translation that my Indian voice teacher provided:
There is a pineapple-leaf mat
and on that mat there is one para of rice
(meaning: it is harvest season)
when will your uncles get to see your ear-piercing?
Your brothers have filled their bellies
with toddy (palm liquor) from the bar
when will they get to come?
At the time of your ear-piercing –
to distract yourself from the pain
– look at the green leaves of the rice paddy
After your ears are adorned with the Kaithola
will your pain be gone yet?
Now you look very beautiful
Kunyi Chirutheyi girl (that is her name)
This unexpected online attention led to another exciting development. A folk-fusion prog-rock band from Trivandrum, Kerala, called Vidwan, stumbled upon my video. Inspired, they decided to create their own arrangement of “Kaithola,” incorporating the audio from my original YouTube recording into their track. Vidwan is a group of young, talented musicians passionate about preserving their native language and folk music within a contemporary musical landscape. They shared that hard rock was popular among their generation and their preferred genre to play, but they also deeply valued Kerala’s rich cultural heritage and wanted to contribute to its preservation. The result of their fusion was truly beautiful.
Listen to Vidwan’s “Kaithola” remix
Because their remix utilized my original audio, we began collaborating on a re-recording of “Kaithola” which is planned for their debut full-length album. Working with Vidwan has been an incredible experience, and I’m excited to see what future musical collaborations we might create. It’s amazing how the internet can connect people and cultures in such unexpected and enriching ways.
If you’re interested in exploring more of Vidwan’s music, you can find them here: Vidwan Reverbnation and Vidwan Facebook. Discover the beauty of Indian folk music and the innovative sounds of Vidwan!
