Lollywood's Prince of Pop: Ahmed Rushdi

Noor Jehan is Pakistan’s most well known and certainly most loved popular singer. With a career that began in pre-Partition India, Madam Noor Jehan is widely considered, not only the best popular singer Pakistan has ever produced, but perhaps the greatest female voice from the entire sub-continent.  She migrated ‘back home’ to what had become Pakistan, in 1948, where she ruled the roost without having to fend off any serious challenge to her undisputed status as Malika-e-Tarunnum (Empress of Melody) until her death in 2000.

A confluence of politics, economic priorities and feudal dismissiveness saw the once strong Lahore and Karachi based film industries steadily weaken in the years following Independence.  It didn’t have to be this way. On Pakistan’s very first day as an Independent nation, the celebrations in Karachi marking the occasion were headed up by one of Bombay’s hottest jazz band leaders, Ken Mac, who was flown in especially to set the right tone! In attendance at the hot dance party was none other than Pakistan’s first Prime Minister, the prickly Mohammad Ali Jinnah. The mind simply boggles, from this historic remove!  Read about this very cool ‘birth of Pakistan’ at Naresh Fernandes’ fabulous website.

With Bollywood now a global brand it is too easy to relegate the Pakistani film industry (Lollywood) to a history that holds, ‘it was never any good’.  Barring Noor Jehan, and even then very few beyond the northern parts of the sub-continent would know her name or music, Lollywood has been unable to make a dent in the world’s popular consciousness.

Tonight’s post is a small attempt to set the record straight(er).  Ahmed Rushdi was born in Hyderabad (Deccan, not Sindh) into an un-musical, religiously observant family. Though his father was censorious of such worthless activities as popular music, his son persisted in listening to the radio and dreaming.  An older man in the neighbourhood convinced the family to enrol Ahmed in a local music school in Hyderabad, but unlike most of his contemporaries and peers, Rushdi never had formal instruction from a classical singer.  He was about as natural and self-taught as one could be. 

In 1951, Ahmed, it is claimed by most (but also disputed by others) got his first break in the Hindi film Ibrat, in which his brother Arsalan, also starred. Whatever the truth, in 1954 we find him in Pakistan where he has migrated with his family.  Within 12 months he was auditioning at Radio Pakistan and several months later had a huge hit with a reworking of a tune made popular by Lata Mangeshkar   in the 1951 film Hum Log: Bahe ankhiyon se dhaar, jia mora beqara.

Rushdi, took the basic tune of Lata’s song, added a catchy galloping sound and took his listeners on a tour of Karachi city. The song Bander Road se Kemari (From Bandar Road to Kemari) was a massive hit and has become an icon of Pakistani popular culture. Rushdi sings the song from the viewpoint of a tongawala (horse carriage driver) who is obviously very proud of this great modern city and relishes pointing out all the sights to his passengers.

Film work soon followed and Ahmed Rushdi  quickly rose to be king of the playback scene.  Throughout the 60s and through most of the 70’s his was the male voice of the film industry. The 1966 film Armaan, had Rushdi doing a jazzy guitar driven pop number, Ko Ko Kareena, which sounds as if Johnny Cash has woken up in Karachi after a night of heavy hash smoking.  In fact, the song is again a re-working of a popular Goan song of the same name, sans, of course the film-specific Urdu lyrics.  Ardent fans claim Ko Ko Kareena was the first ‘pop’ song in South Asia, which is not entirely credible. But it certainly is an early and very strong example of the genre that both film industries would, over the years, come to perfect. (Watch the scene from Armaan below)

Rushdi has a voice that sits somewhere between that of Kishore Kumar’s and Mohammad Rafi’s. It is melodic and sweet but (to judge from this collection) he does not have the vocal or emotional range of Rafi.  Ahmed Rushdi’s improbable place at the top of a nation’s pop charts finally came to an end with the arrival of a true pop singer Alamgir and the emergence of the ghazal  as the musical lingua franca of the middle class. 

This collection is called Meri Pasand (My Choice) and represents, presumably, Rushdi’s personal favorites.  It is a fantastic selection for sure, not just because of the ground-breaking Ko Ko Kareena but because it includes such gems as Gol Gappey Wala Aaya, Salaam-e-Mohabbat and Ek Uran Khatola from the delightfully titled action film, Jane Bond: 008 Operation Karachi.

Ahmed Rushdi may have been  royalty in a minor kingdom but one can’t help but wonder had to remained in India, would his name be mentioned in the same breath as that of Rafi and Kishore?

            Track Listing:

            01 Liye Aankhon Mein Ghuroor (Jaise Jante Nahin)

02 Ko Ko Koreena (Armaan)

03 Kabhi to Tumko Yaad (Chakori)

04 Kisi Chaman Mein Raho (Aanchal)

05 Salaam-E-Mohabbat (Salaam-e- Mohabbat)

06 Aisi Raat Allah (Jaise Jante Nahin)

07 Akele Na Jana (Armaan)

08 Gol Gappay Wala Aaya (Mehtab)

09 Jane Tamanna Khat Hai Tumhara (Chand aur Chandni)

10 Yadash Bakhair (Anjuman)

11 Gori Ke Sar Pe Sajke (Tum Mile Pyar Mila)

12 Kuch Log Rooth Kar Bhi (Andleeb)

13 Ek Uran Khatola (Jane Bond 008 Operation Karachi)

14 Bekal Raat Beetai (Endhan)

15 Ae Abar-E-Karam Aaj Itna (Naseeb Apna Apna)

16 Gudiya Japani (Khamosh Nigahiyan)

17 Bander Road Se Keamari (Extra Track)

here

Bollywood's Original Superstar: Rajesh Khanna (RIP)

Rajesh Khanna

Rajesh Khanna was my first hero. Hero in the sense of an Indian movie superstar.  He was in fact, the original Bollywood superstar, handsome and suave with the perfect ‘wheatish’ complexion.  Throughout my early teen years, each of his films seemed to be smash hits. Aradhana, Kati Patang, Anand, Haathi Mera Saathi, Roti and on and on.

He epitomized the very notion of masculinity and male beauty for me. Unusually, he didn’t have a moustache, always clean shaven and with a wonderfully sweet smile.  He has passed away tonight just one year off 70.

The following from BBC is a good summary of his place in Indian cinema and popular culture.

Rajesh Khanna, who has died aged 69, was considered to be the first superstar of Hindi cinema. Author Siddharth Bhatia recounts the magical years when the Bollywood actor was a national heartthrob.

Never before and almost never afterwards has any Hindi actor been so idolised as Rajesh Khanna during his peak years.

But by 1986 his star had faded. His star qualities, however, had not.

At that time the entire Bollywood film industry in the state of Maharashtra went on strike. The dispute was over a tax-related decision by the state government. All shooting came to a halt.

Each and every star came out on the streets of Bombay - now known as Mumbai - to participate in a protest march and make fiery speeches.

Various stars were appointed to handle different aspects of the agitation - Rajesh Khanna (or Kaka, as he was called) was made the spokesperson.

On the face of it, this was a strange decision. The star, though in decline, was known for his somewhat erratic ways. He was moody, temperamental and unreliable. At the very least there were fears he would not be accessible to the press - there was no live television in those days.

Yet, he rose to the occasion. He briefed the press regularly and met anyone who wanted to see him, cogently explaining the industry's point of view. On this issue, he was less a star and more a professional.

I met him during those days and got to know him well. After I wrote somewhere praising his skills as a spokesman, he called me over to express his thanks. "Do you really think I was good?" he asked, almost not believing what had been said about him.

'Starry airs'

It turned out that we had a very good common friend. I began dropping by Khanna's office with this friend and the three of us used to sit and have a cup of tea and samosas, talking about the world.

The actor was renowned for his inimitable style

For me these were wonderful moments - sitting with the biggest star this country had ever seen who, even in 1986, retained an aura.

For him, I suppose, it was a chance to be just another normal human being. The starry airs were always present (he used to surface only at noon), but he was charming and relaxed.

By 1986, the heyday of Rajesh Khanna was over. He had burst upon the scene in 1969, a fresh, chocolate faced hero in the '60s style, romancing his heroines with a smile and a twinkle.

Shammi Kapoor and Dev Anand were aging, while Amitabh Bachchan - who today is arguably Bollywood's biggest star - was a small time actor.

Rajesh Khanna smoothly moved into the breach with Aaradhana, singing Mere Sapnon ke Rani (Oh, beloved of my dreams!). Millions of young girls imagined he was singing to them.

Film upon film followed, each one a hit. Those were the years in which an actor had five or six films on hand at any given time - taxis, Raj Kapoor called them - but for most stars, not all of them succeeded at the box office.

Rajesh Khanna was the exception. He just could not deliver a flop. People sang with him, romanced with him and cried with him; he knew how to squeeze those tear ducts; he must have died on screen in more films than anyone else.

In Anand, there was not a dry eye in the cinema when his voice came from the tape recorder, saying "Babumoshai" to his friend Dr Bhasker.

In the first half of the 1970s Bollywood belonged to him and no one else until Amitabh Bachchan came and destroyed everything before him.

Lovable and charismatic

Rajesh Khanna was every mother's son, every sister's brother and every girl's handsome boyfriend. He may have been cliched in his romantic roles, but he lit up the screen. "Pushpa, I hate tears," he said in Amar Prem and the audience swooned.

Rajesh Khanna made many super hit films during the peak of his career

The gossip writers analysed his every move and wrote about his heroines, but he was not someone you could taint or criticise - he was so lovable.

The biggest criticism about him during his superstardom was about his "chamchas" (hangers-on). All stars have yes men, but Kaka was in a different league. His hangers-on were omnipresent, practically living with him 24/7. Even his young wife Dimple complained about his companions.

Years later, in the late 1980s, over a drink or three with him late into the night, he suddenly said: "My chamchas destroyed me."

He spoke about his own youthful immaturity, how he could not cope with his fame and how his fair-weather friends led him astray. It was less a bitter cry, more a rumination about how things had turned out.

He brought with him a whiff of fresh air to Bollywood, a new romantic style of acting which floored millions of cinema lovers in India. But in his later years, sick and infirm, the actor was a pale shadow of his former self.

Rajesh Khanna's decline happened slowly. A combination of changing audience tastes, poor film selection and the emergence of newer stars put paid to his career; it did not help that he did not evolve as an actor and change with the times.

Dev Anand managed to remain a hero for three decades and more, but he was an exception; at some stage an actor has to realise his time is up and choose character roles.

But despite Rajesh Khanna's unquestionable talent, he sometimes made poor choices. Shifting into politics was his way of getting out, but he was not cut out for the hurly-burly of political life.

He almost defeated LK Advani of the BJP party in elections and subsequently became an MP, but in his political career he remained on the sidelines.

Towards the end of his life Rajesh Khanna appeared in a somewhat low-brow advert that played upon his superstar days. It drew more criticism than praise.

It was at the same time apparent that he was not in the best of health, with his sunken cheeks and thin body.

But when he said "Babumoshai", it all came emotionally back for an entire generation of film fans. (http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-india-18738482)

Along with his films my earliest real memories of Indian filmi music came from his films. Kishore Kumar, who had been around the Bombay movie scene since the late 50s, with only mediocre success, shot to fame as the voice of Rajesh Khanna. With songs such as Roop Tera Mastana, Zindagi Ek Safar, Yeh Shyam Masatani and Chingari koi bhadke (just to name a small handful of hits) Kishore Kumar became the biggest playback singer of all time. 

So to say alvida (farewell) to Rajesh and all the absolutely wonderful memories he and his unseen voice, Kishore, left us, I post tonight a collection of some of the ultra hits from Khanna sahib’s films.  (Also a couple snippets of dialogue from the film Roti).

Kishore Kumar

        Track Listing:

        Roop Tera Mastana

Yeh Reshmi Zulfen (Mohammad Rafi)

Yeh sham Mastani

Zindagi ek safar hai

Mere dil ke chain

Karvaten badlte rahe

Jeevan se bhari teri ankhen

Mere Diwanepan ki bhi dawa nahin

Zindagi kaisi hai paheli (Manna Dey)

Chingari koi bhadke

Main shair badnaam

Mere naina sawan bhadon

Dialogue (Roti)

here

     

Stellar Soundtracks: Amar Akbar Anthony

In June 1975 Indira Gandhi declared India to be in need of Emergency administration. Predictably, thousands were arrested, press freedoms were done away with, political parties banned and Congress goondas presided over a new political dispensation based on fear, sloganeering and forced social engineering. All completely anathema to most Indians up until that point.

The next two years were dark. The Emergency divided the country and tainted public figures for years to come. The Nehru family’s reputation and that of the Congress Party were damaged forever.

But then in 1977 in a fit of self-deception typical of all autocrats Indira decided she’d like to bask in the love of her ‘disciplined’ people and called them to the polls to vote her in again.  Well, being very naughty children, they grabbed the opportunity and threw her out.

What a day of rejoicing that was. I was too young to experience Independence but the relief and hope and joy I felt when I showed up in Delhi a couple months after she’d been tossed out must have been something like what an older generation felt when the Brits were finally sent packing in 1947.

The big blockbuster of Bombay in 1977, that year of India’s second Independence, was a romping comedic melodrama called Amar, Akbar, Anthony, a film film about three brothers separated during their childhood who grew up in three different homes, adopting three different religions.

Kishanlal (Pran), a chauffeur, takes the blame for a fatal hit-and-run accident committed by his mob boss employer, Robert (Jeevan), on the assurance that his family's income will be tripled and their welfare looked after. He returns from prison to find his wife Bharati (Nirupa Roy) suffering from tuberculosis and his three sons starving. Seeking help from Robert for the sake of his family, he is ridiculed, humiliated and repudiated, until he turns on Robert and tries to kill him. Making his escape, Kishanlal inadvertently takes a car containing a shipment of gold bullion. Robert's goons give chase.

Kishanlal goes home to rescue his family - only to find his wife's suicide note. Unbeknown to him she fails, and is struck blind. He leaves his sons in a public park (at the foot of a statue of Gandhi) while he draws off the pursuing goons. In the car chase that follows he crashes, is thrown clear of the wreck, and discovers the gold. But by the time he returns to the park with his riches, his three children have vanished. Amar, the oldest, has been adopted by a Hindu policeman; a Muslim tailor adopts the youngest and names him Akbar, and a Catholic priest, finding the middle son asleep on the steps of his church, fosters him and names him Anthony.

In revenge, Kishanlal kidnaps Robert's daughter Jenny and raises her as his niece, using the gold to destroy Robert's business and set himself up as mob boss instead.

Amar (Vinod Khanna) becomes a policeman like his adoptive father; the Muslim Akbar (Rishi Kapoor) becomes a singer; the middle brother, Anthony (Amitabh Bachchan), becomes a likable, socially-conscious Catholic scamp who runs quasi-legal operations and makes God his 'partner' by donating half his income to charity. The three meet when they donate blood for an accident victim, unaware that they are related - or that the recipient is actually their biological mother Bharati.

Their lives become entangled in an incredible web of coincidences and furious action sequences - interspersed with songs - when Amar's adopted father is seriously wounded and Anthony falls in love with Jenny, Robert's long-lost daughter. Because of it his adoptive father, the priest, is murdered. In their pursuit of justice their paths cross again until, combining efforts, the three brothers discover both the culprit and their mutual heritage.

In addition to the ongoing feud between Robert and Kishanlal, each son meets and courts - with greater or lesser difficulty - their love interests. When the grieving mother regains her sight at a Dewali festival in honor of Sai Baba, one by one the family is re-united and Robert, who caused their suffering, is finally imprisoned. (Wikipedia))

The movie starred three of the biggest leading men of the day, including the mighty Amitabh Bachchan, who was at the very peak of his powers at this stage. He didn’t make many flops in the mid-70s, and this film went on to win many Filmfare Awards (Indian equivalent of the Academy Awards) including Best Actor (Bachchan) and Best Music Director (Laxmikant-Pyarelal).

The janata (public) rushed to the cinemas in record numbers because Amar Akbar Anthony was the perfect celluloid antidote to what had just hit the country.  After 2 years of stern government finger wagging and sloganeering (Less talk, more work! Discipline is the key to greatness!) here was three hours of silliness, farce and misadventure served up in great splashes of colour. Oh how drab the Emergency had been by contrast.

And if Indira and her tragic son, Sanjay, had driven a rift deep into Indian society by putting everyone on edge and dividing the country into hateful camps, the movie scooped up Indians of all types (Muslims, Hindus, Christians) in a wild embrace and said, “We’re all a part of the same family!  The one for whom we have given our blood is our mother, India.”

It was intoxicating to watch that movie that year. I saw it in Mussoorie with some friends and it was the one we kept talking about the rest of the year.  And kept singing the songs.  The soundtrack, featured here tonight, is one of the most popular and includes the voices of Mohammad Rafi and Kishore Kumar the twin titans of playback.

Every religious community got something it could hum along to. Muslims got one of the most famous film qawwalis Pardah hai pardah. Hindus got Shirdiwale Sai Baba (a paean to India’s modern guru of religious unity). Christians got Amitabh Bachchan popping out of birthday cake spouting outrageous non sequiturs such as “The whole country of the system is juxtapositioned by the hemaglobin in the atmosphere because you are a sophisticated rhetorician intoxicated by the exuberance of your own  vivacity!”. The song was called My Name is Anthony Gonsalves.

Altogether a riot of fun, hilarity and incredible coincidence. 

         Track Listing:

01. Amar Akbar Anthony

02. Hum ko ho Gaya Pyar

03. Tayab Ali Pyar ka Dushman

04. Pardah hai Pardah

05. Shirdi Wale Sai Baba

06. My Name is Anthony Gonsalves

Extra bonus track:

07 Dialouge: A drunken Anthony (Amitabh Bachchan) talks to himself in the mirror  

Listen here.

P.S.

Anthony Gonsalves, the character played by Amitabh Bachchan, is a real man. He was the violin teacher of the film’s music comper Pyarelal, one of the many Goan master musicians who have played such a HUGE but unheralded part in the success of Bollywood music over the decades.  A fantastic website called Tajmahal Foxtrot tracks the history of all little known corners of Indian jazz and music and has an absolutely unforgettable article about Mr Gonsalves for those interested.  Indeed, spend many hours on Naresh’s website…it is true treasure.