Sometime in the 1990s, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (NFAK) became uncool for a brief while. For the post-liberalisation generation, that might be difficult to believe. But NFAK was probably one of the first Subcontinental artists cancelled by legions of his desi fans. A group of young Pakistanis made Nusrat Has Left the Building…But When? – a 1997 short film, ruing their favourite artist’s transition from a spiritual and earthy qawwaal to a mass-produced world artist. The film has the de rigueur artsy, film-school edginess of form and the moodiness of a hurt and brooding lover. If one had seen the minute-long Coca-Cola ad, released a year earlier in 1996, filled with every conceivable orientalist cliche about Rajasthan propped up by NFAK’s groovy ‘Dum mast qalandar’, one would have fully commiserated with the heartbroken fans who were feeling let down by the “shahenshah-e-qawwali” (King of qawwali).
The Berlin Wall came down in 1989 and the Soviet Union fell in 1991. The particular kind of internationalism that India practised — a principled approach to engaging with the rest of the world, informed by the spirit of decolonisation, regional cooperation, democracy, and socialism — was giving way to the unruly and chaotic era of globalisation. The so-called “Third World” was turning slowly — or being arm-twisted, depending on who one asked — towards the capitalist West. India was open to the world but, to the chagrin of many, not on its own terms.
These were heady times when a lot of things needed to be sold. The market was full of foreign brands and the emerging middle class had the means to buy them. While there were more choices than ever, there was still a lot of discomfort with conspicuous consumption. The lefties were protesting the threat to the country’s economic sovereignty and the conservatives were anxious about the corrupting influences of the West on “Indian Culture”. In such a context, NFAK selling Coca-Cola on MTV in India was a nightmare for millions.
One of the paradoxes here was that even as NFAK was losing loyal fans, he was adding as many new ones, if not more, due to an increased reach. Walkmans and audio cassettes, satellite TV channels and music videos, and his film work in Hollywood and India introduced him to new and younger audiences. The increased reach, according to many fans from an earlier generation, took a toll.
A qawwali, for instance, could go on for hours in traditional performance settings. The qawwals would seamlessly bring together material from various sources. Sometimes they would slow down and sometimes they would pick up pace to transport their audiences from one emotional state to another. Repetition is another formal hallmark of qawwali. However, an audio cassette needed a number of shorter compositions, or radio edits, to make an album. Therefore, the form was truncated to fit the requirements of the medium.
His live concert recordings where an average composition runs comfortably over 20 minutes displayed the depths of his musical prowess. Television extracted from NFAK a different kind of showmanship. And film music took him into truly uncharted territories too. The breadth of film work NFAK managed to do — from Bandit Queen to Dead Man Walking — within a relatively short period demonstrates his hunger for experimentation. While he was liberal with his voice and compositions, he did not abide by his work being disrespected. He openly criticised director Oliver Stone for using his voice over a sequence that involved sexualised violence. His subsequent film contracts required the filmmakers to seek approval for where and how his songs would be used0.
For people who are partial to notions of cultural purity or static notions of culture, it would be disappointing to contend with change. But change is the very essence of a living and self-assured culture. While some things are bound to be lost to the processes of change, what endures is remarkable and deserves to be celebrated. That is the case with NFAK through the various economic, cultural, and technological changes he deftly navigated. His popular work, for the lack of a better term, democratised qawwali and brought newer and younger listeners into a conversation with spirituality and mysticism.
Cultural critics who accuse NFAK of commodification of qawwali and Sufism are not entirely wrong. What they miss is that NFAK took popular culture seriously and used its terrain to introduce qawwali, and with it the Sufi values of selflessness and love, to millions around the world. It is in making tradeoffs between the rarefied realm of “high culture” and the democratising potential of “low culture” that we maintain the vitality of culture. One likes to think that NFAK’s tightrope walk in this context has produced music that has retained its moral purpose and demands serious engagement from the listeners. Personally, it is to NFAK’s credit who endearingly assumed the female voice and subjectivity in numerous performances and prompted one to look for and discover women qawwals.
NFAK’s work with various collaborators, particularly from the West, has also drawn a lot of criticism. This is again taking a closed and parochial view of culture — that which should not travel outwards or mix. NFAK’s music was received with openness and respect in the West that it rightfully and richly deserved. In his work with artists like Peter Gabriel, Michael Brooks, Eddie Vedders, among others, NFAK shone through. His body of collaborative work is shaped by the ethos of internationalism and not, to make a distinction, globalisation, which often yields sloppy cultural hybrids meant for quick consumption.
The excitement around the recent discovery of NFAK’s old recordings by Gabriel’s Real World label speaks to the enduring power of NFAK’s music and the goodwill it continues to enjoy. The recordings from 1990 have been released in a four-song album titled Chain of Light. I have been listening to the album for the last three days and cannot help but feel deeply touched by his raw and warm voice. Originally recorded in a large studio on tape, the songs carry a spatial and temporal imprint of the 90s that makes them even more mellow and snug.
Nusrat did not leave the building, at least not of his own accord. The proverbial Grand Hotel Abyss was perhaps small for him, made even less accessible by the gatekeepers of culture. Outside it was the whole wide world in need of his music. In the title track of Chain of Light, NFAK brings music, love, and God together and declares:
Main unn ka hoon, ta-hashr nazeer unka rahoon ga/ Sad-shukr ki unse meri nisbat azli hai/
I am theirs and will remain theirs until the Day of Judgment/ Thanks a hundred times, my connection with them is eternal/
If the creation is a reflection of God, NFAK here may just be talking of us mere mortals as well. Even after three-and-a-half decades, when NFAK calls, even the slighted old lovers cannot resist responding.
The writer is a Mumbai-based media professional
