Meet Prufrock, a middle-aged man utterly riddled with self-doubt and scared stiff of being judged. He's picturing a swanky party where all the women are chattering away about Michelangelo, the Renaissance titan of art and intellect. Prufrock feels totally outclassed, convinced he's nowhere near that league of greatness. He feels completely outmatched and intimidated by this standard of greatness, believing he could never measure up. But here's the kicker: these women are likely just dropping Michelangelo's name as pretentious small talk, not having a truly deep discussion about art. In recent days, my own experiences have consistently mirrored the sentiments expressed in this famous refrain from T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
On a friend's urging, I recently ventured back into the world of classical music concerts, an experience I have long forsaken out of exasperation, convinced about the eclipse of ideational music in this country. The high-society gathering in Islamabad over the weekend was a stark contrast to my memories, when the genuine artistry of masters flowed through the late-night broadcasts of PTV and Radio Pakistan.
It was my good luck that my deepening passion in the formative years of my life led me to frequent live performances, and eventually, to embrace a role as a program producer for the state broadcaster, granting me invaluable mentorship from those who truly embodied the classical tradition. After all the maestros and their eminent disciples were gone by the turn of the century, the ensuing decline in quality of music made me forswear out of frustration. Sadly, the landscape of classical music felt bereft of that spirit; the superficial and uninspired performances of this new century were like a desecration, a lamentable deviation, extinguishing any hope of rediscovering the profound artistry I once adored.
Over the weekend, what I hoped would be a rekindling of passion was instead a grim reminder of how far the art form has strayed. A sense of disquiet settled upon me at the evening's outset, as the anchor-person introduced the vocalist with the honorific Ustad. For a traditionalist of Indo-Pak classical music, this title—reserved for a true master teacher with a lineage of accomplished pupils—carries immense weight. Its use for an artist who has not yet attained such distinguished status is more than merely impolite; it is a profound misuse of a sacred term, a transgression of musical decorum. As the vocalist and his accompanist settled down on the stage, I observed that the experience was destined to be flawed from the beginning, most notably by the puzzling omission of a tanpura from the ensemble. The evening began, quite literally, with a conspicuous silence where the tanpura's continuous, fundamental drone should have been. Without this essential harmonic foundation, the raga was stripped of the rich, atmospheric foundation that is integral to its proper introduction and flourishing. I was utterly bewildered by how a vocalist of his supposed calibre, who introduces himself as a ustad, could exhibit such a fundamental ignorance of these musical essentials.
A genuine appreciation for classical music has always been tenuous among Pakistan's elite. For a period spanning the 1950s and '60s, this art form was sustained by a generation of gharana-dar khayal music vocalists trained in the pre-1947 era
The soiree took another baffling turn with its very first performance. A khayal in raga Darbari began to unfold, a melody intrinsically linked with the deep tranquillity of midnight, while the world outside was still bathed in daylight. The jarring dissonance between the raga's intended mood and its premature performance left me thoroughly bewildered.
To compound the evening's flaws, the vocalist's presentation was equally lacklustre. His aakar – the pure and open vocalisation of the "aa" sound fundamental to voice control, pitch accuracy, tone clarity, and breath control, serving as a foundational element for vocal warmth – was noticeably weak. His alaap, the prologue to the formal expression was very brief although the raga itself offered immense scope for the exploration and slow development of the melody’s characteristics, and setting the mood. The vocalist’s treatment of the musical notes was perfunctory, and his command of the raga was, from the very beginning, deeply uninspiring. The tarana component was executed with the chilling precision of a machine, a high-speed, intricate piece of music that failed to resonate. He frequently inserted several tihai – a rhythmic phrase or pattern repeated three times, designed to end on the first beat of the musical cycle or sam –during his presentation which lacked the effect of spontaneity . Its poor execution clearly revealed it to be a pre-planned gimmick. Skilled musicians create a spontaneous effect by expertly deviating from and returning to the cyclic rhythm, making the tihai feel fresh and a natural culmination of their improvisation within the given raga and tala.
Another unsettling aspect of the performance was vocalist’s tendency to interrupt the flow of the raga's exposition, pausing repeatedly to offer didactic explanations to the audience. Such interruptions shattered the immersive experience that classical music demands. Overall, all the elements of the raga were present in the rendition, but the performance lacked the vital spark of emotion, leaving the impression of a perfectly constructed statue where a living, breathing work of art should have stood. Listening to the raga without rasa- the emotional essence or mood evoked by a raga - turned out to be an agonising experience.
Most attendees of such concerts are apologetic for their familiar and unfortunate belief that classical music is beyond their grasp. But music is not an intellectual challenge to be surmounted, but an emotional experience to be felt
The performance's second piece, a thumri, suffered from a misplaced emphasis on technical bravado. It was burdened by an abundance of sargam and taans, which felt out of place and even discourteous to a form that thrives on a more nuanced and poetic expression. The singer neglected the essence of bol-banao, which should have allowed for an unhurried, thoughtful elaboration of the lyrical meaning (arth-bhav), capturing the song's concept in a slow and intimate manner. The program's third offering, a dadra, provided no real departure, as its character differed from the thumri only in its rhythmic cycle, leaving me with a sense of monotonous stylistic approach.
The polite, unrevealing applause that followed each number felt more like a social custom than a genuine expression of delight. I came to this soiree, as I believe most people do, not to critique but to feel and to be transported. The heart of a performance is its ability to stir emotion, to offer solace and escape, and technical perfection is merely a vessel for this magic. But that evening magic was absent, leaving my soul untouched by any flicker of joy, memory, or rapture. I thought of a recently viral YouTube video of a street singer, which had kept me fascinated for days, and felt me reassured that the power of music to stir the soul does not belong exclusively to the virtuoso. The most humble street singers can move us to joy or sorrow, their simple presentation succeeding precisely where technical mastery might fail.
Having endured all I could, I decided to leave the concert hall. The way home was a period of reflection on the singer's strangely static career. After thirty years, his artistry remained stubbornly undeveloped, no better than a novice, yet the crowd's acceptance of his cacophony was unnerving. The disparity led me to a sudden, profound realisation: an art form can only flourish when nurtured by an informed audience. Without a cultivated public to demand greatness, no artist is truly inspired to pursue it and an artist's commitment to excellence is not an isolated effort but a symbiotic relationship with their public. The collective appreciation of a discerning public is what compels an artist to relentlessly pursue and achieve true greatness.
I always observe majority attendees of such concerts apologetic for their familiar and unfortunate belief that classical music is beyond their grasp. What they fail to grasp is that music is not an intellectual challenge to be surmounted, but an emotional experience to be felt. This pervasive view of classical music's inaccessibility is a common refrain in Pakistan, where the very joy of listening is too often sacrificed to a misplaced reverence for complexity. My friends often question how I find enjoyment in such a supposedly complex genre. I always tell them that classical music is no different from any other; its purpose is to stir the soul. If a classical music performance fails to resonate with an open and attentive listener of ghazal gae’ki, the music itself has been found wanting. True that understanding music's technical aspects like rhythm, harmony, and structure can elevate one’s appreciation, allowing for a next level experience by revealing deeper complexity and artistry. This next level enjoyment comes from developing a greater "processing ability" through repeated exposure, which can transform how one perceives and connect with music on a profound level.
I find myself questioning how classical vocalists who lack the capacity to stir the mortal soul can sustain a public career for long. In a bygone era, the titans of classical music would relentlessly hone their craft, even at the zenith of their fame, to uphold their stature, honour their master's legacy, and command the esteem of their peers. When I recently lamented this dispiriting performance to a friend in the music broadcasting industry, he offered a sombre observation: the golden age of classical music is over, and today's few remaining vocalists are mere museum-grade replicas of the artists we once revered.
There was a time when Radio Pakistan monopolising the audio broadcast played a decisive, standard-setting role in the dissemination of classical music. Under the leadership of key figures such as Zulfiqar Ali Bukhari, a robust regulatory system was meticulously developed and implemented. The programme producers at Radio Pakistan were assisted by music supervisors, who were experts of the art form. A well-defined framework governed all facets of musical production, from quality control to content scheduling. Audition processes were rigorous, ensuring that only artists demonstrating the highest proficiency could perform. The institution's influence was particularly significant in codifying the art form, including the standardisation of raga classification according to the thaat system. In addition, the broadcaster dictated performance variables such as the raga to be broadcast, the approved vocal composition, broadcast timing, the proportion of elements with a khayal composition, ensemble configuration, rhythmic structure, and the duration of each piece, which was linked to the vocalist's ranking. The cumulative effect of these measures was the preservation and promotion of a refined and technically sound classical music tradition. The standards defined by Radio Pakistan were faithfully adhered to by the recording industry too. Even concerts organised by not-for-profit bodies such as Karachi Fine Arts Society, Pakistan Arts Council and All Pakistan Classical Music Conference religiously followed them.
A genuine appreciation for classical music has, in my assessment, always been tenuous among Pakistan's elite. For a period spanning the 1950s and '60s, this art form was sustained by a generation of gharana-dar khayal music vocalists, whose talents were once nurtured and highly prized within the princely courts in the British India. Post-partition, Radio Pakistan, provided the crucial space for these art forms to flourish. A small but dedicated audience—comprised of historical urban elite, landed aristocracy and the professional middle class—offered a measure of patronage to these musicians too. However, the target audience for this art form remained very narrow owing to limited air time allocated to classical music competing with popular music forms like qawwali, folk and film song. Further, absence of institutional arrangements for wider cultivating appreciation of classical music as an interdisciplinary art connected to visual arts, history, and literature also negatively affected its popular growth.
When Pakistan Television (PTV) began broadcasting in 1964, it introduced weekly, studio-recorded classical music concerts. However, these shows were always pushed to the final slot of the daily schedule, severely limiting their audience. Compounding this challenge, PTV's production quality failed to meet the high standards set by Radio Pakistan. Lacking experience in classical music production, the program producers struggled to maintain discipline, allowing the broadcasts to be marred by demonstrative, and technical gimmicks by the vocalists, contestations between instrumentalists and vocalists, and use of excessive vocal embellishments. The late Rashid Malik was the only serious critic, who strongly raised voice that the music being presented to the audiences was becoming devoid of its essential aesthetics. But his observations never rang any alarm bells among our cultural elite. Ultimately, for many viewers, these programs did little more than render classical music as a noisy incomprehensible spectacle.
The delicate cultural ecosystem of classical music underwent a seismic shift by the early 1970s. Driven by a populist mandate, the nation's first elected government in early 1970s enthusiastically established a host of cultural institutions to champion film, music and dance. A paradox emerged in the management of these cultural institutions, while these entities were steered by ostensibly sophisticated managers, individuals who demonstrated considerable enthusiasm for indigenous cultural expressions, their administrative approaches frequently failed to achieve a balanced promotion of the diverse artistic pursuits falling within their institutional mandates. This imbalance was notably evident in policy decisions that accorded preferential treatment to folk music, often to the detriment of classical music traditions. During this period, despite losing its initial prominence to the rise of television, radio continued its role as a patron of classical music. Ultimately, however, broadcasts of these programs on radio were moved out of peak listening hours in deference to more popular content. In such circumstances, eminent classical music vocalists of the likes of Ustad Amanat Ali Khan, and Hussain Baksh Gullu intermittently switched over to ghazal singing patronised by radio, television and EMI recording company. This was not a dismissal of classical music but a sober reflection on the realities of artistic survival in a changing cultural landscape, where the audience's preferences had shifted decisively away from more intricate forms.
The democratic eclipse of 1977 heralded a cultural drought, especially for the performing arts. Classical music also suffered, marginalised by a media landscape dominated by politically charged content on state-controlled radio and television. This lack of exposure and institutional support led to discourage new talents to pursue a career in classical music. The vocalists who emerged in the 1980s were mostly amateurs whose growth was stymied by a lack of proper training, performance venues, and critical appreciation. While a small, urban middle class of first generation Pakistanis retained an interest in classical forms, they were unaccustomed to music without a lyrical narrative, having inherited a taste for more text-driven music like ghazal. This situation stifled the impetus even for gharana-dar artists to perpetuate their family traditions. In this void, the burgeoning cassette culture propelled the celestial rise of ghazal music, which skilfully fused lyrical poetry with classical echoes and found a more receptive audience. The popularity of ghazal was so overwhelming that even heirs of the Patiala Gharana, including Asad Amanat, Hamid Ali, and Shahida Perveen turned to the genre. The celebrated ghazal maestro Mehdi Hassan observed in the 1980s that for an artist in Pakistan, the ghazal represented a pragmatic path to a sustainable career, unlike classical music, which offered far fewer opportunities for appreciative listeners and thus a livelihood. In those years, the classical music scene was kept alive largely through the occasional performances of aging maestros, such as ustad Salamat Ali with his sons Sharafat and Shafqat, or ustad Fateh Ali with his sons Sultan and Rustam. Ustad Ghlam Hussain Shaggan of Gwalior Gharana continued to sing alone, though he factually needed a partner in his old age, as his son Qadir Ali Shaggan, found a career in song composition.
The 1990s experienced another lamentable shift as radio and television music content production fell into the hands of individuals, after the retirement of the old guard, who were largely unversed in the complexities of music. Without quality control, classical music seriously suffered. While genuine connoisseurs and critics remained silent, fearing social marginalisation, a new audience, lacking proper guidance, consumed this superficial fare, mistaking it for true art. This period, regrettably, marked the new phase in the decline of classical music within the country. With the dominance of a culture of low appreciation for classical music, the emerging generation of artists found themselves presenting their craft to those with limited familiarity, prompting a greater emphasis on superficial techniques and performative elements to connect with the new audience. In those days, I found the hereditary musicians, in their private settings, profligately using the term ku’ar (literally translatable as liars and idiomatically emphasising the phoniness) to contemptuously refer to these new music producers and audiences.
Since the start of 21st century, the performing arts world sees minimal representation from Pakistan in classical music. The current narrative surrounding the perceived decline of performing arts in Pakistan often points to a host of institutional factors as the primary culprits. While the absence of robust financial and structural support undoubtedly contributes to the challenging environment faced by artists in Pakistan, one of the key factors in this is the lack of adequate training and opportunities for the local talent to compete globally and more importantly the absence of cultivated audience. Locally, the quality of much classical music is factually mediocre and without genuine artistic resonance. Yet, these low quality artistic endeavours often garner effusive praise from social groups whose attendance I view as an act of asserting cultural identity rather than a response to artistic excellence. This is an insidious threat to artistic excellence: the nature of the audience itself. The interaction between artists and their audience is a dynamic one. When audiences are actively engaged and critically appreciate artistic work, it can motivate artists to strive for excellence and innovation. Conversely, a less discerning audience might inadvertently reduce the pressure on artists to push their creative boundaries.
For so long, I felt like Alfred Prufrock, a silent observer of cultural scene in this country, held captive by the anxiety of dissenting with the women "talking of Michelangelo." My own inner turmoil was a performance for an audience of imagined critics, and my fear of being misunderstood kept me isolated in a cycle of hesitation. But unlike Prufrock, I found my voice in raising the question: Can art survive without a cultivated audience to appreciate it? Is it not the depth of a nation's cultural understanding that determines the endurance of its artistic heritage? And in the absence of that genuine appreciation, can art ever truly shape or define a nation's identity? This moment when I have finally unburdened myself of that paralyzing self-consciousness, I feel a profound lightness. The anxious weight has been lifted, replaced by the liberating feeling of having finally spoken my overwhelming question.