Sanjay Subrahmanyan: The Reluctant Revolutionary Of Carnatic Music

It was sometime in mid-December a few years ago, and the Narada Gana Sabha in Chennai was packed to the rafters. Outside, the sabha canteen was dishing out crispy dosas and ghee-laden pongal to a hungry crowd. Inside, Sanjay Subrahmanyan was midway through an electrifying Kambhoji. And someone in the crowd (near me) whispered to his friend, 'He’s not singing the kriti, he’s reconstructing it.'

It is a line that stays with you and makes you think.

For, that’s what Sanjay’s music also does. He doesn’t just perform a composition; he inhabits it. Rearranges its furniture. Add a lounge chair. Maybe a mezzanine there. And just when you think he’s going to land back on familiar ground, he veers into a swarakalpana passage that makes your jaw drop and your WhatsApp Carnatic group go into overdrive the next morning.

This isn’t fanboy stuff. It’s what Sanjay has earned, the hard way: by being relentless with himself, adventurous with his new choices, but unusually honest with his music all through. His journey, from a violin-wielding teenager who chose vocal music after a wrist injury, to becoming the go-to example of how to innovate without tearing down tradition, is the stuff of modern kutcheri folklore.

And yet, there’s something paradoxical about his presence. For someone often positioned as Carnatic music’s new-age ambassador, Sanjay is actually more old-school than most. He wears tradition like a second skin, even when he updates it. He doesn’t preach. He doesn’t post ideological threads. He just sings. And somehow, that has become a radical act.

Make no mistake about it, he’s the undisputed king of the contemporary Carnatic concert circuit, the man who fills halls from Mylapore to Manhattan. His performances are a blend of scholarly depth, pulsating energy, and a relentless pursuit of the musically audacious.

Yet, for all his celebrated virtuosity and scholarly heft, Sanjay isn’t a miracle conjured out of nowhere. He’s a product of the Chennai sabha system, the old-school rigour and the silent pressures of rasika expectations. And oh yes, the privilege of being part of a cultural elite that knows what to revere and when to revolt.

Heritage, Training…

Even though he will doubtless leave one, Sanjay didn't have any great musical lineage, to start with. He wasn't born with a mic in his hand and a Tyagaraja kriti on his lips. Of course, he was in a family of enthusiastic rasikas (his mother, in particular, was a decent singer), but early on, he, like most middle-class youngsters of that era, balanced his studies with continuous music practice.

Born in Chennai, 1968, Sanjay began his musical journey at age seven, first with violin lessons under V Lakshminarayana (father of L Subramaniam, L Shankar and L Vaidyanathan). The well-known fiddle teacher had the habit of teaching singing too to his students as his dictum was: one must know to sing what one plays. This probably helped shape Sanjay’s early singing voice.

But his first formal vocal training began under his aunt Sukanya Swaminathan, followed by long-term tutelage under Rukmini Rajagopalan (till ’88) and later under the esteemed Calcutta K S Krishnamurti (’89–’99).

For the record, his concert career began in 1986, and he quickly garnered attention for his powerful voice, energetic delivery, and deep knowledge of sruti values, ragas, and complex rhythms. He became an 'A' Grade artist of All India Radio and received early accolades like the Yuva Kala Bharathi title in 1991.

But like most of us, he, in his growing-up years, wasn't sure what he really wanted to do with his life. Cricket, not surprisingly, was one of his early passions. He thought himself to be a decent enough bat. But, as luck would have it, while in the process of converting his father's collection of spool tapes into cassettes, he listened to Maragatha Valleem by the great GNB, accompanied by those maestros Lalgudi Jayaraman and Pazhani Subramanya Pillai.

It was a pivotal moment in the young Sanjay's life, one that would have far-reaching but happy consequences than he wouldn't have imagined at that time.

But let's be honest, his early voice, by his own admission in On That Note, co-authored with Krupa Ge, was 'rough around the edges.' It wasn't your silken, effortless glide of a GNB or an MS. It’s a voice that he has worked on, honed, and pushed.

By sixteen, he had won AIR’s Ilaya Bharatham competition, came under the notice of doyens like Dwaram V Mangathayaru and TV Gopalakrishnan, and earned some praise from Maharajapuram Santhanam. The launchpad for a career that would be marked by honours and acclaim, global tours, and commanding stage presence was all ready.

…And The Road To Mastery

If it was Rukmini Rajagopalan who first nurtured his vocal talent, laying a strong foundation, the transformative period came under the tutelage of the legendary Krishnamurti, who is credited with stoking Sanjay's creative urges and grooming him into the free-spirited performer he is today.

"My guru Calcutta KS Krishnamurti had a theory that even the unfamiliar can be made familiar if more people listen to it," Sanjay later recalled, a philosophy that deeply influenced his approach to repertoire and innovation.

He also had the unique opportunity to learn from the Nagaswaram exponent Semponnarkoil SRD Vaidyanathan from 2002 to 2013, an influence that brought a distinct flavour of instrumental mastery into his vocal renditions, particularly in his imaginative kalpanaswaram patterns, breath control and rhythm.

What makes Sanjay's training path distinct is the absence of one single dominating influence. Instead, he has absorbed and synthesised musical ideas and ideals from his gurus, and also from a pantheon of past masters, including GNB, Madurai Mani Iyer, Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer, MD Ramanathan, Ramnad Krishnan, S Kalyanaraman, and even TN Seshagopalan. Not to speak of the great female singers like MS, MLV and Pattammal.

This eclectic absorption, rather than strict adherence to one parampara, has allowed him to forge a highly individualistic style. This had its flip-side, too. As he himself admits in his recent memoir, he was chasing an elusive nod from TN Seshagopalan. It is a sign of his relentless pursuit, yes, but also offers a glimpse into a certain insecurity lingering inside him.

"I wanted to make the man (Seshagopalan) nod and approve of my singing. But he just sat there… that nod I sought never came." It is a candid acknowledgement of the challenging path to artistic validation.

But this self-awareness and constant striving for excellence, even accepting perceived weaknesses like his voice's rough edges, have been the hallmarks of his journey. (The book, by the way, illuminates his evolution: disciplined practice, learning notation, adapting voice mechanics, refining repertoire management, thereby revealing the artist behind the aura).

But even as he channelled his energies into his singing, he still wasn't sure of it being a full-time avocation. So, simultaneously, he became a qualified chartered accountant and cost accountant, two exams not easy to pass even for those who don't have another side gig. That Sanjay pulled this off shows his inner strength and his single-minded ability to achieve things if he put his mind to it.

This dedication saw him rise up the ranks in the classical music world. By 2000, Sanjay probably understood that he was good enough as a singer and quit his profession as a CA with Karra & Co. His consistent growth as a singer culminated in him being conferred the prestigious Sangita Kalanidhi by the Madras Music Academy in 2015, making him one of its youngest recipients before the age of fifty. A happening that, along with the long pandemic and lockdown, has given us the tech-friendly Sanjay 2.0. More of that later.

The Calibre Of A Craftsman: Sanjay’s Singing Dissected

At the heart of Sanjay’s vidwat is his uncompromising approach. But what does this really mean? What makes a Sanjay concert not just impressive but intellectually and emotionally nourishing?

The much-referenced Kambhoji is an exemplar of Sanjay’s command. His alapana starts slow, teasing the contours of the raga before diving into a cascade of gamakas. He builds the raga’s grandeur gradually, avoiding clichés, and when he lands on Marakata Manimaya (a composition of Muthuswami Dikshitar), he unveils it like a secret. The niraval and kalpanaswara are where his brilliance shines. He introduces subtle variations, and ends with a trademark korvai that has both mathematical structure and emotional payoff.

Or take his rendition of Tyagaraja’s Samaja Vara Gamana in Hindolam. It showcases how even a popular kriti becomes fresh in his hands. He doesn’t distort, he refines. The sangatis here aren’t just ornamentation, they’re commentary. Each repetition of the line reveals a slightly altered aesthetic shade. Listen to his handling of the anupallavi, where he introduces a delicate brigha that seems to glide over the tala like a feather. This is a textbook example of expressive economy in singing.

Sanjay has consistently unearthed and revived rare Tamil compositions, particularly those of Gopalakrishna Bharati, and Marimutha Pillai. But let's take his rendition of Bharatiyar’s mainstream Chinnanchiru Kiliye in Raga Kapi. He brings not just bhava, but also a sense of literary empathy, as if the poem were his own.

What separates Sanjay from other technically adept singers is his control. His brighas are muscular but clean. His neravals are tight but breathing. His voice, though not the most mellifluous, is pliable and expressive.

Peer Perception And Critical Reception

Among fellow musicians, Sanjay’s reputation is that of a perfectionist who is still a collaborator, someone who respects accompanists, shares the spotlight, and often shapes concerts around synergy, not dominance.

H N Bhaskar, top-tier violinist and frequent collaborator, once said, "With Sanjay, you have to stay alert. He doesn’t give cues; he gives energy. Every concert is alive."

Suguna Varadachari, veteran musician and former Madras University professor, noted in an interview, "Carnatic music is not a platform. It is an unfolding of rasa. When that central experience is displaced, even with the best intentions, it loses meaning. Sanjay understands that."

She continued, pointedly: "He brings the same seriousness to a Nattakurinji varnam as to a padam in Tamil. That inclusiveness comes not from breaking the form, but expanding it."

Sanjay’s concerts are consistently packed, and audiences range from senior rasikas who have attended decades of kutcheris, to young students recording his sangatis for learning. And he returns their loyalty with uncompromising sincerity.

One rasika on the internet forum Rasikas.org put it: "With Sanjay, you feel he’s having a conversation, not just with the raga, but with you. It’s like being invited to listen to his thought process in real-time."

In a field that often celebrates tradition for tradition’s sake, Sanjay’s greatness lies in personalising it. He internalises grammar but filters it through imagination. In every composition he chooses and every raga he unfurls, Sanjay brings a scholar’s clarity, a poet’s instinct, and a performer’s risk-taking. The result is not always smooth, but it is always alive.

A leading contemporary vocalist known for his experimental collaborations once captured this nuance beautifully: "Sanjay shows us how to grow musically. His risk-taking is inside the raga, never outside of it." He added: "When I attend a Sanjay concert, I know I will come away musically fuller, not just intellectually provoked."

The Other View On His Music

While Sanjay’s musicality is undeniable, some keen-eared rasikas, who have weathered many a Margazhi, sometimes find his relentless pursuit of 'newness' a tad self-conscious. There are moments when the sheer speed and complexities of his kalpanaswarams, while technically astounding, can feel less about the raga’s emotional core and more about demonstrating his own intellectual prowess.

Is the music always serving the bhava, or is the bhava sometimes serving the technical acrobatics?

Take, for instance, his very aggressive and often pronounced vibrato. While it adds a certain intensity, it can, at times, obscure the purity of a note, leaving it sounding slightly, yes that word again, rougher than necessary. It may be part of his signature, but one that sometimes sacrifices crystalline clarity for raw power.

One might argue that the pursuit of novelty, the desire to 'create something new or different' (as TM Krishna observed years ago in Sruti magazine), can sometimes "seem whimsical, (and) not a natural progression of his creative impulses."

This leads to an abstraction that, while intellectually stimulating, lacks the immediate emotional resonance that defines truly great Carnatic music. It's like a painter obsessed with new techniques, sometimes forgetting the simple beauty of the subject.

Furthermore, while his choice of rare compositions is laudable, one occasionally wonders if the sheer volume of his repertoire, the constant 'mining' for the obscure, sometimes comes at the expense of a deeper, more meditative dwelling on the well-trodden, soulful kritis that have moved generations.

Truly greats don't just sing many songs, they own a few, making them profoundly theirs. Sanjay certainly does this with some, but his vast landscape of offerings can sometimes feel like a whirlwind tour rather than a deeply immersive journey.

Why Sanjay Resonates, While TMK Risks Alienation

The TM Krishna quote in the previous section can be the cue for bringing in the comparison and contrast between the two, who have been kinda unwittingly pitted against each other right from their early days.

The perceived 'rivalry' between the two often stems from their differing public personas and approaches to change. Though there has been no real bad blood between the two, they have taken occasional, but veiled, potshots at each other.

For all their surface contrasts, both Sanjay and TMK are musicians of exceptional ability. But in the current cultural climate, one finds his influence quietly expanding, while the other increasingly courts fatigue from audiences who once revered his art.

Sanjay’s ascent is built on musical integrity, aesthetic humility, and relentless refinement. He does not preach from the stage, he performs. He does not lecture his audience, he compels them with his music. He doesn’t claim to democratise Carnatic music, but he actually does so by singing it with such vitality and inclusiveness that people come to it, organically.

His Tamil compositions, revival of near-forgotten pieces, and use of digital tools have drawn new demographics without alienating the old.

In contrast, TMK increasingly uses music as a soapbox for political and ideological battles. His concerts have become performance-lectures, where musical quality is often upstaged by pointed commentary. His public positions, however legitimate and sincere, often feel detached from the musical moment. The result is a listener experience that feels hectoring rather than healing.

As one musician trenchantly said at a musical forum, "You cannot inject relevance into a raga by attaching slogans to it. Relevance is when the listener feels something stir inside, when they say, ‘I didn’t know I could feel this way.’ That is when the art succeeds."

TMK’s brand of confrontational reform often leaves traditional audiences estranged. His public rejection of the sabha system, his refusal to perform during the Margazhi season, and his positioning of Carnatic music as caste-complicit, have not led to artistic renewal, but to divided attention and polarised loyalty.

Sanjay trusts the music to be large enough to flower on its own terms, while Krishna seems increasingly impatient with its existing grammar. Sanjay’s consistency has become his signature. Whether performing in a packed Mylapore sabha or on a livestream watched across continents, his fidelity to sound, to structure, and to silence remains intact. For the rasika, this creates trust. And that trust builds legacy.

Sanjay steps onto the stage with reverence and mastery; Krishna, too often, with conflict and provocation. In a tradition that privileges the sublime over the shrill, it's no surprise whose voice continues to soar.

Contributions And Engagement

Sanjay, sure, is a modern-day great. But what is his place in the Carnatic pantheon? Legend, as they say, isn’t a label. It’s perception over time. So, the verdict will have to wait. But Sanjay is doing what he can and should.

Beyond his unparalleled concert performances, he has significantly expanded the genre's repertoire by unearthing and popularising compositions of lesser-known composers. His thematic concerts, often focusing on specific composers or regional traditions, have shed light on the vast, untapped wealth of Carnatic music.

This, he feels, has also enhanced his music. "The moment I started engaging with Tamil in a very serious way, I understood the importance of articulating the lyrics better and automatically, that experience translated to my singing the songs better," he explains.

While firmly rooted in classical principles, Sanjay has also embraced digital platforms and fusion projects, carefully choosing collaborations that resonate with his artistic vision. His recent forays into film music, such as singing for Ilaiyaraaja in Vidhuthalai 2, and his collaborations in Coke Studio Tamil and the album Anbenum Peruveli with Sean Roldan, setting 19th-century saint Vallalar's poems to rock, jazz, and blues, demonstrate his willingness to step beyond the conventional Carnatic concert stage.

But the plunge into film playback singing was not without some inner conflicts. His guru did not think highly of film singing. So, Sanjay baulked at offers that had been coming forth (from the mid-90s when Unni Krishnan broke the door open for Carnatic singers with Ennavale for the film Kadhalan) from many music directors like AR Rahman, Vidyasagar and GV Prakash. Sanjay wanted to make it, as he writes in his book, ‘as a pure classical singer’.

But the Sangita Kalanidhi award, at 47, made him revisit his inner convictions, as he needed newer frontiers to reach and fresher challenges to wrestle with. It is what happens with creative, restless spirits. The first line of his first ever Tamil film song, in Lucky Man (2023), perhaps was reflective of his own existential angst, Yedhudhaan Inga Santhosam. It was under the baton of his former pupil Sean Roldan, further underlining the fact that Sanjay is only too aware of the changing world order.

But his recent new-fangled ventures are not about diluting the classical form but about presenting its essence in new, accessible formats. From working on film songs and projects like Coke Studio, he is merely evolving, as he states in On That Note, from ‘Carnatic Musician’ to ‘Singer’. The change in the bio, as it were, is reflective of his inner transformative process.

Even as he embraces newer music, he is trying to reach out to newer bases. Through his own Sanjay Sabha YouTube channel and Sanjay Sabha Live concert series, he has directly connected with global audiences, making Carnatic music more accessible and engaging for a younger generation. (The online outreach became a thing for him when everyone was indoors due to the pandemic).

In the process, he has become a role model, inspiring many aspiring musicians with his rigorous discipline, continuous learning, and open-mindedness. His public discourse and social media presence, where he once shared bite-sized portions of Carnatic music, illustrate his understanding of modern communication and his efforts to pull in the next generation, sparking their curiosity and pride in their roots.

In essence, Sanjay offers a compelling model of growing from within, demonstrating that true mastery lies not just in preserving the past, but in creatively reimagining its future. “I experimented with new ideas and took liberties with my performances without getting bogged down by the dilemma of whether innovation was right or wrong,” he says.

It takes a confident man at the peak of his faculty to even attempt this.

Raga Without Rhetoric

In the teeming concert halls of Chennai, where the line between devotion and performance blurs, what remains under-appreciated is how he has quietly redefined what it means to be a classical musician in contemporary India.

With no manifesto and little fanfare, he has done what few reformists have managed. He has evolved a centuries-old tradition without provoking rupture. He plays it straight, and often sings it crooked, bending a sangati here, stretching a swara there, sometimes to mesmerising effect and sometimes to indulgence.

His story, in the end, is not just one of mastery, but of balance: between innovation and structure, between scholarship and spontaneity, between legacy and reinvention. He doesn’t challenge the kutcheri format; he cherishes it. He doesn’t flirt with activism; he cavorts with vintage ragas. Some critics, perhaps with more love than bile, whisper that his comfort zone has turned into a soft fortress. A place where risk is carefully curated, and surprises are served with traditional side-dishes.

But his aspirations, as gleaned from On That Note and his media chats, are not about becoming a social reformer but about becoming a more complete musician. His foray into different genres is about personal growth, about breaking the 'monotony' of the concert circuit.

He is demonstrating, through his actions, that change doesn't always need a megaphone and a protest sign. Sometimes, it just needs a voice, a tireless work ethic, and an unwavering commitment to the art form itself. And in the often-fractured world of Carnatic music, that might just be the most potent form of revolution there is.

No pyrotechnics, no slogans, no sermon. Just a still man in a white veshti and crisp white shirt, bowing to the tambura, wiping his face with the edge of a towel, quietly gathering his sruti box, and walking off into the warm night.

The applause may swell, but he is already elsewhere — maybe thinking of that elusive vakra phrase in Bhairavi he didn’t quite get right that night. Or a line from some forgotten kriti that’s been haunting him since morning.

Some musicians burn for acclaim, others build brands. But Sanjay? He chisels away, concert after concert, sangati after sangati, as though perfection is not a destination, but a vow renewed nightly. We don’t know his religious beliefs (for all we know, he may be an atheist). We don’t know his political convictions. But we know his music.

In an age addicted to noise, there’s something quietly radical about a man who believes music is enough. And it is, when he lets loose a phrase that dances between pa and ni like a wirewalker in wind, you forget the world, the news, the deadlines, the pretensions. You forget yourself.

You just sit there, smiling at a silence he created — and then walked away from.

Like all true masters do.