A "Hamilton"ian View of रस

The theory of rasa (रस) and bhāva (भाव) is foundational to Hindustani classical music and dance. This rich formal theory of psychoacoustics dates back to the writings of Bharata, Śārṅgadeva, and Abhinavagupta, and - in the time-hallowed Indian tradition of exhaustive completeness - lays out a comprehensive structure of rasa (9-11 "transcendent modes of emotional awareness by which all aspects of a performance are integrated" [Raja 2015]), along with a fourfold set of bhāvas ("innate dispositions and latent energies common to all humans" [Raja 2015] that are manifest upon exposure to a rasa): the so-called sthāyī bhāva, saṃchārī bhāva, vibhāva, and anubhāva.

The purpose of this post is not a formal exposition of this theory.  For that, I refer you to the excellent articles and essays on the subject by Bimalakanta Raychaudhuri and Deepak S. Raja (and many others, no doubt). However, given the universality of human emotions, I have always been curious to see whether this taxonomy of emotions could be successfully applied to another musical genre.  I have been listening a lot lately to the cast album recording of the recent Broadway sensation (and the winner of 11 Tony awards) Hamilton: An American Musical, and it occurred to me that the vast canvas of the piece might afford a perfect backdrop for this Gedankenexperiment.  So here is my take on mapping the songs from the show to the rasas.

1. Śṛṅgār rasa (erotic), rati bhāva (love): Many songs are spiced with this emotion - which is unsurprising given that it is also referred to as ādirasa ("the original emotion"). Among them, the numbers "Helpless" and "Satisfied" from Act 1, and "Say No To This" from Act 2, stand out in my mind.
2. Hāsya rasa (comic), hāsa bhāva (mirth): Several of King George III's numbers ("You'll Be Back" and "I Know Him") serve as comic interludes.  The overlay of rap-based counterpoint on a Baroque minuet in "Farmer Refuted" is also brilliantly funny.
3. Karuṇa rasa (pathetic), śoka bhāva (sorrow): "It's Quiet Uptown" and "The World Was Wide Enough" (both from Act 2) immerse me in the depths of this part of the emotional palette.
4. Raudra rasa (furious), krodha bhāva (anger): In very different ways, Eliza Hamilton's "Burn" and Aaron Burr's "Your Obedient Servant" embody this emotion.  There are also distinct elements of it in "The Room Where It Happens".  Oh, and in Hamilton's uncontrolled outburst and Washington's controlled response in "Meet Me Inside".
5. Vīra rasa (heroic), utsāha bhāva (energy): This is the theme of Act 1 overall.  My favorites are the opening number "Alexander Hamilton", the energetic "My Shot", and the climactic "Yorktown".
6. Bhayānaka rasa (terrible), bhaya bhāva (fear): This is probably stretching it a bit, but Philip Hamilton's solo "Blow Us All Away" definitely touches on his fears of engaging in a duel.
7. Bībhatsa rasa (odious), ghṛṅā bhāva (disgust): This is clearly the theme of "The Reynolds Pamphlet", the story of America's first sex scandal.
8. Adbhūta rasa (wonderous), vismaya bhāva (wonder): The brief "Best of Wives and Best of Women" embodies this sense of wonder.
9. Sānta rasa (tranquil), sama bhāva (equanimity):  The final number "Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story" closes out the musical on a very atypical quiet note, but it absolutely works in terms of achieving tranquil closure on Hamilton's turbulent life and legacy.
10. Vātsalya rasa (parental binding to children): The amazing and unlikely Burr-Hamilton duet "Dear Theodosia" near the end of Act 1 is a paean to fatherhood.  The reprise of "Stay Alive" in Act 2, with its heartbreaking exchange between Eliza Hamilton and her son Philip, has me choking up every time.
11. Bhakti rasa (devotion to one's chosen deity): There are few references to religion in this musical.  Washington's reference to Micah 4:4 in "One Last Time" is probably the most significant.

This is, of course, a very simplistic and coarse mapping.  Songs like "Wait for It" and "Hurricane", which delve into the complex psyches of the protagonist and his nemesis, are subtly flavored with multiple layers of emotions that you need to discover on your own.

So, what'd I miss?

Note 1: The recording is readily available, in both digital and physical forms.  All of the major digital music stores and streaming services (iTunes, Spotify, Amazon Music) carry it; there is a CD available; I've even seen a vinyl set!

Note 2: I have not actually had the opportunity to see the show, except for the snippets available on social media and performed during the Tony awards ceremony.  Since the word saṃgīta technically encompasses music, dance, and theater, it is possible that the full audio-visual experience may somewhat alter these perceptions.

Note 3: Since no one is a tabula rasa, your mileage will almost certainly vary.

श्रोता यत्र न विद्यते

The well-regarded, duly-honored (Padma Shri etc. etc.), virtuoso instrumentalist had just concluded the first half of his concert: a workmanlike but somewhat idiosyncratic rendition of Raga Bageshwari.  His unimpeachable accompanist was perspiring profusely after the thorough workout he had received at the hands of the soloist (first 11 beats, then 7 beats, and finally 16), and was busy re-applying cologne to his upper torso and armpits while seated on stage (seriously, dude, that is off the Narcissus scale).  I approached the Ustad with a request.

"We have had rain in Austin this afternoon after a dry spell, so may I request that you regale us with Malhar after the intermission?"

Ustadji smiled at me.  I continued, "But not the ubiquitous Mian Malhar, please.  I would like to hear one of the many other members of the family."

Ustadji demurred.  "You know, we have to play for the audience.  Most of them would not be able to appreciate something like what you are asking for.  Those ragas are for select mehfils, not concerts such as this one."

"Yeah, right," I thought, "like the hoi polloi really understood how in your Bageshwari you were de-emphasizing the madhyam in favor of the gandhar, or how you were playing a potent Kanada-ang phrase that is generally eschewed unless one is playing Bageshwari Kanada. (I told you that the performance was idiosyncratic.) Or that they appreciated the Philip Glass quality of your compositions: no proper asthayis, just a one-avartan catchphrase repeated endlessly with small variations.  Let's not even get into the matter of the missing antaras."

Ustadji's voice broke in on my musings.  "What particular Malhar would you like to hear?"  Surdasi Malhar was on my mind for some reason, so that's what I requested.  Ustadji was noncommittal.  "Let us see," he said.

For the record, he played a mellifluous dhun in the second half, a delicious stir-fry of Pilu, Kafi, and Shivaranjani.  (As a bonus, the rupak-tal composition actually had a real asthayi and antara.) The concert concluded with a Bhatiyali piece based on a Tagore song, originally immortalized by a scion of his gharana.

So how do we break this cycle of co-dependency, where performers stick to the usual suspects (often, scalar ragas facilitating those lightning-fast runs that receive the biggest applause) because that's supposedly "what the audience wants", while the audience doesn't know to demand any better?  Should we ask that artistes publish the concert program ahead of time (think of all the time I could save by not attending concerts where the main course is, say, Madhuvanti or Kirwani)?  Should we leverage game theory by re-instituting the practice of providing financial incentives or medals for particularly innovative compositions?  Should our farmaishes be for challenging concepts in standard ragas ("Please play a composition in Bageshwari with the sam on pancham" or "Please play a composition in Mian Malhar with the sam on komal nishad")?  Seriously, given where we seem to be headed in this musical genre, I'm tempted to switch over to rap, which I find to be more intellectually stimulating (if one can get past the usual subject matter).

Interestingly enough, this problem seems less endemic in the Carnatic world.  A few weeks ago, the listeners at the TNK+fils concert were knowledgable, and the musicians played for a musically savvy audience.  Their only concession was to choose ragas that would not be alien to Hindustani ears like mine (which I generally appreciated, but something like an Amritavarshini would have been appreciated as a palate-cleansing sorbet; besides, we were in that dry spell in Austin at that point).

So, what do you think?  Is there a way forward here?  Or am I just being "a polymath, a pain-in-the-ass, a massive pain" in an age where anti-intellectualism and mediocrity trumps all else?