Artistes have their views. They
voice them from time to time. True, they come out less regularly than we’d want
them to, but when they do they’re frank enough to call a spade a spade. The
more humble among them, I believe, manage to concede their own inadequacies
when indulging in this. Few do, yes, but mercifully they aren’t a minority.
Being the veterans they are, they’ve traversed enough to realise that for all the
shifts in time and aesthetic tastes, what they bequeathed to us survives and
therefore, remains the standard by which we continue to judge and applaud them.
Amarasiri Peiris, who remains frank and calls a spade a spade like most of his
colleagues, has bequeathed much to us, going by that.
I first heard him, I remember,
when I was 10. We were travelling to Colombo, back when Colombo was “far away”
and visits to which warranted a song or two over the radio. The song was “Oba
Apple Malak Wage”, which has since remained his signature for me for the simple
reason that it sums up the man’s vocal texture and frankness. When I spoke with
him the other day that was, of course, all there: he has mellowed and continues
to mellow, but thankfully, I suspect, he retains that texture. Not
surprisingly, he’s still at it here and abroad, and those who follow and fawn
on him continue to do so in increasing numbers.
Amarasiri Peiris was born to a
musical family. His father, Albert Peiris, had been a respectable figure at
Radio Ceylon. “He knew almost all the celebrated figures in his field,
including H. W. Rupasinghe. In fact ‘Rupasinghe Master’ was a regular visitor
to our house, where he and my father would discuss and debate on music. I was
witness to all this as a young boy. So I guess you can say I was tutored in
music before I decided to strike out my own path.” Curiously and despite all
this however, Albert didn’t want his son to opt for music. I ask him why. He
smiles as he replies, “Back then the music industry was as lacking in
opportunity as it is today. Perhaps my father sensed that, perhaps he didn’t,
but in the end it was my mother who identified my penchant for music and
encouraged it.”
He opted for music after he
passed his O Levels. While doing his A Levels in the early sixties, he applied
to the University of Visual and Performing Arts, back then known as Haywood
College. “I was selected in 1963,” he remembers, “after which I had to go
through a six year course. It wasn’t easy, considering that in those six years
we were virtually debarred from seeking employment elsewhere, but in the end I
managed to survive them.” The Principal at Haywood at the time was Lionel
Edirisinghe, who despite his detractors today is fondly remembered by Amarasiri: “Our country owes him a
great debt, in particular because it was because of him that we have a music
form we can claim today. He also was responsible for creating a vast, veritable
reserve of music teachers.”
Amarasiri would pass out in 1968,
and a short while later, would be taken into Radio Ceylon by the then Chairman
and Director-General, Neville Jayaweera. Initially taken in as an A-grade
violinist, he would rise up to become a Conductor, Controller, and by the time he
retired in 2005, Director of Music. His brush with radical politics would get
him into trouble after 1977, and for three years he was without a job. “That
was in the late eighties. During D. B. Wijetunga’s presidency, I was called
back and was paid in full for those three years I’d been away.”
I ask him as to what he
contributed during his time as an administrator in the SLBC. “Well, for one
thing, I noticed that none of the programs in the Sinhala sevaya took our
listeners beyond the jana gee and Oriental tradition. So I introduced programs
on Western symphonies and operas. These were already played out in the English
service, but Sinhala audiences didn’t really listen to that.” What of his
fascination with Bach, Beethoven, and the Western tradition, then? “All that
goes back to my days at Heywood, so when I was working in the SLBC I realised
that if our audiences were to be discerning, they should be opened to the
outside world. I believe that is what made me what I am today. We must
appreciate everything, not just what we can claim as ours.”
His penchant for Western music
also goes back to his first encounter with his biggest associate in later
years, Premasiri Khemadasa. No biographical sketch of Amarasiri would be
complete without mentioning Khemadasa, so I ask him about the man. He
predictably becomes more eager and opens his heart. While spatial constraints
prevent me from quoting him completely, I will say this: he sees Khemadasa not
as a guru but as a grand collaborator, who instilled in him an appreciation of
his field. “I was a virtual experiment for him,” he laughs, “My first song was
‘Landune’. He took my voice and varied it, and despite certain reservations
expressed by some of his associates, he never stopped using me thereafter.”
At a time when most veterans are
wont to disparaging and critiquing modernity, Amarasiri is refreshingly more
lenient. For starters, he doesn’t see deterioration in lyricists today. It is a
sign of the man’s humility that far from trashing them, he rates them more
highly than many of those he worked with in his time. I ask him why, piqued and
puzzled as I am, and he readily explains.
“In my day we collaborated when
we composed, wrote, and performed a song. In later years, for some strange
reason, that spirit of collaboration was superseded by an unnecessary fight for
ownership and bragging rights. I will not mention names here, but certain
lyricists, composers, and relatives thereof have sent me letters of demand and
have forced me to stop singing their songs. I would have appreciated it had
they opted for negotiation, but due to their hostility I can only conclude that
time has swelled their heads and made them forget their roots. I don’t see this
with today’s lyricists. They are thankfully more discerning. And humble.”
He rattles off a list of those
lyricists he’s worked with recently, in particular Danister Perera and Dhammika
Bandara, and concludes with a flourish: “Before we become artistes we must
become human. These youngsters have realised this more than their elders. Tells
a lot about our music industry.”
Given his unfortunate encounters
with those same elders, who does he think owns a song? “It depends on where it’s
placed. If it’s in a film, it belongs to the producer. If it’s standalone, according
to the law, the lyricist and composer claim ownership while the singer claims
performance rights. The problem here is that I’ve been debarred from those
rights on the pretext that by claiming them I am violating the rights of the
lyricist and composer!” A tragic Catch-22 dilemma, no doubt. And the end
result? “I don’t sing those songs anymore. Not because I can’t, but because I’m
hurt by how hostile these people have become.”
While praising modernity however,
he isn’t one to commend it blindly. Among its demerits, he cites the
discernible confusion between form and content sustained by today’s singers.
“Look at Michael Jackson. He sang about love, mankind, and this world we live
in. He sang with enough meaning to make us aware about the message he was
bringing up. Compare that with those here who try to imitate the way he walked
and danced without giving a damn about his message. These imitators have
misunderstood form for substance and pretty much done away with the latter.”
All this of course offers much
for reflection. Amarasiri Peiris has reflected well. I remember no less a
figure than Carlo Fonseka, who collaborated with him over the song "Yanna Giya
We" (which sounds like a dirge on lost love but is actually about a lost pet bird),
paying tribute to his voice, “as enchanting as it is and as strangely mystical
as it seems” (his words to me, from three years back). The good Professor got
it right there, I believe. The man’s two biggest assets, his vocal texture and
his dexterity with both Western and Eastern musical forms, have hence marked
him out well.
Written for: Ceylon Today LITE, September 4 2016
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