Singer P. Jayachandran’s name may not be well known outside Southern India. In the South, however, his name is synonymous with music—an artist gifted with a mellifluous voice who straddled the melodic world of film music and devotional albums with equal artistry, humility, and purity. His soothing devotional songs addressed to his beloved Guruvayurappan, Vadakkumnathan, or Mookambikai are still the first sounds that families wake up to. Jayachandran passed away yesterday at the age of eighty. He leaves behind a rich legacy of over 16,000 songs and memories of a man who was deeply respected by the music world for his work ethic and humility.
There was something about Jayachandran’s voice—a voice that was at once velvety, deeply soulful, melodious, and versatile, with an effortless emotive quality that seamlessly brought out the subtlest nuances of the melodies he sang. There was indeed an understated elegance in his renditions and the subtle ornamentations he brought to his singing voice that lent themselves beautifully to both classical and cinematic compositions. He was known in the music world as a “Bhava Gayakan”—a singer of emotions. There could not have been a more apt title for his music. The timbre and pitch of Jayachandran’s voice suited a range of mellow compositions, and composers, recognizing his strength, gave him songs that allowed him to exhibit his gifts to the fullest. It is impossible to listen to a Jayachandran song—film or devotional—and not feel moved. That was his uniqueness. His songs left an emotional imprint that was hard to shake off.
When I read about Jayachandran’s death, two distinct memories flooded through me. My first recollection was about the time when Jayachandran’s voice became a recognizable voice for me. It was in 1987 or 1988. We were in Madurai. My father had developed pain in his lower back, a minor form of spondylitis, and doctors advised an hour of physiotherapy at home. A mechanical contraption was set up in the bedroom with a strap under the neck that allowed gravity to stretch the backbone based on the weights attached to it on the other side. (In hindsight, the device looked primitive, but at that time, this was the available solution.) My father did not like it at all, but he had no choice. For the first ten minutes or so, the stretch was relaxing. After that, the pull triggered uneasiness that gradually transformed into increasing intensity of pain until, after thirty minutes, it became intolerable. But Appa had to remain in the same horizontal position for an hour, so there was no way out.
It was during this time that one of Appa’s colleagues had this bright idea that listening to music might alleviate the discomfort. So he brought home his new Sanyo stereo player with a few cassettes. One of the cassettes was P. Jayachandran’s newly released devotional album Pushpanjali—a bouquet. There were ten songs in the album, and all of them were gems. Jayachandran’s voice was at its best: pure, effortless, transcendental, and musically irresistible. My father loved this album so much that the first thing he would insist on before lying down for therapy was to play this album. All the tunes became earworms in my brain, especially “Mugambige Hrudaya Thazhanchali” and “Vadakkum Nathante Suprabatham.” Even today, I can recall those songs with ease. There was something undoubtedly magical about this album. Each track felt like a sacred garland woven with melody and devotion, and, my goodness, what to say about the quality of Jayachandran’s voice—so silky, smooth, haunting, laden with emotion? Appa spent nearly a month going through therapy, and by the time he was out of it, Pushpanjali had become a part of our lives. My mother loved that album, too, and would hum its tunes while cooking. This was my first real introduction to Jayachandran’s magic, and my respect and love for his voice have only grown since then.
The second memory is more personal. I once had a chance to speak to him alone for nearly an hour. During the nineties, I used to frequent a restaurant in Chennai, and one day, on the seat next to me, was a short, slightly plump man with benign eyes sipping a drink and conversing with the bartender in Malayalam. I did not realize who the man was, but his face looked very familiar. (We all know the feeling of how, when you know someone only through pictures or television, you fail to recognize them when you see them in person.) After ten minutes or so, the restaurant manager (who knew me well), passing by, asked me if I recognized the man next to me. I grinned sheepishly and told him that he looked familiar, but I could not place him. He laughed and immediately introduced me to P. Jayachandran. I was thrilled. For the next hour, it was just Jayachandran and me. I obviously confessed to him that I was a fan of his music, especially his songs for Maestro Ilayaraja, which were some of my all-time favorites, and of course, I had to tell him about Pushpanjali. Jayachandran smiled and shrugged it off, pointing his fingers heavenwards, indicating that it was all possible because of a greater power. Among other things, I asked about Ilayaraja. He paused, smiled a little, and called him a genius but arrogant. He quickly qualified his comment that his arrogance was, however, totally warranted. After all, he had so much talent.
During that hour-long conversation, what struck me was Jayachandran’s humility. Never once did he put on the airs of a singer who had sung more than thousands of songs by then. Throughout the dialogue, he listened profoundly to what I was saying and responded with care. I asked him if he idolized any singer. Without hesitation, he said Yesettan (K.J. Yesudas). “Yesudas is any day a better singer than I could ever be” was his humble submission, and he said it in a tone and manner that I knew came from the heart and not just as a diplomatic response to a touchy question. Over the course of my travels, I have met several celebrities, sometimes in the boarding area of airports or on seats next to me on the flight, but with no one else, I have felt as comfortable speaking with as I did with Jayachandran. His unassuming demeanor was refreshing. I noticed that he wasn’t worried about the fact that nobody recognized him in the restaurant. He was happy being alone, enjoying his drink and talking to me, even though he knew that I had also failed to recognize him. He gave me the impression of a man at peace with himself, as an artist true to his craft who knew his place in the musical universe he belonged to and did not try to become anyone else. Time flew by as we talked, and soon, it was time for me to leave. He turned around and shook my hands warmly. His parting words still ring in my ear. “Live musically,” he said with a large grin on his face.
Now that Jayachandran is no more, it may be the right time to ask if his musical career was, to a large extent, circumscribed by the success of K.J. Yesudas. That is a difficult question. Both voices have a similar texture, and sometimes, when you listen to a song, it isn’t easy to make out whose voice it was. Yesudas consciously developed a strong pan-India presence, and along with his repertoire of Carnatic performances, he was far more entrenched in the musical world than Jayachandran chose to be. Another significant differentiator is that Yesudas managed to acquire a larger-than-life image as a Christian singing Hindu songs, while Jayachandran stayed within himself and never strove to bolster his image or his boundaries. Both singers had limitations when it came to film music. Unlike S.P. Balasubramaniam, who could sing a broad spectrum of songs (in fact, there was no genre he could not sing), Jayachandran and Yesudas’s voices suited slow songs with a hint of pathos or devotion in them. Composers preferred Yesudas if they needed a full-throated gravitas in the male voice, and they approached Jayachandran for selected compositions. However, the good thing is that whatever songs came Jayachandran’s way, he did full justice to it.
I have a playlist of Jayachandran songs, and I do not remember ever skipping any song, no matter how many times I replay the list. That is testimony to the quality of the compositions that Jayachandran was given to sing and the way he sang them with total absorption and commitment. Whether it is a solo song or a duet, Jayachandran’s emotional compass was always on the spot, and as listeners, we invariably tuned into his wavelength.
As I reflect and take stock of Jayachandran’s life and music, I am struck by the quiet power of his artistry. Jayachandran did not strive to outshine anyone; he simply sang, and in doing so, he left an indelible mark on the hearts of his listeners. His voice, in all its velvety tones and haunting melodies, remains a legacy that will live on in the depth and sincerity of their rendering. That is his gift to music.