In Chennai, they do hear their music differently
If this is a melee, it's a slow and civilised one, everyone filing into the hall in a laidback, southy sort of way, no shoving or pushing, no one screaming, 'Oye, Bunty, iddhar ajja, seat-tan aithhey haiggi!'
The stage's decor is a contrast to the crowd's behaviour, a veritable brawl of sponsor logos and shiny hangings. Above the open curtains stretches the hall's name in large black letters, and there are photos of holy men and gurus hanging high.
Right in the middle of all this is a large black box with the date and time showing in electric green, blue and red numerals. Every second of the recital will take place under this lurid metronome.
The logos — lots of banks love Carnatic music, it seems — cascade down on two wings, flanking the proscenium.
The lights are bright on stage and over the seating, with none of your 'darkened theatre-with-spotlight' kind of nonsense.
The musicians come to you out of this visual barrage — the violinist's plain grey kurta, the mridangam player's crisp white shirt, and the two vocalist sisters' saris, somehow both melding with, and clashing against, the background traffic of bright colours. Even as the twin-voiced singing envelops you, you notice several people around you moving their hands and arms in that peculiar private semaphore used by people who understand taal/taalam and use these beat gestures to immerse themselves in their enjoyment.
You see this beat-keeping in north Indian classical concerts as well, but not as much as here.
The other difference is there are no suppressed cries of 'vaah-vaah' as in a khayal or dhrupad concert. Instead, you will get small showers of applause whenever a singer or accompanist completes a beautiful section of rendering, much like a jazz
