Twenty years ago, two exemplars of kathak and tap interrogated each other’s art form in a dazzling, quick-witted encounter in front of a San Francisco audience. Pandit Chitresh Das and Jason Samuels Smith’s India Jazz Suites would go on to tour widely, hooking a new generation of fans. Since Das’ untimely death in 2015, his female disciples have propelled his legacy across North America. Two of them, Rachna Nivas and Rukhmani Mehta, joined with tap headliners Michelle Dorrance and Dormeshia for an all-female spin-off in the Bay Area.
Their collaboration Speak has now premiered in New York, capping a women-led festival of Indian classical arts at the 92nd Street Y. Its latest incarnation was anchored by two sets of musicians who faced off from opposing wings – as if divided by an ocean. A spellbinding opening invocation kicked off with Caili O’Doherty’s spare piano chords, Dennis Bulhões’ shimmering cymbals and Noah Garabedian’s softly stroked bass; Jayanta Banerjee’s sitar reached for the stars while Ambarish Das’ brooding vocals invoked Kali, goddess of destruction and creation, and Satyaprakash Mishra’s majestic tabla kept us firmly rooted on earth.
The fusion of Indian classical music and jazz has long been forged by a diverse group of musicians. On this program, two purely musical conversations – the second driven by tabla and bass as plaintive vocals and sitar hinted at an ominous fate – matched the dance episodes in overwhelming beauty.
There was no attempt to fuse kathak and tap, only to expose the intriguing seams between the two dance forms – one far more ancient, both shaped by histories of suppression and endurance. Today they find common ground in improvisation and rhythmic play – as in the virtuosic displays by Mehta and Dorrance, who tattooed rapid-fire variations on a 9½-beat cycle, each phrase snapping shut in perfect synchronicity with the musicians. Dorrance fired her taps against the floor like matches flaring against a box; Mehta’s bare feet moved just as quickly, sometimes tipped back so her heels pounded the ground, the bright, brittle resonance of her ankle bells (ghungru) conjuring an invisible force field.
Performance qualities proved distinctive. Mehta radiated calm, even when her feet blurred at breakneck speed, her spine erect as she spun through tight, whirlwind revolutions. Dorrance sprawled: even without traveling she pitched forward, lunging and teetering on the edge, her arms pumping or pinwheeling. Even their silhouettes contrasted: the softly billowing skirt of Mehta’s anarkali against Dorrance’s elegant, functional kurta; the two little messy buns on her head against Mehta’s long, immaculate braid. The tabla player was rocking out while the jazz drummer played tight and measured.
Two solos attested to the mesmerizing power of the individual techniques. Nivas spun in like a cyclone to dance the traditional Indic tale of a king jealous of the attention lavished on a dancing peacock. At the close, she drifted off, her arms undulating as if she was borne off by a breeze. Dormeshia wended her way contemplatively through an instrumental of Sarah Vaughan’s chart-topping Tenderly, a stroll that unfolded in a series of sublime revelations.
Inventive twists pitted the tap duo in jaunty exchange with the tabla, and the kathak duo in more understated dialogue with Miles Davis’ aptly titled Seven Steps to Heaven. In the rousing finale, all four dancers swept across terrain spanning North Indian raag, sacred Hindu song and a jazz standard. At a high point, Dormeshia and Nivas, gripping hand-held mics, traded jazz scats and bols – the chanted rhythmic syllables of Indian classical dance and percussion.
Throughout, individual dance personalities emerged. Mehta danced with a softly beaming radiance, an unaffected sense of wonder. Nivas’ eyes flashed mischievously, as if throwing out a dare. In a moment of profound stillness, a rapid, nearly imperceptible quiver of her head conveyed a sense of watchful suspense. Both wielded their arms, wrists and fingers with silky authority, their hands fluttering like songbirds released into the wild.
Dorrance, the rangy, restless adventurer, seemed perpetually on shaky ground, madly semaphoring. She stomped offstage after a solo, announcing her exit as emphatically as her entrance. Dormeshia’s fireworks shimmered rather than exploded – precise, effortless and shaped by a deep wisdom. Her arms unfurled like wings, soaring and swooping, her serene gaze seemingly fixed on distant lands. When she chose to make a point, she struck surgically.
The evening culminated in a madcap call-and-response improvisation (sawaal-jawaab) with the musicians. At one point the dancers seemed to lose their tight hand-off, pointing at each other as if to say, “you... no, you!” The moment was a welcome reminder that these consummate artists didn’t take themselves too seriously. This fusion of razor precision and gleeful abandon, paired with a virtually boundless palette of sound and movement, leaves abundant fuel for future iterations of Speak. May the gods of dance sustain its passage.
