From qawwali to jazz: When staying silent is disrespectful
Qawwali thrives on abandon. The audience comes undone with the performers, making the boundaries between the stage and congregation porous
“You must be seated by 9,” instructed our tickets to a dinner performance at Minton’s, the legendary jazz lounge in Harlem. It was a stroke of luck that allowed us entry many years ago, before the place temporarily shut for the millionth time. The history of these temporary closures is no less interesting than that of the birth of modern jazz here. But that’s for another time. Today, it’s about how a recent trip to Lucknow reminded me of the etiquette of jazz learnt at Minton’s.
Across the world, certain art forms survive not merely because of virtuoso performers but because their audiences understand the subtle power of participation. They know when to lean in, when to recede, and when to let their sighs become part of the performance. Lucknow’s ubiquitous traditions — Hindustani classical music, qawwali, and the mushaira — embody this delicate choreography between performer and listener. Strangely enough, the audience behaviour in these seemingly disparate spaces resembles that of jazz aficionados more closely than any other global performance culture.
What binds these worlds together is not just improvisation on stage but improvisation in the act of listening. A Hindustani classical concert is often mistaken by the uninitiated as a solitary expedition undertaken by the singer or musician. But anyone who has sat through a vilambit khayal knows the quiet electricity that runs through the hall the moment the first phrase unfolds. The connoisseurs respond with a soft wah, sometimes no louder than a rustle, yet potent enough for the artist to recognise as endorsement. These little murmurs are not interruptions. This laconic, coded, deeply affectionate language makes the artiste go on composing on the spot. Jazz audiences, too, speak in this dialect of spontaneity. They applaud a mid-phrase riff or an unexpected modulation with a kind of urgency.
Qawwali does not bother with the above subtlety. It thrives on abandon. The audience comes undone with the performers. The claps rise in waves, the wah louder, making the boundaries between the stage and congregation porous. During my latest qawwali outing, a Kathak dancer left her drink behind and rose impromptu for a duet. Another woman gave a jawaabi (a poetic response), by reciting Afreen when the qawwal paused. One could argue that it is messier than jazz, but the parallel lies in the shared emotional contract: Both presume the listener’s willingness to surrender. Jazz clubs allow for this. At Minton’s, I could witness people leaning forward, eyes half-closed, responding viscerally to every rhythmic deviation, every playful defiance of expectation. The musicians communicated with them not just through their instruments but also eyes and facial expressions. Identical instinctive call-and-responses fuelling improvisational music.
And then there is the mushaira, perhaps the most democratic of these spaces. Poetry readings elsewhere may demand decorum, but a mushaira lives on polylogue. The shayar pauses strategically, not only for effect but to allow the audience to feel the couplet settling in their bones. The shayar can also repeat his verse endlessly without the audience losing their patience. A slow murmur of appreciation, a collective sigh, a chorus of bahut khoob, bahut badhiya, kya baat hai, wah, and other such exclamations shape the poet’s next move. The shayar’s peers on the stage and people in the audience are also expected to repeat his lines. Even when the shayar is reciting. It’s not considered interruption but appreciation. The event becomes a negotiation. The shayar bets on how the audience receives and returns their phrases. If the shayar‘s words have hit the spot, a resounding zindabad comes their way. Jazz, again, mirrors this dynamic, where performers often test phrases in real time, waiting for subtle auditory cues from the audience before ascending into bolder expressions.
In contrast, many other performance arts — Western classical orchestras, proscenium theatre, even cinema — train audiences to be invisible, disciplined, almost sterilised in their engagement. Their silence is a form of respect, but it also erects a barrier. The performer performs; the audience witnesses. The relationship is hierarchical. But, in Hindustani classical, qawwali, mushaira, and jazz, participation is not a breach of etiquette. It is the oxygen the art form breathes.
These traditions trust their listeners. They presume a certain literacy. Maybe not of technique but certainly of emotion. Perhaps that is why these art forms endure — because they are not museums but living rooms. They reward those who listen actively. In these shared spaces of improvisation and communion, the audience is never a spectator. They are co-authors of the moment.
Yes, be seated in time and keep that phone switched off.
Nishtha Gautam is an academician and author. The views are personal
