Liner notes by Steve Gorn from Lyrichord CD-The Indian Bansuri Flute

In Calcutta, in the spring of 1971, Ram Banerjee, a Bengali vocalist, introduced me to Sri Gour Goswami. The day of the meeting I nervously practiced the one raga which I had studied in Benares. Mr. Banerjee picked me up at my hotel in Sudder Street and we went by taxi to the district of Hedwa in north Calcutta. This was 'old world' India; narrow lanes lined with sweet shops, tea stands and sari merchants. Bells were ringing from small neighborhood temples, and the air was thick and pungent. I was both thrilled and totally awkward. I didn't speak Bengali, nor did I know anything about the world I was entering.

Calcutta, circa 1971

We were directed through a door and along a corridor to a small court yard. The north end housed a small family temple. An old Brahmin priest, a cow and a servant were the only creatures in sight. The servant motioned to a room on the south end of the court, and following Mr. Banerjee I entered the music room. Seated on the floor were six men all dressed in white. The atmosphere was casual, but the energy clearly revolved around the guru. Gour Goswami was a robust man of middle age. He sat with noble posture, firmly on the ground with his feet tucked under his dhoti. His lips were red from the betel-nut he was chewing. A cup of tea was at his side and a harmonium and flute case lay on the floor before him.

He asked me from whom I had learned to play the bansuri. When I told him he let me know that I had learned from and insignificant person. I was irritated with such arrogance and was anxious to play for him and show him what I knew. He said, 'Where is your flute?" When he looked at it he quickly added, 'this is not made properly.' Tea was served. I sipped it furiously as an endless conversation in Bengali ensued. Finally I was asked to play. Nervously I played Rag Rageshree.

Gour Goswami listened, as did everyone in the room to this western curiosity, and when I finished he said, "You have a good sense for this music, but you have not been taught properly." He then took out his flute and played for me. And I smiled from my heart. The sound of the flute was deep, warm and velvety, and utterly weightless. Sound and color arising out of nowhere ... one note sliding into another ... thick and porous; one moment a cloud, the next air rushing thru bamboo. With faster passages came bird-like flutters cascading one on top of another and leaving an imprint in the air. And then it was over, and once again we were drinking tea. I requested instruction and a new phase of my life began.

During the year that followed and again in 1974. 1 worked hard to capture that marvelous sound and make Indian music my own. Lessons were rarely private. In a group, listening to the other students, I began to appreciate the relationship between guru and disciple, and the genuine openness which arises in a situation structured by protocol and hierarchy. I learned to sing and relate to the flute as a direct extension of my voice. The music was neither written in notation nor learned by rote. I learned through an assimilation of the essence and quality of the music. Playing the 'right passage' or showing the image of a particular raga is not a matter of repeating something correctly as much as it is synchronizing spontaneous inspiration with an adherence to the grammar and theory of the raga. When the image of the raga comes alive, elaboration and ornamentation flow effortlessly.

Gour Goswami was both generous and patient with me. The more I practiced the more he revealed. His senior disciple, Deba Prasad Banerjee, and tabla player Samir Mazumder practiced with me, accepted me as a younger brother and encouraged me to work even harder. After a year, Gour Goswami allowed me to perform with him and accompany him on tour. This was a thrilling experience and yet just another beginning in my study of Indian music.