Anupam Shobhakar’s latest track Formless is a bold exploration of rhythm and melody, a seamless Indo-Western collaboration with Swaminathan Selvaganesh that transcends genre boundaries. In this exclusive interview, Anupam delves into his creative process, the philosophy behind Formless, and the immersive soundscapes of Liquid Reality.
Anupam Shobhakar’s mesmerizing Indo-Western duet with Swaminathan Selvaganesh, and his upcoming album Liquid Reality, a groundbreaking fusion of Indian classical, jazz, and global influences.
There are musicians who follow tradition, and then there are artists like Anupam Shobhakar, who redefine it. A virtuoso of the sarod and double-neck guitar, Anupam seamlessly fuses the intricate phrasing of Indian classical music with the harmonic complexity of jazz and the raw power of progressive rock. He’s not just an instrumentalist—he’s an architect of sound, carving out new musical landscapes that stretch from the heart of Hindustani ragas to the unpredictable rhythms of contemporary fusion.
Born into the hallowed Maihar Gharana lineage—home to legends like Ravi Shankar and Ali Akbar Khan—Anupam was trained in the purity of classical tradition. But his artistic compass pointed beyond convention. As a child prodigy in Bombay’s rock scene, he played Independence Rock at just 12 years old, navigating his way through Van Halen licks and Metallica riffs before fully immersing himself in the world of Indian classical music. His journey has been anything but linear, and that’s precisely what makes his artistry so compelling.
Now, based in Brooklyn, New York, Anupam is a force in global fusion music. His projects don’t just blend genres—they create new ones. Whether he’s paying homage to Shakti’s legacy, collaborating with jazz greats, or composing cinematic works inspired by Mirza Ghalib’s poetry, his music is an intersection of past, present, and the limitless possibilities of sound.
In this exclusive interview, Anupam sits down with News18 Showsha to talk about his latest track, Formless—a mesmerizing Indo-Western duet with Swaminathan Selvaganesh that explores rhythm as a language of its own. He shares his thoughts on the philosophy behind musical structure, the evolution of Indo-fusion in global spaces, and the bold soundscapes of his upcoming album, Liquid Reality—set to release on Holi, a festival that mirrors the vibrancy of his compositions.
From jamming with John McLaughlin’s Mahavishnu Orchestra alumni to being the only Indian guitarist invited to a Van Halen tribute at the Whisky a Go Go, Anupam is not just carrying forward a legacy—he’s rewriting the rulebook. Get ready to dive into the mind of a musical maverick.
Here are the excerpts:
First of all, I have to say, I absolutely love your track Formless. It’s truly mesmerizing. Your collaboration with Swaminathan Selvaganesh is incredible. It brings together two distinct musical traditions—his extraordinary percussive artistry and your Indo-Western fusion. How did the two of you approach the creative process for this track?
Swami and I have been friends for a long time. I’ve also had the privilege of performing with his father, the legendary Selvaganesh, who is not just an Indian percussion maestro but a globally recognized one.
Selvaji and I first met in New York through the city’s vibrant musician community, and we immediately clicked. Over the years, we performed together frequently, and Swami, who often accompanied his father to New York, naturally became part of that circle. Since we’re of a similar age, we bonded quickly over our shared love for music, especially Shakti. Swami comes from an incredible lineage—his grandfather, the great Padma Vibhushan Vikku Vinayakram, was one of the original members of Shakti, then his father took up the mantle, and now Swami represents the third generation.
We’ve collaborated on multiple projects and even perform together in a collective that pays tribute to John McLaughlin’s Mahavishnu Orchestra, working alongside some of its original members. Swami and I share an active musical dialogue—we play together regularly, whether in New York, Chennai, or elsewhere.
Even now, as we prepare for the Liquid Reality album release show at the New York Public Theater on April 10, Swami is flying in from Chennai just to be part of it. We recently performed together at the Kala Ghoda Festival and the BLR Hubba Festival in Bangalore.
When I was writing Formless, I knew I wanted to create a duo track that would highlight Swami’s kanjira playing. Most people know him as a kanjira virtuoso, but he’s also an exceptional mridangam player. In fact, Formless marks his debut recording on mridangam, which made it even more special. The track was born out of a desire to showcase our interplay in its purest form—just the two of us in a dynamic musical conversation.
That’s fascinating. Formless brings together two distinct musical elements—percussion, which is inherently rhythmic, and the sarod and guitar, which often lean towards melodic fluidity. How did you and Selvaganesh balance these elements in the track?
That’s a great question. While the sarod is primarily known as a melodic instrument, it actually has a very strong percussive identity. In fact, when I was learning sarod, I used to describe it as one part drum, one part voice.
The sarod has a goatskin belly, similar to Indian percussion instruments, which allows for rhythmic articulation. The Maihar gharana style I studied incorporates elements from pakhawaj playing—the pakhawaj being the predecessor of the tabla. This means that sarod playing in my tradition naturally includes rhythmic compositions, odd time cycles, and percussive phrasing.
Similarly, the guitar is an inherently percussive instrument. If you listen to flamenco or artists like Vicente Amigo, you’ll hear that strong rhythmic presence. While guitar is often associated with melody and harmony, certain playing techniques bring out its percussive nature, which I incorporate into my style.
A solid foundation in classical Indian music—whether Hindustani or Carnatic—goes a long way in understanding rhythm. India is unique in having not one but two highly sophisticated classical music traditions, each with its own deep rhythmic system. Indian classical rhythm, whether bol padhant in Hindustani or konakkol in Carnatic, functions as a language in itself. If you’re trained in it, you can communicate entirely through rhythm. That’s something I deeply connect with, and it plays a central role in Formless.
Rhythm is more than just timing—it’s a form of expression. And when you truly understand it, you can have entire conversations through music.
The title Formless suggests something boundless, unstructured, or even transcendent. Does this track challenge conventional song structures, or does it follow a defined framework?
Oh, Formless definitely has a structure. As a composer, I take form and development very seriously. I studied Western classical music and jazz for a long time, including with the incredible pianist Santiago Leibson. He’s a musical force—performed at Carnegie Hall, among other places—and his approach to composition, where movements develop in a structured way, had a huge influence on me.
In classical composition, whether it’s Western or Indian, structure is fundamental—it’s composer 101, as they say. But I didn’t name Formless because it lacks structure. The name comes from a spiritual concept. In Indian mysticism, the divine is often considered nirakar—formless—until it takes a physical form, like Vishnu did as Krishna, Narasimha, and so on. The universe itself is an expression of the formless divine.
So, while the music is structured, the name Formless is a metaphor for something much deeper—a philosophical and spiritual idea rather than a literal description of the composition.
That’s a beautiful perspective. Now, your upcoming album Liquid Reality is set to release on Holi, the festival of colors, renewal, and letting go. Is there a symbolic connection between Holi and the themes of the album? Also, what can listeners expect from Liquid Reality?
Great question. The decision to release Liquid Reality on Holi was actually a happy accident! When we were finalizing the release date, I randomly suggested March 14 to my label, AGS Recordings. Then, I happened to check my Apple calendar and saw that it was Holi. It felt like a perfect coincidence.
That said, the timing makes a lot of sense. Holi is a festival of color, and this album is incredibly colorful—both in terms of its sonic palette and the diversity of influences. Liquid Reality is a fusion of many musical traditions, instruments, and cultures.
For example, Formless is on the album, and we also did a tribute to La Danse du Bonheur (French for “The Dance of Happiness”), which was a track from Shakti’s iconic album A Handful of Beauty. That tribute opens the album, featuring a powerful violin solo by L. Shankar. It’s not a straight cover—I don’t really believe in covers—but more of an adaptation. I added my own compositions to the framework, incorporating Maihar Gharana sarod elements while keeping deep respect for the original.
Another key piece is inspired by the legendary Mirza Ghalib. His poetry was so rebellious and ahead of its time—questioning conventional norms in a way that was both poetic and thought-provoking. That energy really influenced one of the tracks on the album. Since I’ve worked extensively with jazz and classical musicians, I infused that piece with sophisticated harmonic elements while keeping the essence of Ghalib’s vision.
If you ask Swami, he’ll tell you that my music is constantly shifting rhythmically. He jokes that my rhythm cycles change every bar—and he’s not entirely wrong! I love playing with time signatures and rhythmic cadences. Even in conversation, we naturally speak with rhythmic variations, right? Frank Zappa once said that nobody just speaks in a straight rhythm—our speech has rhythmic phrasing, and I try to reflect that in my compositions.
Another piece on the album, Angeneo, is a major percussion feature, bringing in Swami and the legendary Japanese-American drummer Satoshi Takeishi. Satoshi has played with incredible musicians, including the band Oregon, and his drumming is just on another level. The album also features Ben Parag, an amazingly talented New York-based vocalist, as well as Ona Karai, a Barcelona-born singer of Japanese heritage.
It’s incredible how global Liquid Reality sounds—not just in instrumentation but in the cultural elements you’re weaving together.
That’s the essence of this album. For years in the U.S., I focused mainly on instrumental music. Indian vocal music, outside the Indian diaspora, hasn’t always had a wide audience in the West because of language barriers. But that’s changing. Over the past few years, more Indian vocalists have gained recognition globally, and I felt it was the perfect time to bring vocal elements back into my work.
My wife actually encouraged me to incorporate more vocals, reminding me how much I used to love writing for singers. When I lived in India, I worked on albums featuring incredible vocalists like Sangeeta Lahiri, and I missed that aspect of my work. Liquid Reality gave me the opportunity to bring that back—integrating vocals into pieces inspired by Shakti, Ghalib, and other musical traditions.
So, in a way, this album represents both a return and an evolution for you?
Exactly! It brings together my roots in Indian classical music, my deep connection with jazz, my love for Western harmony, and my passion for global fusion. And that’s why Holi felt like the perfect release date—it’s a festival that celebrates unity in diversity, just like this album does.
Even in New York, Holi and Diwali are widely celebrated. The Empire State Building lights up in festive colors, and the city embraces these cultural traditions. New York is truly a melting pot, and that global spirit is exactly what Liquid Reality represents. I hope it resonates with listeners, no matter where they’re from.
You’ve trained under the lineage of legendary Indian classical musicians, yet you’ve also been deeply influenced by guitarists like John McLaughlin and Allan Holdsworth. These musical worlds seem quite different—how do you reconcile them in your playing?
That’s exactly why I play a double-neck guitar. It allows me to bridge both worlds seamlessly. My training in Hindustani classical music comes from my guru, Ustad Aashish Khan, the son of Ustad Ali Akbar Khan and grandson of Ustad Allauddin Khan—the same lineage that shaped Ravi Shankar. His aunt, the great Annapurna Devi, was a mystical figure in Indian classical music. Towards the end of her life, I had the privilege of spending some time with her. She gave me one crucial piece of advice: develop my own voice. She saw something unique in my musical identity and encouraged me not to limit myself to just playing the sarod, but to truly carve my own path.
For me, that meant embracing the duality of my influences. In India, switching between languages—Hindi, English, our regional tongues—comes naturally to us. I see my music the same way. I’m musically bilingual. When I play a Hindustani classical concert, I fully immerse myself in that world. The tanpura is on, and I can play Raga Yaman or Bageshwari for hours. But when I switch to the other neck of my guitar, I step into the harmonic and improvisational world of jazz, rock, and fusion.
Both these musicians—the Indian classical artist and the jazz guitarist—coexist within me. It’s like a musical Jekyll and Hyde, except both personalities are fully alive and integrated. I needed an instrument that could express that reality, so I created one. When I played guitar, I missed the sarod. When I played sarod, I missed the guitar. The only solution was to fuse them together. That became my life’s journey.
That’s an incredible perspective. How challenging was it to create an instrument that could embody both traditions?
It wasn’t just challenging—it was necessary. Everything I do is born out of necessity. I love the deep harmonic complexity of Western music—European classical music, jazz, counterpoint, voice leading, orchestration. But I also wanted the haunting, spiritual depth of Indian melody and the mathematical precision of Indian rhythm. Most instruments are designed to specialize in one tradition. I didn’t want to be forced to choose.
Growing up, my musical diet was eclectic—Tchaikovsky and Bach on one side, Bhimsen Joshi and Ali Akbar Khan on the other. Then there was rock and metal—Eddie Van Halen, Steve Vai, Megadeth, Metallica. And of course, the double-neck icon himself, Jimmy Page.
I needed an instrument that could allow me to express all of these influences authentically. That’s why I built my double-neck guitar. Indian classical music is the most intricate melodic and rhythmic system in the world, but it’s not inherently harmonic. Western music has extraordinary harmonic depth, but it doesn’t have the same rhythmic or melodic elasticity. I wanted both.
Of course, this means twice the study, twice the practice. Every day of my life, before every concert, I practice two instruments in one. But that’s the only way I can fully express myself.
You’ve often said that tayari—the concept of being “ready”—is crucial for an artist. You once described it as aligning the body, mind, and soul so that when creativity strikes, you can fully channel it. Can you recall a moment when this philosophy played out in real time?
Man, every great concert is a test of tayari. The best performances happen when everything aligns—the mind, the body, the instrument, the energy of the moment. The worst ones? That’s when something doesn’t click. You’re waiting for inspiration to strike, but if your hands and mind aren’t ready to respond in that split second, the moment is lost.
Let me give you a sports analogy. Imagine an NBA game. The players put in months of preparation, but once they step onto the court, instinct has to take over. LeBron doesn’t think before taking a three-pointer. He just does it. His training kicks in. The discipline takes over. The same goes for soldiers in battle—they train relentlessly, but in the heat of the moment, instinct must guide them.
It’s the same with high-intensity, improvised music. You practice endlessly so that when inspiration strikes, you don’t hesitate—you execute.
Many people think of tayari in terms of sheer technical virtuosity, which is important, especially in Indian classical music. But real tayari is more than that. It’s about being in tune with the moment.
Music is ephemeral. Unlike a painting, which exists permanently, music happens in real-time. Even if you record it, you’re only capturing the echo of that moment, not the moment itself. That’s why the greatest improvisers—whether it’s Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, Allan Holdsworth, Chick Corea, or Bill Evans—sound like they’re channeling something beyond themselves. They’re not playing music; they are the music.
To reach that level, you need to put in your 10,000 hours—then another 10,000. That’s what tayari is.
Your music embodies themes of transformation, destruction, and rebirth, and I understand it’s deeply inspired by the goddess Kali. How do these spiritual concepts influence the way you compose and perform?
It’s interesting because this connection developed naturally over time. As a kid, I wasn’t particularly drawn to these concepts. I grew up in a very Westernized part of Bombay—Juhu—where my world was filled with Van Halen, rock bands, and electric guitars. I was playing in bands at a really young age.
Oh, you had a band?
Yeah, yeah! We played Independence Rock when I was just 12 or 13 years old. I didn’t even own my own left-handed guitar at the time—someone lent me one for the gig. The rest of the band members were all in their 30s, and there I was, this kid on stage. People called me a child prodigy or whatever, but at the time, I was just excited to be playing.
My family, though, was deeply spiritual. They were religious in the traditional sense—going to temples, following rituals. But their spiritual depth went beyond that. My father was deeply into the Bhagavad Gita and would always quote Krishna’s teachings, especially during difficult times. Back then, those words kind of just bounced off my brother and me. But as I got older, particularly after I lost my parents a few years ago, I started diving deeper into my family’s history.
When you live abroad, you inevitably start looking inward, trying to understand your roots. Through my music—through the Maihar Gharana, through the sarod—I’ve always been connected to India. But it was only later that I realized the depth of my family’s spiritual lineage.
For generations, my ancestors were devotees of Kali. I only truly grasped this after researching my lineage. In fact, my name—Anupam Shobhakar—is directly tied to a Kali temple in West Bengal. If you look it up, you’ll find a famous temple that carries my family name. That realization was powerful. It made me feel a responsibility to honor that connection.
Kali is not just about destruction—she’s about transformation, about stripping away illusions and revealing truth. In music, that translates to breaking conventions, pushing boundaries, and embracing the raw energy of creation. If she has protected my family for centuries, then as an artist, I feel I must channel that force in my work. And let’s be real—these are difficult times. We could all use some divine protection.
As an artist rooted in Indian traditions but based in Brooklyn, how do you see the evolution of Indo-fusion music in global spaces?
It’s been an incredible journey. Indo-fusion music today stands on the shoulders of giants—Pandit Ravi Shankar, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, Ustad Zakir Hussain, and my guru, Ustad Aashish Khan. These legends paved the way, especially in the ‘50s, ‘60s, and ‘70s, when they moved to the U.S. and introduced Indian classical music to the world.
Think about it—Ustad Ali Akbar Khan was already in America in 1955, cutting the very first LP of Indian music. That’s huge. Back then, most Americans probably had some mystical or exoticized perception of India. But then you have Yehudi Menuhin, one of the greatest violinists of all time, saying in that very album’s introduction that Ali Akbar Khan was one of the finest musicians he had ever met.
And then, of course, there was Pandit Ravi Shankar, playing at the Monterey Pop Festival, Woodstock, and other historic stages. Back then, there were maybe 20 Indian musicians in the U.S., but they shattered every preconceived notion about Indian music.
Now? You walk into a jam session in Brooklyn, and even the bartender knows what Raga Bhairavi is. Indian music has become part of the global musical vocabulary. Even at the Grammys—where I’m a voting member—you see more and more Indian artists getting recognized every year.
And beyond classical and fusion, Indian musicians are breaking into genres where we’ve historically been underrepresented.
For example, I have another musical persona—a progressive metal guitarist. I play in a pretty well-known modern metal trio. We explore progressive rock, metal, and fusion in the style of Guthrie Govan, Tosin Abasi, and other contemporary guitar innovators.
Recently, my band was invited to perform at a Van Halen Tribute at the legendary Whisky a Go Go in Los Angeles—the same stage where Jim Morrison, Pearl Jam, and Nirvana performed. To my knowledge, I’m the only Indian guitarist ever invited to a Van Halen tribute at that venue. That’s a big deal.
That’s incredible. So you’re not just carrying forward Indian classical traditions—you’re also making inroads into rock and metal, which have traditionally been dominated by Western artists.
Exactly. For the longest time, the image of the Indian musician was limited to either classical ragas and talas or Bollywood music. But music is so much bigger than that.
I want to break that mold. We’ve never had an Indian Jimi Hendrix. We’ve never had an Indian Jimmy Page. Why not?
Our culture has always been musically rich—whether in classical, folk, or film music. But rock and metal? That’s been largely absent. And I want to change that.
I love playing ragas, but I also love shredding an insane solo over odd-time grooves. For me, these aren’t separate worlds. They’re part of a single, evolving musical identity—one that belongs on the world stage. That’s the goal. Music is about constant evolution. I’m just here to push the boundaries.
You’ve been part of charitable concerts like YWCA India’s Concert for Peace. How do you see music as a tool for social change?
Music is one of the last few tools for social change that we have left. That’s both a sad reality and a profound responsibility. The world today is filled with war, political upheaval, and division. But historically, musicians were seen as prophets, as agents of change. In India, music has always been deeply tied to spirituality and transformation—think of the Gandharvas, the celestial musicians. That tradition still exists in India, but in many parts of the world, especially in the West, music has become heavily commercialized, often losing that deeper purpose.
To me, the essence of Indian music—Nada Brahma, the divine sound—is ultimately a message of peace. I’ve performed across the world, in Israel, in Arab countries, in Japan, in Europe. And every time, I see how music bypasses every social, political, or cultural barrier.
When two musicians meet, their backgrounds don’t matter—whether it’s race, religion, nationality, or even language. If someone has an instrument, and I have mine, we can communicate instantly. You don’t need to ask about politics, beliefs, or personal history. If you’re deep in the Amazon jungle and someone plays a drum, you connect. If you’re in Europe and someone plays the piano while you have a guitar, there’s immediate understanding.
Music has this primal, universal DNA that connects us. And because of that, musicians have a responsibility—not just to entertain, but to remind the world of our shared humanity. That’s why I believe in giving back. If you’re lucky enough to make a living doing what you love, you have an obligation to use that platform for something greater than yourself.
That’s also why I feel personally indebted to every single person who listens to my music or comes to my concerts. Without them, there’s no music.
Your track Watere made it to the first round of the Grammy Awards. Do you see this as validation for your global sound, or does recognition hold a different meaning for you?
Awards like the Grammys have their place. Within the industry, they matter—they open doors, expand opportunities, and instantly elevate your status. If you have “Grammy nominee” or “Grammy winner” next to your name, suddenly you’re in a different bracket. It’s just the way the business works.
But personally? Recognition, for me, is something different. I measure it by asking myself: Am I a better musician today than I was yesterday? Have I learned something new? Am I practicing, playing, and composing at a higher level than before?
Ustad Vilayat Khan once said, “You’re only as good as your last concert.” That line has stuck with me forever. It’s terrifying, really, because it means that no matter how many awards or accolades you receive, they don’t define your artistry. What defines you is your body of work—the music you create, the impact you leave behind.
That’s what history remembers. Not the awards, but the contributions. And for that, the real validation comes from continuing to push forward, grow, and evolve as an artist.
With Liquid Reality set to release soon, what do you hope listeners take away from it? Is the album meant to challenge, soothe, or inspire?
Definitely to soothe and inspire. I wouldn’t say challenge, because the only real challenge is the one you set for yourself. Just like you, as a journalist, want to be better at your craft every day, I want to be a better musician tomorrow than I am today.
For me, Liquid Reality represents the most mature work I’ve created so far. It’s a culmination of my life experiences, my journey as an artist, and everything I’ve absorbed along the way. But the process never stops. Even as this album is coming out, I’m already thinking about my next project. We never stop creating.
When I was composing and recording Liquid Reality, I was completely immersed in it—obsessed, even. I barely shaved, I looked like a mess, like Robert De Niro between films. I was just living in the studio, eating Haagen-Dazs, staring at the mixer, refining every note. I even turned down concerts because I didn’t want to show up looking like a total wreck!
But beyond my own experience, this album has taken on even deeper meaning because of a great loss. We recently lost one of the most legendary musicians, and this album, especially La Danse du Bonheur, is a tribute to him.
He was the sound of Shakti—alongside Zakir Hussain, Vikku Vinayakram, John McLaughlin, and the rest of that legendary first lineup. His presence was like one of the four wheels on a car—when you lose one, it changes everything. This album now carries a sense of dedication, of honoring his memory.
But Liquid Reality isn’t just for musicians or for those deeply immersed in the technicalities of music. I want everyone to listen to it. I want the rickshaw driver in Mumbai to enjoy it, just as much as the Ivy League music scholar in Berkeley. This isn’t elitist music—it’s for everyone.
That’s an incredible sentiment. It sounds like Liquid Reality isn’t just an album—it’s a deeply personal expression and a universal invitation.
Exactly. It’s music meant for the world. And I just hope it resonates with as many people as possible.
