The T. M. Krishna Dilemma: When Musical Genius Meets Controversial Activism

Can we separate the art from the artist when the artist’s voice is as provocative as it is sublime?

I first heard T.M. Krishna sing a few years ago, when I stumbled upon a Youtube video of him singing one of the Thyagaraja Pancharathna Krithi Jagadananda Karaka, and his voice stopped me in my tracks. There was something raw and powerful in his rendition of Naattai on that video – a depth that seemed to reach into the very soul of the raga. His voice, rich and resonant, carried both technical mastery and an emotional intensity that made even seasoned Carnatic music listeners sit up and take notice. In that moment, I became a devoted fan.

Today, I find myself wrestling with a question that probably wouldn’t have occurred to me back then: Can I still love T.M. Krishna’s music when I’m increasingly uncomfortable with T.M. Krishna the activist?

For those unfamiliar with Carnatic music, which is the classical music tradition of South India, imagine if Bob Dylan had been trained in opera, possessed the technical virtuosity of a conservatory graduate, but used his platform to challenge everything from religious orthodoxy to caste hierarchies. That’s T.M. Krishna: a vocalist of extraordinary talent whose outspoken activism has made him simultaneously one of the most celebrated and reviled figures in Indian classical music.

T. M. Krishna : The Making of a Musical Icon

Born in Chennai in 1976, Thodur Madabusi Krishna (T. M. Krishna) was trained by some of the most revered names in Carnatic music, including the legendary Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer, known as the “grand sire of modern Carnatic music.” This lineage matters immensely in a tradition where musical knowledge is passed down almost sacredly from guru to student. Krishna’s credentials are impeccable—he’s performed on the most prestigious stages worldwide, and his early recordings reveal a voice of stunning power and nuance.

I remember those early performances with particular fondness. His Kamboji renditions from the late 2000s remain, in my opinion, definitive interpretations of the raga. There was a certain purity to his approach then, a deep reverence for the tradition that somehow coexisted with subtle innovations in phrasing and ornamentation.

Listen to an earlier recording of his Kaamboji which is one of the most beautiful renditions of the Raaga that I had ever heard.

But somewhere along the way, T. M. Krishna the musician evolved into T. M. Krishna the provocateur. And while his artistic journey has remained compelling—if sometimes frustrating—his public persona has become increasingly polarizing.

T. M. Krishna : The Artist as Activist

T. M. Krishna’s transformation into a cultural critic began gradually but has accelerated dramatically in recent years. He’s championed marginalized communities, collaborated with transgender musicians, and consistently advocated for what he calls the “de-Brahminization” of Carnatic music. His 2013 book “A Southern Music,” presented by economist Amartya Sen, argued for making classical music accessible beyond its traditional upper-caste boundaries.

These aren’t inherently controversial positions. Many of us who love Carnatic music recognize that it has historically been dominated by Brahmin communities and that broadening its reach could only enrich the art form. The controversy lies not in T. M. Krishna’s goals but in his methods and rhetoric.

The M.S. Subbulakshmi Firestorm

The most explosive controversy erupted over T. M. Krishna’s comments about M.S. Subbulakshmi, arguably the most beloved figure in Carnatic music history. Subbulakshmi, who passed away in 2004, transcended musical boundaries to become a cultural icon, revered for both her extraordinary voice and her spiritual presence. She was the first musician to be awarded the Bharat Ratna, India’s highest civilian honor.

T. M. Krishna’s criticism of Subbulakshmi was multifaceted and, to many, devastating. He called her a “saintly Barbie doll,” questioned what he termed her “Brahminised” identity despite her non-Brahmin origins, and suggested that her music had a “negative impact” on the development of Carnatic music. He argued that the mythologization of Subbulakshmi had created unrealistic standards and stifled artistic expression.

For many Carnatic music lovers, this felt like sacrilege. Subbulakshmi represents not just musical excellence but spiritual transcendence—the idea that music can be a pathway to the divine. T. M. Krishna’s critique seemed to reduce this transcendent figure to a cultural construction, stripping away the very qualities that made her music so profoundly moving for millions.

The controversy escalated when the Madras Music Academy decided to confer its highest honor, the Sangita Kalanidhi award, on T. M. Krishna in 2024. This award automatically includes the M.S. Subbulakshmi Award, leading to the surreal situation of T. M. Krishna receiving an award named after the very musician he had criticized. Subbulakshmi’s grandson even filed a legal challenge to prevent this.

The Spiritual Disconnect

Perhaps even more troubling for traditional listeners was T. M. Krishna’s admission in a public forum that he doesn’t think of Rama when singing kritis (compositions) about the Hindu deity. In Carnatic music, many compositions are devotional, with lyrics praising various Hindu gods and goddesses. For centuries, both performers and listeners have found deep spiritual meaning in these songs, treating them as prayers set to music.

T. M. Krishna’s revelation challenges this fundamental aspect of the tradition. If the performer doesn’t connect with the devotional content, what does that mean for the music’s spiritual dimension? Can a kriti about Rama retain its sacred power when sung by someone who views it merely as artistic expression?

This hits particularly close to home for me. Some of my most profound musical experiences have come from listening to devotional compositions, feeling that the singer was channeling something beyond mere technical skill. T. M. Krishna’s admission doesn’t invalidate his artistry, but it does complicate my relationship with it.

The Evolution of an Artist

Musically, T. M. Krishna has evolved from his early powerful, technically driven style to embrace what he calls “vilambam“—slower, more contemplative tempos. While this has led to some breathtaking performances, it’s also resulted in occasional technical lapses, where Taalam or Layam has been treated as a mere distraction. Additionally, he has been taking the song selection in his concerts very lightly. His improvisational style, albeit very charming and leads to some beautiful moments on stage, has occasionally led to a sense of “unpreparedness” in several of his performances. I’ve witnessed concerts where he’s forgotten lyrics or stumbled through compositions, relying on his charisma and improvisational skills to recover.

In this example above, he asks his violinist to play “anything” and we can go from there. This is a routine practice for him in several of his concerts. The artist plays beautiful phrases after phrases of the Raaga Bahudari. The violinist then queues him in on the popular Kriti “Brova Bharama” in the Raaga Bahudari. T. M. Krishna does not remember the lyrics, makes up words as he goes, sings the song in parts while the violinist practically rescues him, by playing through the composition. This is one of my favorite compositions and it made me a little sad that the song did not get better treatment from one of my favorite voices.

Here is another example above. T. M. Krishna starts off with a beautiful exploration of the Raaga Khamas. He then follows it up with the Keerthana “Brochevarevarura“. He mumbles “Romba Naala Aachu” in to the microphone before he starts, which is Tamil for “It’s been a while (since I sang this song last)”. Once he reaches the Chitta Swara (a segment of swarams which is part of the composition itself, or comes with the song that you have to sing) portion, it is clear that he does not remember it. He starts to attempt it, then drops it off in the middle, and violinist has to play it through. Only after listening to his violinist play it for a couple of times does he remember the Chitta Swaras. Romba Naala Aachu indeed. He makes up for the lapse in the Chitta Swara by singing Kalpana Swara (the improvisational part of the Swara) beautifully. But I can’t help but say that the composition deserved better treatment from such a senior singer like himself.

Some fans defend these moments as signs of authenticity and spontaneity. But for someone trained in a tradition that prizes precision and devotion, these lapses can feel like symptoms of a broader casualness toward the art form’s sacred aspects.

The Boycott and Its Aftermath

When the Sangita Kalanidhi award was announced for the year 2024, several prominent musicians—including the respected duo Ranjani and Gayatri, the Trichur Brothers, and others—boycotted the Music Academy’s December conference in protest. Some even returned previous awards they had received.

Their reasons varied but centered on T. M. Krishna’s alleged disrespect for musical icons and his political activism. Critics argue that he’s using his musical platform to advance ideological agendas that have little to do with art itself.

The Music Academy defended its choice, stating that the award was based purely on musical excellence. But the controversy revealed deep fissures within the Carnatic music community about the relationship between art and politics, tradition and reform.

The Personal Dilemma

So where does this leave those of us who love T. M. Krishna’s music but struggle with his activism? I believe T. M. Krishna deserves the Sangita Kalanidhi award based purely on his musical contributions. His voice, his understanding of ragas, his ability to bring freshness to ancient compositions—these are undeniable.

But I also understand why his statements about Subbulakshmi and Rama feel like attacks on the very soul of the tradition. When an artist explicitly rejects the spiritual framework that has sustained an art form for centuries, it raises fundamental questions about authenticity and respect.

The tension isn’t just about T. M. Krishna—it’s about how we engage with art in an era of increased political consciousness. Should artists be pure vessels for their art, or are they entitled, even obligated, to use their platforms for social commentary? Can we appreciate the beauty of a performance while disagreeing with the performer’s worldview?

A Way Forward?

I’ve come to believe that the answer isn’t to choose sides but to hold space for complexity. T. M. Krishna’s critiques of Carnatic music’s exclusivity aren’t entirely wrong, even if his manner of expressing them has been unnecessarily provocative. The tradition does need to evolve, to become more inclusive, to engage with contemporary realities.

At the same time, we shouldn’t dismiss the concerns of those who feel that T. M. Krishna’s approach undermines the spiritual and cultural foundations that make Carnatic music meaningful in the first place.

Perhaps the solution lies not in boycotts or bitter divisions but in robust debate. The Carnatic music community needs space for multiple voices—traditionalists who preserve the art form’s sacred dimensions and reformers who push for necessary changes.

Conclusion

T.M. Krishna remains one of the finest Carnatic musicians of our time. His voice can still transport listeners to transcendent realms, as it did for me all those years ago. That this same voice has become a source of controversy says something about our times and the complex relationship between art and politics.

I continue to struggle with separating T. M. Krishna the artist from T. M. Krishna the activist. Some days, I can lose myself entirely in his music, forgetting our ideological differences. Other days, his words echo in my mind, creating a barrier between me and the art I love.

But perhaps this struggle itself is valuable. In grappling with T. M. Krishna’s contradictions, we’re forced to examine our own assumptions about art, tradition, and change. We’re reminded that great artists are often complicated human beings, and that the most profound art sometimes emerges from the tension between reverence and rebellion.

The T. M. Krishna phenomenon has expanded Carnatic music’s boundaries, forcing conversations that were long overdue while creating new fractures that may take years to heal. Whether this legacy ultimately strengthens or weakens the tradition may depend on how willing we are to engage with its complexities rather than retreat into comfortable orthodoxies.

In the end, perhaps the greatest tribute to both T. M. Krishna and the tradition he’s challenged is to keep listening, keep questioning, and keep loving this ancient art form that continues to evolve, sometimes painfully, into something new while honoring what came before.