Talvin Singh can produce a pair of tablas out of thin air. I’m witnessing this magical feat inside a hotel room at Mumbai’s Hilton Towers. Photographer Ritam Banerjee is using light painting, a technique in which light sources are projected or ‘painted’ in selective areas during camera exposure. In this case, Talvin is holding a tiny lit torch in each hand and attempting to draw tabla shapes. It’s an exercise in precision. The subject has to be in perfect sync with the photographer’s cues for the drum impressions to work. The session stretches to over an hour. When the percussionist finally gets it right, he gets a standing ovation from the Verve team.

At the vanguard of a brand of fusion famously known as Asian Underground, Talvin skyrocketed to global fame in the early ‘90s with his DJ Anokha nights at the Blue Note in East London. Mixing between records, scratching, double dropping, rewinding and reloading, the deejay made Londoners jump up and dance to his electronic beats. His Tablatronics drew exciting parallels between drum-n-bass and Indian percussion. And his landmark 1996 compilation of sampling and club music, Anokha Soundz of the Asian Underground, borne of, was followed by the Mercury Music Prize winning OK.

The musician was currently in Mumbai for his first solo art exhibition. Titled Everyone’s A Camera and curated by close friend and artist Bose Krishnamachari, the collection is a mix of video installations, abstract photographs of objects connected to sound, and performance. Talvin is passionate about being a bridge between the art and sound worlds. Ergo, his idea is to get viewers to experience sound in visuals. He says growing up in London, electronic music went hand in hand with sound installations and Scandinavian artists. “The biggest electronic music festival in Barcelona is 60 per cent visuals. Filmmaker Ritwik Ghatak was a brilliant sound engineer; he told half his story by sound. Vishal Bharadwaj too is brilliant both as a director and musician.”

The photography stint also fits in with the percussionist’s current fascination with natural sounds-- like birds--and rendering them digitally. “Apple on Logic, the application I use, costs a mere 300 quid now and comes with 4,000 drum loops which you can just drag and drop into tracks. I’m not into that anymore. I’m feeling more natural. Acoustics is the future of electronica.”
My hour-long rendezvous with the modern maestro is full of surprises. I discover that the man famed for his trippy, hi-tech, futuristic music doesn’t carry an IPOD. Flicking tracks is not his thing; Talvin likes his music old-fashioned. “There’s nothing like having an old record of Bade Ghulam Ali Khan with an amazing album cover. You play it and have a cuppa tea and it takes you some time to play the music. And that’s the magic. The artist isn’t there but you feel he’s there because you’ve actually engaged and created a mahaul.”

The mix master has a curiously purist approach to fusion. A huge fan of Brian Eno’s ambient music, Talvin rues its “bastardisation” by lounge music. So what distinguishes good fusion from bad? “You have to live what you fuse. People have this idea of Talvin Singh and electronic beats. Actually I like to sit on the harmonium and compose a good Indian melody first. Then I go and mash it up to an extent that I really take it out. If I do a tabla composition I know it backwards. If I render or mix a track digitally, I know the application inside out. Because you really want to get detailed to have fun.”

Nostalgia is not an emotion I’d associate with a futuristic musician at the cutting edge of sound. But Talvin displays more than a hint of it when he speaks about the early ‘90s, a time when the music scene hit the small-time, thriving in back-room venues and basement bars. “The 90s were a mishmash of things. The whole point was to celebrate diversity in people, art, music and graphics. East London was full of big warehouses-- many of them owned by Indians-- that made brilliant spaces for underground gigs. Anokha was on a Monday at 4 am and there were so many others. Husain Challian did his whole fashion-to-art opposite my studio. There was so much energy.”

The early 90s was also when he met Bose Krishnamachari. The artist who was at Goldsmiths University at the time was coming to Talvin’s Anokha nights. “It was a mash. If it weren’t for universities like St Martins and SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies) and Goldsmiths in London, the Asian underground wouldn’t have really happened. The artists of the time were supporting our energy. We were all vibing off each other. It was just music and new sounds and new beats and new ways of looking at things.” But post Sep 11, there has been a lot of segregation, he rues. “You could be the most awesome reggae or soul singer but if you’re of Asian origin you’re going to end up on radio on BBC’s Asia Network anyway.”

With the exception of Goa, club music in India is mostly centred around drinks in bars, says he. “The underground culture in India is not about electronic music. The young kids are doing guitar-based stuff. They’re into American rock and lyrics and folk culture. You go to Delhi or Madras and if you really want a vibe on what the kids are doing, you go into these weird basement venues. It’s really grungy.”

The musician, whose last album Ha released in 2004, admits he’s not been the most prolific in terms of recording. “In the publishing world, if you don’t cut an album every year, you eat cheese and toast. Contracts go void when the relationship’s over. But sometimes you do that for your art. Integrity is important to me, which led to conflicts with record companies.” Now he is “sorting his life” and looking ahead. His new album Sweet Box is out in the summer. There’s also a retrospective album of unreleased tracks from the nineties by Universal and the music he is composing for Bobby Bedi’s Mahabharat. He’s also hopeful about “a lovely conversation” he’s had with Shyam Benegal during this trip.

It’s evident that music imbues every aspect of his life and style. Talvin’s limited-edition Converse shoes, with zips on the sides, are designed to come off easily at performances and airport security checks. He likes skinny jeans because they hold better and take up less space while packing. And the green Nehru jacket, exclusively designed by London tailor John Pearce, who made clothes for Jimmy Hendrix in his psychedelic days, is made of heavy felt for extra durability. The only touch of whimsy is provided by a hidden zip in his Margella scarf. “It always makes people wonder how I get my loop like that!”

The mention of women immediately makes him think of a well-rounded bass tabla. “I’m all for the slight voluptuousness of Indian women-- the Gaj Gamini look. Whenever I walk down Colaba, I’m fascinated by the thumak thumak. Everyone seems to have it in Mumbai. It’s comfortable, looks great and really turns you on. It’s got rhythm and flowing energy. I’m not for a tight-jawed version of beauty carrying a big designer bag. I don’t like stagnation.”

As I leave him, the image of an obsessed musician doing frenzied imaginary tabla antics in air flashes in my head. It makes me think of Talvin Singh as a sorcerer of sound.
I can’t wait for the next round of magic.