Think of it as multiculturalism in action

Ravi Shankar died last week. A loss, certainly, but not a sad one as he made it to 92 and had a very fulfilling life.

I saw him (courtesy of my older brother who took me along) on stage at Manchester's Free Trade Hall in 1969 or thereabouts, thereby gaining a great deal of cred with the one Indian lad in my year at school, whose Dad chaired the local Indian cultural association. As a result, my brother and I were alerted to a concert the association put on of Indian music, which was a total revelation. Not only because the musicians were not big stars, but because the audience was clearly very knowledgeable and responsive. Moreover, there wasn't a sitar in sight: that evening was our introduction to the joys of the sarod, the sarengi and the santoor, instruments I wouldn't encounter again in the flesh until I visited India for myself.

Ravi Shankar is dear to me for another reason, also connected with my brother. The very first LP record I ever owned was a birthday present from him, and was West Meets East by Yehudi Menuhin and Ravi Shankar. I remember we agreed that in the cover picture Shankar looked even more than ususally like a hook-nosed version of Harry H Corbett. Here is my favourite track from the album.