Why Two Kirtan Traditions Come Together
Snatam Kaur opens the conversation by acknowledging a long admiration: "I've loved J's music for so long and especially connected with it during the pandemic." What makes this collaboration remarkable is that both artists were listening to each other's recordings without ever having met formally. "I didn't know you were listening to my music," Jahnavi reflects, underlining a parallel journey of musical discovery that happened independently, then ripened into intentional collaboration.
The two traditions represented here have different lineages but share core commitments. Jahnavi describes her background: "The tradition that I've grown up with is the Vaishnava tradition or Krishna bhakti—sometimes it's known as Hari Krishna—because that's what we sing a lot. It's a tradition that emphasizes kirtan, or the repetition of the Divine name, as the sort of be-all and end-all. It's the most important practice." Snatam, raised in the Sikh tradition, echoes this: "I was born and raised in the Sikh tradition. Our practice is also that the name of the One is the most powerful medicine, and sound current can heal us." Both artists ground their work in the conviction that chanting sacred names carries transformative power—not as metaphor, but as lived spiritual technology.
What deepens the collaboration is genuine cross-tradition appreciation. Jahnavi says of Snatam's tradition: "You're from the Hadi Krishna tradition, and the teachings and what you convey in your music have deeply affected me. I've taken that into my practice and feel like it's helped me on my path." Meanwhile, Snatam notes: "I've never formally recorded anything from that tradition [Krishna bhakti], but I have a deep appreciation for the Sikh tradition." The collaboration isn't appropriation or mere fusion—it's two lineage-bearers recognizing that their traditions, though specific and unique, rest on the same foundation of Divine name power.
What Does Tayraa Naam Actually Mean?
The lyrics carry profound theological weight in compact form. Snatam explains the meaning: "Duke, Duke—all the troubles, all the sorrows, all the pains—bungan are destroyed, loosened, just dissolved—in Tayraa Naam, in your name." The Sanskrit/Punjabi couplet accomplishes something economical: it names suffering (dukh, pain; sorrows, troubles) and declares its dissolution through repetition of the Divine name. This is not consolation poetry. It asserts that the act of chanting itself—invoking the name—dissolves suffering's grip. Jahnavi responds to the lyrical power: "It's so much just in a few lyrics. It's really beautiful."
This compression of meaning into singable form matters. Both artists discuss how sacred texts often contain longer passages—poems of significant length—that might overwhelm or intimidate a newcomer. "I've been trying to do in my music as well," Jahnavi says, "find ways to give people a link or an open door to something that might be too long or it might feel intimidating if you were to do the whole thing. But just to give a taste that inspires hopefully a deeper dive."
Why Wait Decades to Record a Tune?
One striking detail emerges: Snatam wrote this melody in her late twenties, but only now—at fifty-one—has she recorded it formally. When asked why the delay, her answer reveals something about artistic maturity and permission. "At fifty-one, I kind of felt like the freedom to just bring forward the shorter section as a chant." The word "freedom" is key. It suggests that aging, life experience, and possibly a shift in artistic vision gave her permission to extract the essential core of a longer work and offer it as its own complete piece. This resonates with Jahnavi's parallel impulse: the desire to make spiritual practice accessible, not as watering down, but as dharmic generosity.
How Does the Arrangement Honor Both Traditions?
The production credits reveal a multi-tradition ensemble: Snatam Kaur on vocals and harmonium (Sikh sacred instruments), Jahnavi Harrison on vocals and violin, Sukhmani Rayat on vocals, backing vocals, tabla, and percussion, Grecco Buratto on acoustic and electric guitars, and Ram Dass Khalsa on keyboards, piano, and backing vocals. The recording took place at El Desierto in Mexico City, with additional sessions in New Jersey.
What stands out from the conversation is that Snatam intuitively knew Jahnavi belonged on the track before the formal collaboration. "When my band and I had put down the basic track, I just kept hearing Jahnavi—she'll sing here, and the violin—and something inside me knew all along that Jahnavi was going to be on it." This wasn't planned in advance; it was a kind of musical knowing that preceded the actual session. When the two finally sang together, Snatam reports: "The whole track just kind of came to life. It bloomed. It felt like magic."
What Makes Studio Collaboration Spiritual?
Snatam reflects on the recording experience itself: "Sometimes recording can be a painful process, and sometimes you just get a very smooth and beautiful experience, and that's how it felt today. I'm really relieved because you never know what to expect, but it was really magical." There's a vulnerability here—the acknowledgment that entering a studio with another artist carries risk, uncertainty, the possibility of friction. Instead, what emerged was ease and flow.
The magic wasn't merely technical or musical. It was relational: two artists from different traditions, who had honored each other from a distance, coming together in a container (the studio, the song, the spiritual practice itself) where their voices could interweave. Jahnavi adds: "I love singing with you. We're doing it for the first time virtually"—suggesting that even the separation of the recording process didn't diminish the sense of union.
Why Make Tayraa Naam Loop-able?
The artists mention that their recording extends to eight minutes, and they considered looping it further. This choice reflects a deep understanding of kirtan practice. Looping—repeating the chant over extended time—is not redundant. In the bhakti and Sikh traditions, repetition deepens the practice. The name isn't chanted once for intellectual understanding; it's chanted to allow a gradual dissolution of the thinking mind into the rhythmic, devotional body. By structuring Tayraa Naam for looping, Snatam and Jahnavi are creating a container for listeners to move beyond passive listening into active, embodied practice. As Jahnavi notes about the extended version: "I could listen to that for hours and chant along for hours."
Where to Go From Here
If you're drawn to this conversation, the natural next step is to listen to Tayraa Naam itself and experiment with chanting it repeatedly. Notice how the melody and harmony work—how Snatam's and Jahnavi's voices interweave. If you're interested in the spiritual foundations these artists discuss, explore Sikh kirtan and Vaishnava bhakti separately to understand their distinct histories and theologies, then listen again to hear how this single bridges them. You might also explore the longer sacred poem from which this chant was extracted, to understand what Snatam means by "giving a taste" of a deeper work. Finally, consider whether your own spiritual practice includes repetition—the chanting of a name, a mantra, a phrase—and if so, how extended, unbroken repetition shifts your state. The track becomes an invitation not just to listen, but to practice.
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