The evening marked A.R. Rahman’s long-awaited Royal Albert Hall debut...
Figure 1: Rushil Ranjan, Abi Sampa and AR Rahman (left to right), credit Royal Albert Hall
The evening marked A.R. Rahman’s long-awaited Royal Albert Hall debut, in collaboration with composer Rushil Ranjan and vocalist Abi Sampa. Internationally celebrated and widely credited with redefining contemporary Indian music, Rahman is a figure whose work has moved fluidly across Bollywood and Kollywood, Hollywood, musical theatre and orchestral music. His Oscar-winning score for Slumdog Millionaire, alongside a career spanning global hits and major collaborations, has made him one of the most recognisable musical voices of his generation.
Together, they presented an expansive programme that included the premiere of Rangreza, a new commission written for Abi Sampa, the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra and London Voices, conducted by Melvin Tay. The evening also featured the Sunshine Orchestra from Chennai, alongside soloists Sarthak Kalyani and Janan Sathiendran.
The Sunshine Orchestra, who had travelled from India, brought an authenticity to the performance. Before the concert, I did not fully understand what their presence would mean. It would have been easy to see them simply as another ensemble within an already huge production, but they carried a much deeper significance. As the flagship project of the A.R. Rahman Foundation, founded in 2008, the Sunshine Orchestra was created to provide free musical training to socially and economically underserved children with an aptitude for music. These were young musicians trained through both Western and Indian traditions, now performing in one of the most famous concert halls in the world. Their story gave the evening another layer of meaning. Behind the grandeur of the production was something much more human in the idea that talent can exist anywhere, but opportunity has to be created.
Figure 2: The Sunshine Orchestra, photo credit A R Rahman Orchestra
Before the concert had even begun, the atmosphere outside the Royal Albert Hall was already taking shape. At the entrance, a group of dancers had gathered a crowd. People stopped in their tracks to watch, phones lifted in the air, drawn in by the movement and music before they had even stepped inside the building. It was a small doorway into the world of the evening ahead.
Figure 3: Arrival performance
Inside the foyer, a video played about the attempt to inspire the next generation. The evening seemed to sit between generations, traditions and places. The crowd was made up largely of families, often spanning different ages, and many appeared to be of Indian heritage. Around me, I caught fragments of London accents in conversation. It felt like a space where people were reconnecting with Indian roots, with culture away from home, and perhaps with memories tied to music that had travelled with them, or their families, across places and generations.
Although qawwali was not the focus this time, it still felt like an important thread running through the evening. Rushil Ranjan and Abi Sampa’s earlier Orchestral Qawwali Project, performed at the Royal Albert Hall two years ago, had already explored how a centuries-old Sufi devotional form could be expanded through Western classical orchestration, South Asian musical traditions and dance. This new collaboration with A.R. Rahman seemed to lead on from that work, but on a much broader scale, placing elements of qawwali alongside Rahman’s wider catalogue and film scores.
In the Royal Albert Hall, with its scale, history and formality, the arrangements allowed the music to expand into something vast and cinematic. Strings added swelling emotion, brass gave moments of grandeur, and percussion pushed everything forward with almost unstoppable energy. Yet, the music’s South Asian roots sat at its emotional centre. The orchestration did not Westernise the sound or smooth away its identity. Instead, it opened up more space around it, giving the music the kind of emotional force associated with great cinematic composers while keeping its own language, rhythm and cultural grounding.
Figure 4: AR Rahman x Rushil Ranjan live
As the lights settled and the first notes emerged through a flute solo, the scale of the evening began to reveal itself. It was a delicate and grounding opening, and in a performance of such enormous ambition, a smaller, exposed moment felt especially powerful. I found myself wishing the flute had returned more often throughout the night, because of how its intimacy cut through the grandeur.
Before the music unfolded fully, Rahman asked the audience not to clap during the performance, reminding us that everything was live and acoustic. I appreciated this more than I expected to. In a venue of that size, and with an audience so visibly excited, it gave the music room to breathe. It asked everyone to listen with full attention rather than constantly break the spell with applause.
As the programme developed, Rahman’s film scores clearly carried a deep emotional memory for many in the room. Hearing them reimagined in this setting gave them new life. Music from films including 127 Hours was noted in the programme, alongside Rahman’s wider catalogue, and you could feel the audience respond when something familiar appeared: small waves of recognition, followed by bursts of excitement.
When the orchestra began, the stage seemed to come alive in waves. The musicians moved almost as one, flowing and swaying with the music in a way that felt unexpectedly visual. It was not just something to listen to; it was something to watch breathing. At the centre of this was Abi Sampa’s voice, which was mesmerising. There is something powerful about hearing emotion so clearly that language stops becoming a barrier. Even without understanding every lyric, the feeling was unmistakable. Her voice carried sorrow, devotion and strength, sometimes all at once. It seemed to hold a story in itself, building and building until the room felt completely suspended.
Figure 5: Abi Sampa at Celtic Connections (Photo by Gaelle Ber)
A highlight moment that I keep coming back to was Aakash Odedra’s performance during Songs of the Bulbul, a work inspired by the ancient Sufi myth of the bulbul, or nightingale. The story tells of a bird held in captivity, whose song becomes more beautiful as its cage grows smaller. Odedra captured that feeling with extraordinary control, moving between sorrow and grace without ever making it feel overstated. I often find that dance can either heighten a performance or sit awkwardly beside it, but here it seemed to rise from the music itself. His movement gave the music a physical form, as though the emotion in Abi Sampa’s voice had found a body. It gave me goosebumps. This was my first encounter with Odedra’s work, and it left the distinct impression of discovering an artist I will want to return to. On the strength of this performance, I will be seeking out more of his work whenever I get the chance.
Figure 6: Aakash Odedra performing Songs of the Bulbul (Photo by Angela Grabowska)
Figure 7: Aakash Odedra’s performance
Aside from the technical excellence of this evening, although there was plenty of that, there was an immense feeling of cultural pride and connection. The evening carried the weight of heritage, but also the excitement of something new. It showed how music can pass beyond familiar boundaries and still remain deeply rooted.
Rushil Ranjan is one to watch. I would recommend that anyone who has the chance to see his work should jump at the opportunity. It is difficult to put into words exactly what the evening felt like, but perhaps that is the point. Some performances are not only remembered as music. They are remembered as a feeling.