The best film music by Ilaiyaraaja in the 2010s

The 2010s were not a straight continuation of Ilaiyaraaja’s earlier film career. After a long absence from mainstream Tamil scoring, the maestro returned with Thendral in 2010 and treated the comeback as a fresh beginning. His best work in the decade therefore feels less like a victory lap than a series of experiments: spare melodies for young love, bright ensemble songs for entertainers, devotional colours for family dramas and atmospheric instrumentals for thrillers.

Choosing the decade’s strongest pieces means looking beyond a single hit. Ilaiyaraaja’s advantage lies in how quickly he can change texture without losing identity: acoustic guitar can sit beside tabla, a childlike tune can carry deep feeling, and a large orchestra can remain transparent. Kadal, Oru Oorla Rendu Raja and Rajini Murugan show this range most clearly, while Then Ennum Epo and Siruthai reveal how quickly he could move between intimacy and spectacle.

Digital discovery has made this body of work easier to revisit than it was during its original release. Tamilisai.net lets listeners browse by composer, singer, actor, category or popularity, so the 2010s can be followed as both a soundtrack survey and a collection of standalone songs. For a present-day point of comparison, its recent year in review offers a useful snapshot of how Tamil listening habits have shifted while the decade’s durable favourites remain in circulation.

For Australian listeners, the music occupies an affectionate space between nostalgia and ordinary family life. Tamil communities in Melbourne and Sydney often encounter these songs at puja, home movie nights and community concerts, where a familiar refrain can prompt clapping or an instant singalong. Elsewhere, SBS Radio’s specialist programming and local community stations can give regional cinema music a place in the broader Australian broadcast mix, even if dedicated Tamil airtime remains limited.

A comeback after the silence

Thendral matters because it restored Ilaiyaraaja to the centre of Tamil film music without imitating the grand symphonic surfaces associated with his 1980s work. The score favours clear themes, patient arrangements and devotional warmth, matching a story centred on family and faith. Its restraint made the return feel like an invitation to listen closely rather than an attempt to reclaim a vanished era.

Then Ennum Epo (2011) supplied proof that the comeback had a distinct pulse. Its coastal settings, introspective dialogue scenes and gently insistent title melody gave Ilaiyaraaja room to work with rhythm as carefully as harmony. Siruthai (2012), by contrast, demanded physical energy, and its martial percussion and brass-led passages show a composer comfortable turning aggression into melody without erasing weight.

The circulation of Tamil songs through overseas family networks is part of a wider diaspora phenomenon; the online catalogue at Tapout Naija points to the same appetite for regionally rooted pop beyond one national audience. Ilaiyaraaja’s advantage was precision without excess: listeners in a Melbourne family could recognise a devotional motif before it became a full arrangement, just as concert audiences elsewhere could join a chorus before the orchestration expands.

Kadal lets the sea speak

Kadal (2013) is often the decade’s definitive Ilaiyaraaja album, not simply because it contains several remembered songs but because its world feels complete. Directed by Balaji Mohan, the film needed youthful energy without polished studio smoothness, and the score answered with elastic rhythms, clean guitar figures and melodies shaped around separation, longing and reinvention.

Songs such as “Aasai Nooru Vagai” and “Mazhai Thuli Mozhi” move naturally between romance and playfulness, while the title duet treats the sea as a presence rather than background. Ilaiyaraaja leaves spaces around the voices, allowing percussion or a sudden instrumental colour to carry emotion. That economy makes the album feel intimate in a cinema and expansive on headphones.

The setting gains a second life for Australian listeners. On a humid Brisbane evening, the cool-water imagery of “Mazhai Thuli Mozhi” can turn an ordinary drive into a miniature film scene, while the reflective passages suit long train journeys from the outer suburbs toward Fortitude Valley. Live-music audiences there recognise the score’s conversational pulse, even when they first heard the songs only through phone speakers.

Voices as instruments

Ilaiyaraaja’s voice is one of the decade’s most expressive instruments. Its low register can sound devotional, amused or authoritative, and his phrasing often creates a counter-melody against the lyric. On “Kalai Kannu” from Raja Rani (2013), his exchange with Shreya Ghoshal feels conversational; on “Machi Engalukku Ellam” from Oru Oorla Rendu Raja (2014), the duet opens into a spacious declaration of partnership.

Shweta Mohan on “Vizhiyile Mani Vizhiyil” from Kaaviya Thalaivan (2015) offers another contrast. Her agile upper notes sit against his grounded line, giving the song the feeling of two stories crossing. Vijayalakshmi’s lighter tone and Karthik’s restrained delivery add further colours. Ilaiyaraaja does not use voices as interchangeable soloists; each entrance changes the emotional temperature of a composition.

That voice-centred approach also travels well to Australia’s community-hall culture. At a Sydney garaja, a family engagement or a paid Tamil concert in western Sydney, singers can stretch a phrase, repeat it and invite the room to answer. Older relatives may recognise Ilaiyaraaja’s devotional side, while younger listeners respond to the rhythmic openness of tracks such as “Varuthapadatha Valibar Sangam”.

Songs for character and celebration

The strongest song writing often emerged when Ilaiyaraaja accepted the comic or theatrical side of Tamil cinema. “Naattu Bommu” from Pandiya Naadu (2013), with Shreya Ghoshal and Raghu Dixit, fuses conversational Kannada-inflected verve with a Tamil film beat. “Oru Naal Koothu” from Naan Sigappu Manithan (2014) uses repetition and a simple invitation to sing, turning a family song into an event.

“Mappillai Mappillai” from Trisha Illana Nayanthara (2015) carries a more mischievous personality, mixing swagger, percussion and a deliberately direct hook. Papanasam (2015) then showed his capacity for unease: “Indru Netru Naalai” and the score’s nocturnal cues place tenderness beside threat. These songs do not merely interrupt the drama; they sharpen its social mood.

In Melbourne homes, such pieces often arrive through a layered soundtrack of celebrations rather than a single album-buying ritual. A school announcement, a birthday lunch or a puja playlist can make “Mappillai Mappillai” feel like shared family property, while the darker atmosphere of Papanasam offers a more private listening choice after guests have gone. The songs survive by fitting real occasions, not because every cue has equal strength.

The score beneath the songs

Film music also has to work without lyrics. Across Pulivaal (2014), Salem (2016), Maaveeran Kittu (2016) and Podhuvaga En Manasu Thangam (2017), Ilaiyaraaja used synth washes, mridangam patterns, low strings and abrupt silences to define place and pressure. The resulting textures can feel modern while retaining the tension between melody and rhythm central to his older work.

These scores avoid the crowded density of many contemporary Tamil albums. A single bass line may establish menace, then dissolve into birdsong, piano or a processed drone. Ilaiyaraaja’s film cues also know when to stop, a useful lesson in an industry where songs and background music often compete for attention. His best dramatic tracks turn restraint into suspense.

That subtlety reaches listeners beyond the cinema as well. At Adelaide’s WOMADelaide, where Indian Ocean, African and Asian rhythms share broad stages, Ilaiyaraaja’s fusion of South Asian melody and rock, jazz and electronic colour can sound unexpectedly at home. The comparison is not stylistic equivalence; it is a reminder that a composer’s rhythmic language can travel between traditions without losing its centre.

Late-decade collaborations

The later 2010s brought Ilaiyaraaja into films shaped by his son Yuvan Shankar Raja and by A. R. Rahman. On Mersal (2017), Rahman’s songs and Ilaiyaraaja’s background score occupy different layers, combining the confidence of an elder statesman with the kinetic present of a younger generation. On Viswasam (2019), Ilaiyaraaja’s contribution to Yuvan’s action drama similarly supplies gravitas without dictating the soundtrack’s voice.

“Varuthapadatha Valibar Sangam” from Rajini Murugan (2016) remains the decade’s boldest popular statement. Its central tune is instantly communal, and the arrangement gives Ilaiyaraaja room to trade vocal phrases with his co-singers. “Oruvan Oruvan Mudhalali” offers a calmer alternative, proving that spectacle did not have to mean volume.

Maaveeran Kittu and Suttu Pidikka Utharavu also show him adapting to contemporary rural and heist narratives. Their melodies can be plain by design, allowing regional speech, character and location to lead. By the end of the decade, the achievement was cumulative: Ilaiyaraaja had not become a museum piece, and the 2010s had acquired their own distinctive voice.

A listener’s path through the decade

A practical way to explore the decade is to alternate albums with concentrated listening sessions. Start with Kadal for melodic generosity, then move to Oru Oorla Rendu Raja and Rajini Murugan for mature songwriting. Add Then Ennum Epo for intimacy and Salem or Suttu Pidikka Utharavu for atmosphere. Tamilisai.net’s composer and singer filters make it easy to separate Ilaiyaraaja’s own vocal performances from the songs he wrote for others, while its popularity features show which recordings currently hold attention.

Australia’s specialist music shops and online import sellers have historically mattered for Tamil releases, and that market remains unlike the huge mainstream charts. Physical stock can be scarce, regional editions may differ, and digital availability may reflect licensing rather than artistic judgement. Community radio, SBS programming and YouTube uploads can therefore fill different gaps, giving an Australian listener broader access than a single platform provides.

For live discovery, Melbourne and Sydney’s Tamil concert circuit remains the richest route into the repertoire, while Brisbane’s smaller venues and Adelaide’s broader world-music festivals offer different audiences. The point is not to recreate a Chennai theatre, but to hear why these songs survived: Ilaiyaraaja could turn a family melody, a comic beat or a silent cue into something both precise and generous. Across the 2010s, that balance made his film music endure far beyond its original screens.