Monday, June 29, 2009

Songs of Summer













As I write this, Graham Coxon's punk guitars are raging through my headphones. I love the rush. But after an entire weekend of hearing giddy punk pop, I'm wondering if I've reached saturation point. Just consider:

Graham Coxon- Happiness in Magazines; Love Travels at Illegal Speeds. The Blur guitarist is the coolest man I've seen, from the haircut to the Elvis Costello glasses, to the melodicity of his guitar playing....and now this, a couple of albums of great to middling pop songs.

Fastball- Little White Lies. Maybe its not cool to like them, but 1998's All the Pain Money Can Buy is still one of my favourite pop albums from that decade. This new album is quite nice too, especially the title track and all those melodies and hooks that stick under my skin like some insidious rash. They aren't cool for sure, but heck they're fun!

The Strokes- Room on Fire. Two years after my Strokes craze, I finally hear their second album in full. A lot less giddy fun than Is This It? but then again first contact is always more electrifying. I love 12:51 and Under Control, but none come anywhere near You Talk Way To Much...perhaps because of the sentiment, or perhaps that's the song where they do theirbest Velvet Underground impersonation. I'd like to see them live.

Dirty Projectors- Bitte Orca. What drew me to them was the fantastic pop moment of Knotty Pine, their collaboration with David Byrne on the charity LP Dark Was the Night. Now for someone like me, Dirty Projectors are a difficult band. I thrive on hooks, and with this band, you have to dig deep AND be patient to find them, and then you find quite a few actually. Cannibal Resource is a fantastic song, as are Temecula Sunrise, Stillness is the Move, and the wispy and beautiful Two Doves. I love it especially when they all scream "Bitte Orca, Orca Bitte!!!" Don't even know what that means.

Doves- Kingdom of Rust. Ok I know that the big production move in Noughties Indie is the atmosphere. Its everywhere, that echoey, down-in-the-bottom-of-a-well-sound- from Arcade Fire to Fleet Foxes to Coldplay (!) to these here gents, the Doves. Their playing is great-muscular, melodic and serious but not too serious. And this album has some really good songs- Jetstream, Kingdom of Rust (with its lovely muted country rock chug which becomes something much more explosive and beautiful by the time the chorus comes about, followed by the sparkling guitar arpeggios). But why did they have to go with the in vogue thing, and make it all so spacey? I guess I love Vampire Weekend cause their sound's so crisp.

Manic Street Preachers- Journal for Plague Lovers. I like the politics of the Manics, unabashedly left of centre. But as it so often happens, the band with the most attractive politics hardly ever match it with exceptional music. So though I've liked the occassional Manics songs over the years, they've always seemed to me to be one trick poneys, wailing anguishedly over metallo-punkish guitar walls of sound. Therefore, I'm very very pleasantly surprised with this album. This is harrowing music, both lyrically and in its musical bite, and it all makes sense, in no small part due to the fact that there's a lot of different textures to the guitars which keeps the songs interesting all the time...I'll be getting more into it, I'm sure.

Green Day- 21st Century Breakdown. I know Rolling Stone is bullshit, but even then, how could they give this album four stars? If I like the Manics for the guitars, I hate this album because of the guitars. While some of the songs veer between interesting and likeable- the opening three songs for example- the monotone growl of the guitars playing identical figures on each and every song grates like nothing else. Only the bits where they try to do a Gogol Bordello are fun. I despair...I love the Green Day of Dookie and Nimrod but all this big RAWK CONCEPT ALBUM EMPTY CLICHES, GESTURES and immature facile politics leave me cold. Which begs the question, should Green Day be a sideproject to The Foxboro Hot Tubs, instead of the other way round?

The Decemberists- Hazards of Love. Heard this bizzare concept album about princesses, and forest dwelling shape shifters and evil queens and swans et al just once from start to finish. Its very lush, very melodic, and I suspect that as long as I'm not trying to follow the story or some such shit, I might just spend a lot of time humming the hooks.

Franz Ferdinand- You Could Have it so Much Better. Thrilling, super virile, very sexy rock. Therefore, very demanding too..."Well do ya, do ya do ya wanna?" God, the pressure to have a good time! I think Eleanor Put Your Boots On is a classic.

Various- Dark Was the Night. The charity LP I was talking about. A veritable Indie who's who. However, you'd be forgiven for thinking that the Indie crowd only does acoustic-y head music and leave the body to Hip Hop. However, of the 31 songs here, there are quite easily at least 25 very good songs. Favourites-
Dirty projectors and David Byrne- Knotty Pine
Feist and Ben Gibbard- Train Song
The National- So Far Around the Bend
Grizzly Bear and Feist- Service Bell
Beirut- Mimizan
My Morning Jacket- El Caporal
Sharon Jones and The Dap Kings- Inspiration Information
The New Pornographers- Hey, Snow White
Cat Power- Amazing Grace
Riceboy Sleeps- Happiness

....and finally....

TV on the Radio- Dear Science,
I spent all of last ear wanting to hear this album, and now that I have heard them- over and over and over and over again- I agree with the critics. I haven't heard any of their other albums, but a band that can mix the post-Apocalypse tom toms and handclaps of Halfway Home, the absurdly lovely funk guitars on Crying, the propulsive Rap Rock of Dancing Choose, the majestic Golden Age, the stately melodic shifts of Family Tree, the funk politics of Red Dress, the Radiohead beauty of Love Dog and the brass-led sexual healing of Lover's Day into the same album could only be a great band.

Others I've heard, but not much yet: Neko Case- Middle Cyclone. The National- Boxer. The Mars Volta- Octahedron. Sonic Youth- The Eternal. Supergrass- Life on Other Planets.

Friday, May 08, 2009

Down valley

Down in the valley a woodfire burns
Clouds scatter in the dawn
Give me some tea then, and breathe in the air
You can see the world from here
-Beq

Monday, March 16, 2009

A Sunday afternoon

“I can’t believe the state of the world economy. I think we have to be careful about how we spend our money for the next year at least. By the way, did I tell you I just bought a Bentley?”
Fashion soirees and society schmooze-fests have their own weird internal logic, which often seems as mysterious as time travel. How else could you explain this train of thought in a not-so-prominent industrialist and Page 3 figure?
As a rule Sundays should not be spent by the poolside of a posh old five star hotel, especially if the conversation there is so deadly boring that you feel the urge to rush off to a Polo (polo!) match at a sprawling farmhouse (polo in a farmhouse!!) that you have been casually invited to by a beautiful woman in a summer dress. But you must resist, focusing instead on the sushi and the white wine, and go chat with the chefs.
There are three ways to survive such soirees without your day ruined- go there stoned, go there with someone who has a sense of perspective, and find yourself a hot and intelligent (older) woman to talk to. Once these three pre-requisites are fulfilled, then you’ll find that the afternoon has taken on an airy, vaguely Mediterranean (because of the swimming pool or the tans or the floral dresses?) summery, floaty quality where the scene is populated by aliens- is it the massive sunglasses (?)- who exist to sate your curiosity. Where else can you get edifying nuggets about wiring your loo for sound?
And believe me, I was mighty curious. Here were a bunch of people- insiders in the fickle world of luxury- who admittedly dress beautifully, but seem to derive absolutely no joy from it. They flit about air-kissing, their massive Guccis and Pradas in tow, while some of them seem to be in the process of disappearing. Really, where else outside of sub-Saharan Africa, and parts of our own countryside can you find a bunch of people so emaciated and mal-nutritioned? Why, at a five-star sushi counter! Who, among the people you know, could give you an accurate insight into the jungle that is Delhi traffic? Why, the one who lives a five minute walk from the hotel in the heart of Lutyen’s Delhi!
On the whole, the women still hold their own. There is, after all, an innate sense of gracefulness which often tides things over. You could say that’s because they’re programmed to be duplicitous, but if duplicity is what it takes, then lemme have it over the “direct” men any day! Especially on a Sunday afternoon by the poolside! The men, talk, they sport their fashionably grey-streaked hair, they slag off rivals with a polite whisper and never get the irony that despite their specially-abled features they can pull anorexic beauties solely because they have the money. Indeed, they’re damn pleased when you comment on their “sense of style.”
That is the business side of it. The models are a different proposition altogether. A particular male model- attired in designer ripped t-shirt, skinny jeans, ugly-as-sin crocodile leather shoes- was so taken by the Luis Vuitton “man-purse” that he was carrying in his back-pocket, that he was, most of the time, conversing with people with his back firmly turned towards them. A much lionized fashion designer, meanwhile, loved his models so much, that he hid himself in the middle of a veritable forest of pumped-up brawn. Other middle aged slobs dressed in younger-than-thou Ed Hardy t shirts just nodded their heads with the vapid crap that the live band played, followed by the even more bland piped Bryan Adams songs, and ogled the women.
Finally there are the “white people”. They’re always there at any such do- fashion, movies, wine launches, marriages, anything. The older men dress in drab white and blue shirts with chinos, the younger men all wear polo shirts and have a crew cut. The women wear tans and little else, and tower over everyone on stilettos about a mile high. Who are these people? Where do they come from? Maybe I’ll find out eventually.
What I make of it all is this- luxury is an attempt, at the same time aesthetic and economic, to give form to and put a price tag on a high civilisation’s self conscious idea of beauty. It is a fine line to walk, and the West- which anyway drives the trends- has digested this attempt as a way of life and is suitably understated about it. Unfortunately, this deepening of sensibilities is far off as far as India is concerned. Therefore, you get Sunday afternoons by the poolside.

Friday, January 23, 2009

The Beatles, their fans, and music lists

http://magazine.jamsbio.com/2009/01/05/playing-the-beatles-backwards-the-ultimate-countdown/20/

I seriously can't think of any musical entity which has had as much words written on it as The Beatles. Its so obvious that I don't even know why I'm writing this. Maybe 'cause I'm such a nut for their music. Then again, unless you're trying to sell a book or do something suitably self-promoting on the back of your obsession, being crazy about the music is an honest enough reason to write. The link above will take you to a stupendous land of music nerd-dome. Some guy called JBev has gone and ranked some 185 published Beatles songs in terms of his preference. It is the countdown to end all countdowns.
Essentially every music fan has a love-hate relationship with music lists. The most irritating of which are probably Rolling Stone's. Ever since that magazine stopped being relevant sometime around the emergence of Punk in the late Seventies, much of its USP has shifted to making lists, lists, and more lists. And they NEVER take any risks with those lists. The top five is almost always the same- The Beatles, The Stones, Dylan, Springsteen; sometimes The Ramones, Radiohead or The Sex Pistols to show they're cool and more often Coldplay and U2 just so that the magazine doesn't scare away musical conservatives. Other magazines like Mojo, Q or Uncut don't do much better.
Websites like Pitchfork do lists too, and though they are commited to their demographic- Indie- as rabidly as Rolling Stone is to Baby Boomer icons, at least their lists are more fun. Check out their insanely addictive 200 Greatest Songs of the Sixties.
All this makes JBev's Beatles countdown all the more fun- because its a fan doing what a fan does well- being fanatic. Of course, the point of the list isn't about agreeing with the rankings (any of those 185 songs could be your favourite one on any given day) but joining another music fan in celebrating that elusive joy of really loving somebody's music. And JBev is an affectionate chronicler who's life has been informed by the Fabs. So in between lengthy discourses about the merit of each song, he inserts heartfelt details about how his father gifted him his first Beatles album when he was nine- this was Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band. Like a true fan he listened to the eight-track tape until he nearly wore it out, blissing out with his earphones while A Day in the Life floated around in his head. His father passed away the year after. Though the two incidents are not necessarily related, it did have a huge impact on him.
Again, he talks of his girlfriend who doesn't like The Beatles and never did. J Bev talks of the lengths he went to to get her to like the Fabs, and how he made his peace with the fact that she never will. At least they dance to In My Life. That is what a fan's life is, and of all the lists I've ever read, this one actually means something.

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Another Train

11:00 am, Sunday, 28th December. Poorva Express.
Another train. I’m so glad that I’ve traveled so much by train this year. And though this one promises to get me very late, I don’t really care. After all, late running trains is part and parcel of travel really, at least in my mind. We just got out of Patna, running a couple of hours late. Maybe we’ll make up the time. Anyways. Traveling in a first class coupe, first time in such luxury. Well, first time that I can remember definitely. Maybe the time I went with my family to Mussoorie way back in the early Nineties. But I don’t really remember. One of my co-passengers is this nice enough guy, who works in Essar in Gurgaon. He’s going home to check up on his father, who’s been hospitalized. The guy’s nice enough, and has some nice old Bengali music. Old Hemanta songs and the like. But his ‘western’ music scene is dire. Basically an entire album by Aqua! Oh well, you can’t have it all. The other guy in the coupe is this engineer from Calcutta, traveling on business. Struck me as a Hindutva type with his saffron kurta, and tika, and strings around his wrist. Figured I was right when the Bengali guy asked me if Israel was not doing the right thing by attacking Hamas outposts in Palestine. Before I could answer the Meerut guy piped in and said that Israel was the only country with any balls. So I kept quite. Guess I was right about him after all. Its guys like Eammon (that’s the Bong guy’s name, dunno how he spells it!) who’s heart’s gotta be won over. But I fear I’m not the ideal person for the job. Because as this Engineer Mr. Rawat makes clear, these right wingers (the educated ones) are very patient in explaining the whys and the wherefores of their prejudices. They believe their own logic and suffer from no self-doubt, which makes their discourse problematic, but also clear. Because they will otherwise be perfectly genteel urbane people. Maybe I’d even get along with Mr Rawat if the conversation were to be limited to train rides and how much fun they are.
Since last evening I’ve read a lot. Started off with a couple of New Yorkers from two years ago. Read a cracking piece on C S Lewis and his Anglicanism vis a vis his works, especially the fantastic Narnia books. Then read a great account of the death of the Reformist Movement in Iran on the eve of Ahmedinejad’s election way back in 2005. A very poignant story, especially the account of a then-27-year-old dissenting journalist/blogger, and the shit he has to go through for defending his belief in a free society. Read some other stuff as well, but these two were especially great. I love New Yorker I’ve decided. It joins The Guardian and National Geographic as my journals of choice. Today morning read quite a bit of Bill Bryson. That book is good, witty and immensely informative without being flippant or trite. There isn’t much of a style apart from the humour, but well, that’s quite enough, frankly. Space renders me awestruck. The vastness of it all, the loneliness and fragility of Earth’s existence in relation to the Universe humbles me. What was totally a trip was Frederick Pohl’s Gateway. Finished reading it yesterday morning. Its one of those prized SF novels that haunt you long after you’ve ended it. Among its many many charms, Gateway probably has the single most fascinating and terrifying accounts of a black hole. Imagine, stuck in slow time, being sucked into a massive bluish THING five times the size of the sun. You’re stuck somewhere inside the black hole at Sagittarius AG, perhaps only a few minutes, while normal time has already aged centuries, millennia. And you’re trapped, for eternity, alive. Man, who are we? Just who are we? Insignificant, and at the same time so precious. We are like a solar flare upon the surface of the Universe. A blip really, a precious blip. And yet we hope to leave a mark. On posterity? I don’t know. True immortality could only be when beings on a world in a different Universe which we can’t comprehend will have the full account of humanity and celebrate this small fragile race of creatures on a small, beautiful blue world that is lost amidst the eddies of infinite time, of warped space. What other true immortality is there? Meanwhile, during this my very very short stay on this planet, I want to see it in all its beauty and horror. A minute little speck of carbon and methane, I want to participate in the world, and I want my participation to be in part an intellectual one, because that is the gift of my species, and that is its curse. Actually right now, I could do with some sex, maybe even a lot of it. Sigh. 11:44 am

12:41 pm.
Saw an Esbjorn Svensson Trio concert in the past one hour. This was them playing in Stockholm in 2000. Just like Lenny Breau before him, I’ve developed an intense liking for Esbjorn Svensson. Well, not him really as a solo artist, but for the E.S.T as a group. Can’t remember, rather can’t really spell their difficult Nordic names, but boy, are those three guys good. The sad thing is that since ES is dead, there’s very very slim chance of me hearing the other two ever again, except on E.S.T. albums or whatever live videos I can get hold of. Right now, I have two, the Stockholm one, and a superlative concert from 2003. Its one of those regrets of mine- I’ll never see them play live. Just imagine how fucking phenomenal that’d be. Especially when you consider all the second rate crap that comes to India during all those hyped Jazz Utsavs and the like. Right now I’m listening to their album, Good Morning Susie Soho. My favourite of the lot.. Must get my hands on their last album from earlier this year, Leucocyte. Funnily enough, I don’t think if I were to hear any ES solo I’d like it. Don’t think I would. (Spam-Boo-Limbo just started. LOVE IT!!!) He’s the quintessential trio guy. And what a trio. They feed off each other beautifully, switching between grooves, shifts in time signatures, keys. They play like a dream together. No matter how much of a genius ES might’ve been, the joy of hearing a band in full flow is just awesome. I’ll give an opposing example- Brad Meldhau. Now THAT guy’s absolutely brilliant solo. I was as blown away by his Live In Tokyo as by any of E.S.T.’s albums. Listening to his 19 min plus cover of Radiohead’s Paranoid Android sends shivers up my spine every time. The thing is, I downloaded a Brad Meldhau Trio album- Day Is Done, and though that’s quite good, but not as great as his solo stuff. In fact my favourite track off Day Is Done is his peerless solo reading of The Beatles’ Martha My Dear. So in the absence of ES, I guess Brad is one guy to follow. The trouble is that no matter how good he is, he just isn’t as electrifyingly brilliant as the E.S.T. Truly, what a loss. I must get my hands on their entire catalogue. Eammon just asked me if Metrogyl should be given to the train staff. Apparently the guy is suffering from an upset tummy. Oh, more news. Train’s 4 hours late. Which means we ain’t reaching before 10 pm or so. FUCK THAT!!! 1:00 pm

4:23 pm.
Just left Jasidih on the Jharkhand-Bengal border. Now that Lalu’s train has stopped leading the Poorva, we’re going as per schedule. Now my only wish is that we reach at 10. It would be nice to reach, though all things considered, its been a great journey so far. Spent a lot of time hanging out of the door. A very good thing to do while the sun’s still up and you’re getting bored. Beats staring at the laptop for sure, like a moron yuppie, which I seem to be turning into. So I’m standing there, watching people trying to barge into the general compartment next to our bogie (the irony! Cheapest next to the most expensive!) at Kiyul Junction. It’s a major one, as the steward confirms. I remember going off towards Purnia by train from this very place as a kid. Yes, says the steward, the other line does indeed head off towards Katihar Junction, the next big one near Purnia. In the rush at Kiyul, this old man bound for the general compartment only makes it as far as our gate. The steward, a nice middle aged Bihari man called Prosad, lets him up on the condition that he goes on to the general compartment at the next station. So anyways, I hang on. Its quite pretty outside. The stretch-till-infinity Gangetic plains is showing some bumps and slopes as it gets close to the Chota Nagpur Plateau. Now, as luck would have it, Lalu’s train (seven compartments long, according to some idling cops) are on the same line as ours heading towards Jamui, further down the track. This means that we get a red at every successive signal. Right outside Kiyul, a picturesque sight. The branching line in the distance has a long, solitary train on it, waiting for the green signal to approach Kiyul. Its blue and white in colour like most other expresses. Wonder where its coming from. Too far to read the lettering. It’s a pretty sight as I count the compartments- 13. I follow the line away towards the horizon (most train lines can be distinguished by the fact that they are usually upon a bankment, higher than the surrounding plains. Of course, you’ve got to know what you’re looking for in the first place). A large ridge appears in the middle of a sea of flat land. Looks like Ayer’s Rock. We approach it rapidly. The branching line goes around the other side of the ridge and is soon lost in the distance. From a distance it looks like a giant hillock but it IS a ridge, and a pretty long one at that. A couple of small villages at the bottom, with a large house on a smaller bump just before the ridge starts. Looks like the local zamindar’s haveli. From the train its difficult to say if its still inhabited.
As the train runs parallel to the ridge, we slow down. I crane my neck out and see a red signal in the distance. Here we go again. So we stop, the stragglers at the doors of the general compartment start getting off to stretch their legs, pee, or just stand around and spit. The conscientious old man wants to know if we’ve stopped at a station so he can go over to the correct compartment. I tell him to relax. Poor old man. After all he DOES have a ticket right? So what if it isn’t A/C? No reason for him to feel hassled unnecessarily. Three cops with massive rifles come and join me at the gate. They’re all butt ugly, but have nice enough grins. One of them gives me the news of Lalu’s train. Apparently he’s traveling in a 7-bogie train up-front with full fanfare, off to inaugurate a new platform in Jamui. As he speaks we start moving, and sure enough, as we pass by several level crossings, villages and ramshackle roads coming up to the train line from farms everywhere, right next to the train line, are throngs of men, women and children dressed in the gaudy colours of their Sunday best, waving their hands at the Poorva, as if every passing train holds the “Honourable Railway Minister, the Messiah of the Downtrodden, the Keeper of Lohia’s Flame, the Scourge of Communal Forces, the Charismatic (and now subject of Management Studies) Lalu Prasad Yadav.” Fluttering paper flags with the lantern symbol of RJD, Lalu’s party, fringe the train line. Its all quite fascinating.
Dunno why, but proximity to cops, no matter how friendly, makes me nervous. I guess they’re pigs, that’s why. So I go inside. Look around, nothing much happening. Rawat is sitting cross-legged staring out of the window while worrying some prayer beads. The old grandfather of the little baby (an occasional grinning/bawling visitor to our coupe) is sleeping on the bottom bunk. Eammon sees me and jumps down and sits between Rawat and me. Asks me if Lalu really should get the credit for the recent spectacular profits that the Railways have been posting. The political animal Rawat’s ears perk up. I tell Eammon what I think, that Ministers by themselves cannot achieve much. What good administrators do is help cut through the red tape and ensure that there are deserving public servants in the Ministry who can do a good job. Rawat agrees. Eammon and I talk a little about going to Cal, and how frequently we’re able to do it. Rawat can’t take it and asks me where I work. I’m sure he’s dying to know who this bearded Leftie is and why is Eammon (the everyman as it were, the person who the left and the right fights over) asking me political questions in a little awestruck way. So I smile sweetly at him and say, “India Today.” That’s that.
To avoid further conversation, I take out Bill Bryson and glance through the pages. We stop at Jamui, and then Jhanjha. This means that a) we’re finally rid of playing bridesmaid to Lalu’s train and b) we’re about to enter the Jharkhand part of the Chota Nagpur Plateau. Actually I realize that a good fifteen minutes after leaving Jhanjha. Chota Nagpur Plateau means ridges, and forests! I rush out to the doorway as the train is pulling out of a station. I open the door facing west, cause if my memory serves me well, the stuff to see will be on that side (if you were to take the Gaya line further to the south, instead of the Patna line that we’re on, then you’ve got to open the other door). And I was right. We are traveling through a rolling countryside of densely forested high ridges. Further west and south, ridges march out to the horizon, hazy in the light of the setting sun. Everything is bathed in a golden-silver light. We pass through deep cuttings, the train blaring out its horn, going faster at every turn, building up a head of steam. Well none of those around. More like a head of diesel. I’ve seen this countryside countless times from passing trains, but every time I see it, it awakens the same sense of wonder as the best myths do. It does look like a mythical, fairy tale landscape, the kind that Bibhutibhushan talks of in his peerless Aranyak. It’s the same landscape in fact. Little forest streams and rivers come up to the train line, shyly almost. A sudden deep culvert disorients, but soon passes. The track curves resolutely to the right, and then the left. I look forward and to the rear of the train. Its like I’m attached to this giant caterpillar. Ancient red brick walls act as cuts and channels, works of many generations past, separating the agent of civilization, the train line, from the primeval mysteries of the forests of the Plateau. The sunset makes it just right. If we’d passed through here at the correct time, it would’ve been around 11 in the morning. Good enough, but it wouldn’t have had a similar dramatic impact. I wonder why more Indians aren’t moved by this beauty that surrounds them. And by this I mean mostly urban India, because so much of rural India lives in or near landscapes like these. Why don’t people from the city bother? And as every time I pass through some place like this, some more of my heart is hardened towards the vacuousness of the modern urban, ignorant, technocratic India.
If you’re looking at the passing land from the train, pay attention to the occasional deep cuttings that the track passes through. Apart from reminding you of Ruskin Bond’s The Tiger in the Tunnel if you’ve read it, what you’ll notice is that every time you come out of a cutting, the landscape has changed in a very subtle way. What a cutting does is basically carve up a way through the most convenient rise or crest in this constantly undulating landscape At no point is it flat, and occasionally you’ll find yourself traveling through a bowl shaped valley with forested ridges on all sides. Its quite spectacular. In fact, its an even better sight if you’re on the Gaya line. Imagine the effort to get the Railways through here! Phenomenal. The scenery changes, predictably, with every cutting. Coming out of a final, long cut, I see that we’ve left the high ridges behind (the highest of which must be a good thousand or two feet high). We pass by the station of Simultala, famous to previous Bengali bhadralok generations as a charming beauty spot. A very British phrase isn’t it? That’s what the bhadralok thought. And who am I to scoff? It IS pretty. Even though the ridges are gone, the undulating land continues, as does the occasional patch of forest interspersed with patches of farmland. Its almost sundown, and people are returning from the fields with firewood, and produce, and their gaggle of cattle. There are dogs and goats and cows milling about everywhere. A few kids playing make-shift cricket on tilled fields. I’m watching all this when I get a massive fright. A speeding train rushes by in the opposite direction barely five feet from me. The sudden blaring horn and the rush of air from the speeding brute totally shocks me. I let go of the hand rails and jump ever so slightly. In an instant, I quickly grab hold of the rails. My heart’s still racing. What a brute. And what speed. Quite a rush. We approach a station. We stop. I get off, drink some tea. Pretty soon we’ll be entering Bengal. I smile at the thought.
5:51 pm. We passed by Chittaranjan a while back and are about to enter Asansol. Chittaranjan is where you enter Bengal. The steward says that we’ve made up some time and might even get to Howrah by 9 pm if all goes to plan. I’ll stop writing.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Darkest Knight

After years of wanting to do so, I finally laid my hands on The Dark Knight Returns by Frank Miller. A fantastic re-imagining of the Batman mythos in the late Eighties, this graphic novel probably made sure that the Caped Crusader would never again be thought of as anything other than what he is- a haunted, troubled psychopath who is ultimately scarier than the myriad bizarre villains he fights. I don’t think the current version of the Batman movie franchise would have been possible without this brilliant piece of work. But you al probably already knew that.

Along with Alan Moore’s peerless Watchmen, what totally impressed me about The Dark Knight (and to be fair unsettled the pants off me) is how so much of the politics of the book is so hyper-relevant right now. Both the books came out in the Eighties, bang in the middle of the deeply divisive and paranoid reigns of Ronald Reagan and George Bush Sr. in the U.S. and Margaret Thatcher in England. The latter’s anti-society stance and scary totalitarianism, and the former duo’s delusions of imperial grandeur were doing some serious damage both in the social and political spheres. Add to that Soviet aggression in Afghanistan, a fiercely dogmatic China shooting at its own youth and the real fear of some idiot somewhere pushing the nuclear button had made that decade the most paranoid one since the 1950s. Many of our problems today, the spectre of worldwide terrorism, severely escalating environmental damage at the hands of massively polluting big business, growing shortage of resources etc, they all have their genesis in that decade. Dark Knight mirrors all of them so well that its quite uncomfortable going through it.

There are some unforgettable images in the book, like the intrusive TV media that makes it it’s business to pry everywhere. In the many violent clashes between the savage old Batman (Bruce Wayne’s pushing 60) and his adversaries, the TV and its vacuous talking heads reducing everything to talking points, jostling for that breaking news story. I was reminded of our own illustrious media coverage of the Mumbai attacks. The city slickers aren’t spared either. There’s one obnoxious minor character, an ad executive, who keeps cropping up throughout the narrative, doing and saying some heinous things and then saying he’s not to blame. Who’s to blame then? Why, the government, other people, minorities, everyone else. Again compare that to the urban protestors in many of our cities who’ve been threatening not to pay taxes and urging the government to bomb Pakistan.

Nor are the politicians spared either. There’s the caricature US President, a cross between Nixon and Reagan who says inanities and acts like a fascist. Caricature did I say? He sounds and acts scarily like Sarah Palin! Fancy that. Although the book has its Soviet paranoia (back then they were the only ones with a fearsome nuclear arsenal- apart from the US), when the spectacular nuclear strike takes place towards the end, the American corporate-government nexus is equally implicated.

But the scariest are the superheroes themselves. While the Batman is consumed with rage and frustration and acts like the creepy control freak vigilante he is, Superman has bought his peace with the repressive government by becoming a weapon of war, albeit one with a conscience. Alan Moore investigates a similar theme- and in many ways does it better- in The Watchmen, but here Miller is dealing with real, mainstream comic book heroes, which makes the book pretty cutting edge.

Finally there are some unforgettable images- of the Joker coming out of catatonia (a series of six panels where he sees the Batman on a TV screen, his expression changing from a bland, dead expression to the murderous grin we all know so well), of an aged Batman almost suffering from a cardiac arrest, of a nightmarish nuclear strike and finally a plane crashing into a skyscraper. Spooky.

Friday, December 12, 2008

A Whisky Tasting Session

Connoisseur’s Phrasebook

And so here you are, at a vaunted whisky tasting session. Arrayed in front of you are rows and rows of some of the best single malts that you could ever wish to taste. But there’s one slight problem. What’s all this stuff about the “nose” of the whisky and it’s “body”? And what is with all this “peaty” stuff? Doesn’t make any sense. Well, we do not claim to fill these gaps in your knowledge, but we can have a little fun. Here are a few examples of how NOT to use the phrasebook.

The first five single malts (Sober)

So you start off with your head placed squarely on your shoulder. You gamely sip the first whisky, then the second, then the third….Oops you’re occasionally forgetting not to swallow the whisky. Hmm…

Malt 1: A dignified taste with a soft nose like a stately garden in a soft haze; but dark flavours bloom abundant on the palate, with a sticky, salty end.

Malt 2: A hard nose, medium bodied, but a rich smoky taste with malty, peaty fruity notes and more than a hint of a sea breeze; full bodied, with rich citrus aromas and a long, gentle, lingering, complex, hard to define minty end.

Malt 3: Hints of cherry pie mingle with sharp notes of citrus and melon. A potentially overwhelming grassiness is subdued by a little grape stalk. Pear skin lingers, gives it a balanced, playful ending.

Malt 4: On the nose, yellow fruit is pleasantly plump, and precedes a delicate peat-smoke. Mingled tones of ginger and geranium create a spicy palette, rounded out with a smooth vanilla finish.

Malt 5: Sherry-sweet nose with a good bouquet; a hint of wood and vanilla; full bodied and round with a complex, patience-yielding palate and a long, lingering finish.

The next five (Drunk)…

So, by the time you’d gotten to the long, lingering finish of Malt number 5, you’re well on your way to that woozy, heady feeling. Maybe your spirits are up and you feel like you’re floating down the Scottish Highlands to the sound of celestial bagpipes. Ah, bagpipes, there’s something mournful about them, isn’t there? Reminds you of your ex girlfriend? Sigh…

Malt 6: I'm on a salty cliff made of honey and bagpipes, the mint is wrestling the sultanas and oak, I think the sherry's winning.

Malt 7: A squishy buttery nose with a hint of marmalade and ex-girlfriends, with a firm, chocolate follow-through, and a toasty, sad finish. She doesn't love me after all.

Malt 8: A ferocious nose, I hear trumpets and a bar fight, followed by a skip through fields of toast and fudge.

Malt 9: A weepy nose. Sweet cherry blossoms are gliding down the moonbeams; the full-bodied chickpeas are dueling high up in the air in a long and lengthy battle to the bitter end.

Malt 10: Oh woe is me. One more dram please.

Friday, November 21, 2008

You Poet

You Poet

You poet of unremembered night who are also the soul, the breeze, the tumbling of lights from railroad steel to bop licks are gone.

You poet of coronets, blowing hard and soft into a night heavy with heat or supple with rain and mud-splattered shoes are gone.

You poet of drunken yells, bells and sleepless spells of crying out loud for the sheer solace of unprovoked joy and love are gone.

You poet of shivering thighs, slapping holy pubic hair to moan in the gently rolling breasts of ceaseless sighs are gone.

You poet with visions of the snake and the ghosts of bums hurrying through lands of memory, words, boasts, stories, songs and children are gone.

You poet giving voice to the unknown distractions of moving moving, never stopping to find hypnosis in television sets and tax returns and bonds of money and gore are gone.

You poet of ghostly horses, saints and cons, sweet snatches, St Teresa bums, mumbling Dharma chanting woodsman poets, beatific dogs and movement are gone.

You poet I dream of in wild longings of desperate kisses I never had, the friends I never yelled “Fuck You” at, the madman who’s always fading from my memory, the song I should’ve followed to an end, the preacher I never flung a book at, the chronicler of a nation of the mind where all freedom resides in words, thoughts, desire and despair, but kindness too, are gone.

You poet, wizard of words, typing lines of distilled riffs cutting through sky blue domes and forgotten desolate tomes are gone.

Ah woe.

- For Jack Kerouac, New Delhi, September 12, 2008

Vampire Weekend

I know, I know. I'm pretty much late by a year (at least) in discovering this band, but heck I have done it finally, and I can't stop raving about them. Here's a version of my review of their eponymous debut album for BT More.

Vampire Weekend- Vampire Weekend

Imagine a Wes Anderson film, say The Darjeeling Limited. Now take the artifice and detail of that movie and turn it into music. It will probably sound like Vampire Weekend, 2008’s biggest phenomenon. The New York foursome make music that many call “Indie Afro-Pop”- the band itself calls it “Upper West Side Soweto” like true Frat brats- and yet this is a misleading term. Vampire Weekend’s songs are primarily meticulously crafted pop songs with irresistible melodies and smart, quirky lyrics.

The Africana touch is there- in the infectious beat of songs like Mansard Roof or the clean guitar lines Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa or Oxford Comma. But important as these elements are, the much hyped African link is but one of several equally important influences. Principal among these are the ringing Indie guitars on ditties like A-Punk and Campus and a fondness for designing elaborate soundscapes over simple songs. Add to that the complexity of their shifts in pace and rhythm and occasional swooning string and flute arrangements-Mansard Roof, The Kids Don’t Stand a Chance- and you get a post-modern baroque pop band par excellence. On the affecting love song Bryn, they take an Irish refrain, and marry it to African beats to great effect. As singer and guitar player Ezra Koenig confessed in Spin magazine about critics leveling charges of cultural appropriation against them, “…that debate has already happened. We’re in a context that’s coming after instances of people actually stealing from each other.” Yes they pay as much attention to their music as to post colonial theory, pore over gestalt and zeitgeist and the paintings of Jean-Michel Basquiat, but all that preciousness does not rob their music of authenticity.

Then there are the lyrics. Maybe no other band in recent times has evoked university life as cheekily as Vampire Weekend does on the album. It is true that the university they are talking about is the Ivy League Columbia University, but some things resonate, like the snotty brashness of an English major scoffing at the stiff upper lip accents of the Queen’s English in Oxford Comma. Or in the song Campus, where Koenig’s boyish voice brilliantly evokes a crush on a professor, “Then I see you, you're walking cross the campus, cruel professor studying romances. How am I supposed to pretend I never want to see you again?” The band is preppy to a fault, right down to Louis Vuitton accessories (there’s the Wes Anderson touch again) and pairing cardigans with a tie but their songs have real soul.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Landour


Here I am, back again in Landour after two years. It hasn't changed a bit, I'm happy to say. The only difference is in me. Appearance wise, I have a beard and short hair. Otherwise, the clock tower remains the same, as does the winding road up to Lal Tibba, and the clouds playing hide and seek in the pines, and the furry dogs and charming cottages, and the ugly hurly burly of the Mussoorie mall. Went to Dhanaulti today, in heavy rainfall and driving winds. The Dhanaulti hill top is quite something. Felt like Lear on the blasted heath. Oh well, dunno why I'm writing all this. Probably because I was passing by the same internet parlour where I had typed in my posts two years ago. Even that's the same, right down to the furry dog sleeping outside.
Its a horrible feeling to lose altitude, and as I leave tomorrow, I feel shitty about having to leave all this behind. Anyway, it'll be there. So will be I. God bless you all.

Saturday, August 30, 2008

There Will Be Blood


Here's another bit of music I heard recently and have fallen in love with it. The review in another form will appear shortly in BT More. Here's the unedited version.


Johnny Greenwood- There will be Blood

If Thom Yorke is Radiohead’s resident genius, then Johnny Greenwood has to be the band’s secret weapon. He is one of the best English guitar players to emerge from the Nineties, along with Blur’s Graham Coxon. But if the latter is a pop stylist par excellence, the former is an auteur of the instrument, equally capable of ballsy riffing and getting weird sounds that you wouldn’t believe could be coaxed out of an electric guitar. However, Greenwood’s musical palette far outstrips anything that he’s done to date with Radiohead. Following Greenwood’s stint as BBC’s in-house composer in 2005, director Paul Anderson approached him to score his epic oil movie There Will Be Blood. Now scoring a film is not your average rockstar gig. Not only does it call for a certain cinematic sensibility of mood and tone, but also economy and setting. This breathtakingly bleak score delivers on all these counts, and in spades. If There Will Be Blood is about wide open spaces, loneliness and the heart of darkness of a ruthless man, then the soundtrack echoes it with grand orchestral sweeps of cellos and violins and counterpoint melodies which get under your skin and haunt relentlessly. On viewing the film, one is as struck by the moments of silence as by the music. Running at a sparse thirty-something minutes, you can listen to the soundtrack at one sitting and be stunned by it. Opening with the grave vistas of Open Spaces scored for cello and violin, the piece draws the listener in with its glissandos (the music sliding from one pitch to another) - it’s the musical equivalent of seeing a blood red sunrise over a vast desert landscape. Then the strident, staccato cellos of Future Markets arrive, with restless plucked violin strings acting as a counterpoint to a raging string section. The emotion is occasionally relieved by pieces of such beauty as Hope of New Fields, where violins create a mood of heartbreaking beauty. Greenwood reserves the bleakest soundscapes for the central pieces of Henry Plainview and There Will Be Blood. In the former, an unrelenting character study of the cold, ruthless oilman, the strings fade in from the middle distance like a squadron of fighter planes, building on sound and fury only to crash like a gigantic wave and retreat. Thereafter, the track becomes a succession of long held notes blowing like the barren soul of Henry Plainview. There Will Be Blood builds similarly, and then becomes a spiraling landscape of noise where furiously sawed violins and cellos battle for space, creating sonic mayhem. Greenwood shows his indebtedness to such path breaking 20th century Classical composers as the Polish composer Krzysztof Penderecki and Frenchman Oliver Messiaen. This is a work of a profoundly gifted musician.