Lucy's Wedding Day

Pepperland, full-sun day
As I look up from my rocking-horse pie and wander about, I see Johnnie Boy on the crest of the Natung-La hill with the sun in his eyes. He smiles as a tune floats down, "Day after day, alone on a hill, the man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still. Sucking on a sugar cube, I start to climb. Many hued creatures poke their heads out from behind stones shot through with colours and smile at me. Its Lucy's wedding day and the guests are busy fixing a hole in the sky letting the rain in. The only light comes from Johnnie Boy's eyes. Must be quite bright, I remember thinking. The garden east of the thunder is full of rain and Billy Shears leads the worthies to the canopy where the lemonade is being sold for one hit a miss.
I can't see Paulie, but I hear him singing somewhere with the frog chorus, "I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in and stops my mind from wandering where it will go." I guess he's leading the horse fixers on a flag march. Rehearsals are necessary. After all, the wedding card had promised- "A Splendid Time Is Guaranteed For All".
Hari is romancing a gap-toothed fairy under the cinnamon bush. He kisses her hand, his beard flying in the wind. "What do you see when you turn off the lights?", somebody, maybe Mimi, shouts at him. "I can't tell you," he winks, "but I know its mine."
The hole fixed, the sun appears, skipping wheels of rhyme as the foggy ruins of time wash off its luminous sphere. There it goes, skidding across strawberry fields. A thin, dim figure chases it with a flashing stick. The slumping wedding rod weilded by Johnnie Boy, that's who, shouting through the freshly minted mint leaves.
But where be the master of ceremonies? He had said that he'd be found navigating his yellow submarine through the sea of holes if anyone cared.
"That's it!" exclaimed Eleanor exasperatedly. "He's feeling left out once again. What did you say to him this time Paul?". This she asks the young mustachioed gallant fiddling with a bagpipe beside her. "Well," said Paulie, "Rich wanted to go see Mr. Henderson ride a dragon to the Mumley tree and back and I said why not act your height and do sumersaults on solid ground? He got peeved and went off in a huff to his paramour Octopussyfooting saying that I'm always trying to be taller than him." Paulie then produced a bit of paper from behind Eleanor's left ear and and taking a long drag on the bazooka he was smoking, scribbled 'there are seven levels' on it. Winking slyly he looked at Elly and said, "You're a big mother, want to see my marguerites?" So faded the scene, among giggles.
A tinkling music slooshes through the hills surrounding Natung-La. Mr Henderson and his Fiery Frederick touche down in a swish of wings and a sniff of brimstone. He does a pirouette and and alights gracefully, a green hat in hand. "Hoom," he says, says he.
"Where be Rich, Manny?" asks Johnnie Boy through his nose, snorting away the bluebottle fly trying to find a suitable spot on his nose. "Oh, count your lucky Starrs," hoomed Henderson, "cause Richie has put his little tiff with Paulie and now wears it for a tail."
"He's trying to be big about it is he?" sniggered Paulie from under the giggling Elly.
"Far out," says Johnnie Boy and shakes a thought from his sleeve and looks at it with kaleidescope eyes. Just then Hari feels the ground move beneath him, and rolls off the lap of the fairy and lights a joint in one motion. As he exhales, the blue smoke clings to the mountain air and Rich appears, big nose and all, clothed in blue. He's reading the news.
WE BECOME NAKED, screams the headline, over a picture of Marianne and Margerie buttering up their hams.
"Where the hell you been Rich?" drawls Hari, serenely smoking. "Well," says Richie lugubriously, "the sea of holes turned out to be in Blackburn, Lancashire and being so far away from here, I had to worm-hole my way. I'm all smoky as a result." Someone tittered, maybe Paulie.
So everyone was together again at the Chemycal Wedding of Lucy and Cristian Rosencreutz. The lights were right, the sangria laced and the meat marinated. As the boys told cool jokes and the girls smoked bongs, a cheer went up in the vales. They all looked up.
Oh the marvel! Shimmering in white, riding an obsidian Olyphaunt, and ringing the wedding bell, there was Lucy in the sky with diamonds.

Summer Songs

i
The cats are sleeping
Face down, between their paws
One face twitches, a claw quivers
Chasing the mice of dreams
The other raises his lazy head
Stretches, yawns, mews for food
And curls up once again

ii
Not yet midday,
And the world is on fire
Heat blows down dusty streets
Spiralling dust storms colours the trees grey
Two men nod off beneath a tree
Two cows for company

iii
Send for me when the sun has set
And a moonlit breeze
Has released the scent of a thousand flowers
Send for me when the night is still and cool
Send for me and I will come

iv
My queen,
Your jewelled hand can soften
The beating of my wild heart
My queen,
Your wine drenched lips can cool
The burning of my thirsty soul
My queen,
Your dew laced breast can trace
The career of my desire
My queen,
The starlit breath of your love
Can tide over these dark nights

You Are So Beautiful

Billy Preston 1946-2006

Though he never sang it himself, this song that Billy Preston wrote for Joe Cocker in 1974, typifies the man. A tall, man with innocence in his eyes and a mean organ player, Billy passed away on June 6 this year from kidney failure. A man of rare talent and a lot of soul, his death robs us of yet another original, another genius. I felt I had to react to his passing...so here are some stories...
Billy was born in Houston, Texas in 1946. He began his career playing with gospel legends Mahalia Jackson and James Cleveland, before becoming a fixture in Little Richard's touring band in the early Sixties.
The year was 1962. With the gradual ebbing of interest in rock'n'roll in the US, and the rise in the dubious breed of 'clean' acts like Bobby Gee, old stalwarts like Little Richard and Gene Vincent took to touring the rock'n'roll hotbeds in England and Germany. An entire generation of eager young Turks like the Beatles had been weaned on their music and there time was now. At such a juncture, a very interesting meeting took place between the old royalty and the new princes of rock'n'roll. Between October and November of that year, Little Richard was touring England. His posse of touring musicians included the young Jimi Hendrix and the even younger Billy Preston. Already a mean hand at the organ and a gospel veteran, he was only 15. The Beatles' manager Brian Epstein was busy promoting his young and talented hitmakers from Merseyside-including the top-twenty cracking Beatles and Gerry and the Pacemakers, who had just had a number 1- and got Little Richard on the bill. For some reasons, that did not materialise, but the planned when The Beatles returned to Hamburg for the fourth time that November.
Sharing the bill with rock's original wildman and resident god Richard was an awe-inspiring event for the Fab Four. They were very impressed with the small young Preston, who John Lennon later remembered as looking 'about ten then.' He and The Beatles-especially George Harrison- became buddies on the club circuit. They spent hours asking each other about the culture of the other. Thus did the man with the mighty organ meet the Fab Four.
The tour over, they went their separate ways, The Beatles to dizzying heights of fame and Preston back to doing session work. With time, his reputation grew, as did the chance to work in stellar company. After playing with several acts stateside he joined Ray Charles's band. Preston was well-known enough to issue two albums in the mid-Sixties- 1965's "The Most Exciting Album Ever" and "The Wildest Organ In Town" in 1966.
Fast forward to 1969. Ray Charles was touring England. George Harrison and Eric Clapton went to see the Soul legend's concert at the London Palladium. Harrison was struck by a tall gangling figure on stage playing the organ. He seemed familiar. Then Ray Charles introduced his young sideman on stage:
"Billy Preston! Since I heard Billy play, I don't play the organ any more. I leave it to him."
It was Preston, but several inches taller and not looking about ten. Harrison went up after the show and the two renewed their friendship and asked him to come visit The Beatles at work. At the time, in early 1969, The Beatles were in the middle of the tortured "Get Back" sessions. Having moved to the basement studio under their company Apple's Saville Row office, George's decision to bring in Preston to the sessions acted as a breath of fresh air. The cobwebs of boredom and disaffection were blown away at the appearance of this old friend, and the Fabs started behaving themselves. They started recording songs in earnest.
George- " He got on the electric piano, and straight awaythere was 100% improvement in the vibe of the room...in his innocence he got stuck in and gave an extra little kick to the band."
The most famous result of this collaboration- only the third, after Eric Clapton and Nicky Hopkins before him- is the Beatles's 1969 hit Get Back. Suddenly, Billy Preston was the 5th Beatle. He would go on to record on the rest of the "Let It Be" album and the follow-up "Abbey Road". The music he plays on Get Back is simple and like quicksilver. The song gallops on at a breakneck space. Then, Preston's electric piano slows down the pace of the song before galloping into a furious funk-heavy boogie woogie shakedown that flashes by before you can put your finger on it's brilliance. Every phrasing in the song is bookended by his piano riffs. Through his efforts he elevated the song. Get Back became the only Beatles single to name him on equal terms. It was The Beatles and Billy Preston. He plays a beautiful little solo bang in the middle of Paul McCartney's dirge drama, The Long And Winding Road. Till now hidden under producer Phil Spector's string arrangement, it can be heard on 2003's 'cleaned up' "Let It Be...Naked". The spooky organ parts on Abbey Road's I Want You (She's So Heavy) and the full out soul of Let It Be are proof of his fantastic ability. On that song, he plays a funereal organ that his audible just under McCartney's stately piano phrases and plays a lovely break bridging the second verse and Harrison's guitar solo. On Harrison's I Me Mine, again he provides a sparkling intro and anchors the space between the chorus and the next verse, leading a wistful tone to the song. His parts though, were never obstrusive, but lent a greater depth to the songs. His musicianship was nothing if not evocative.
Preston soon became a fixture on the heady London music scene. doing session work for the likes of The Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, Ginger Baker and The Who. He soon signed onto The Beatles' Apple label and in 69 his third album That's The Way God Planned It was released, produced by Harrison. Preston was now a star in his own right. Touring with Delaney and Bonnie and Friends- which included Clapton, Harrison- Preston recieved more acclaim. Harrison's gospel tinged My Sweet Lord owed a distinct debt to Preston.
Preston: "George asked me how to write a gospel song so I started playing some chord changes. Delaney and Bonnie started singing "Oh my God, Hallelujah" and George took it from there and wrote the verses."
He later covered the song in 1975 to great critical acclaim. A voice at once both gruff and silken, he interpreted the profound gospel underpinnings of the song again in 2002's Concert For George.
He ended 1971 as a headline act on Harrison's hugely successful Concert For Bangladesh.
From 1970 onwards, a lucrative collaboration started with the Stones. From Sticky Fingers, through to Black And Blue, Preston featured on all the album and as a supporting act on the Stones tours. He plays some stunning organ in classics like I Got The Blues and Shine A Light. The Stones's approach to gospel, as in blues, was purist and Preston fitted right in. Shine A Light is a great example of Preston's feel. He plays both the piano and the organ. With both instruments he lays down a solid base for the song. His organ weaves in and out of the verses. While Mick Jagger emotes and singers like Clydie King provides the soulful backing, Preston's piano alternates between the atately and the sprightly. And, need we say, unobstrusive all along. In an era of great rock organ players like Garth Hudson, Stevie Winwood and Ray Manzarek- to name a few- Preston held his own and became the best known. As in Get Back, Preston always added more quality to a good song and elevateed it to greatness. There's a wonderful vamped organ solo in I Got The Blues from Sticky Fingers. A plodding blues pastiche, Preston's mighty organ shrieks with an intensity that vividly captures the theme of sexual frustration.
The 70's were a good time for Preston. Apart from the Stones, he continued to produce songs and albums- including two chart toppers in 1973 and 1974. The song he wrote for Joe Cocker, You Are So Beautiful is a masterpiece. After struggling through the Eighties with cocaine and alcohol problems, he recovered in the Nineties to discover that he had become a legend- to people who knew a good thing when the heard it. Ever the ace sideman, he joined Clapton's touring band he recorded again with Ray Charles, most famously on the legend's last album. He also toured with Steve Winwood. Heartbroken at his best friend George Harrison's demise in 2001, Preston stole the show in Harrison's memorial concert at The Royal Albert Hall with brilliant versions of Isn't It A Pity and My Sweet Lord.
The man with the oversized Afro is no more and he leaves us all rueing the decay of youth and the death of humility. But, as he sang so memorably, "That's the way God planned it."

The Coronation

The Coronation

Summer regains his stride
And strengthens the sun
The trees sway and the leaves shiver
And are still, drunk in the heat
The sky is a mountain lake
Arching blue from end to end
The dust rises and sweat springs up
Flies buzz lazily, maddened
By the aroma of small blue flowers
And wild weeds
The thieving cat pursues the sunlight
From pillar to pillar like a lusty lover
I am not a poet of nature
I am a man in nature
Dreaming of heaving seas of grass
Undulating in the sun
On some forgotten hillside
I am not a poem in love
I am the love in man
That delights in giving, in exploring
The sounds that my lover makes
As I bury my feverish face
Between her eager legs
I am not a poet
But an artist of impressions
That sketches the mind-
Thoughts, fantasies, abuses, winks
Inhaling intoxification
I raise a toast to the sun, and laugh

Meet me at the day’s end
As I sing the sun to sleep
And don my dark reeds
To welcome the wine-dark night
Meet me on a mountaintop
As I leap with a yell from rock to rock
I’ll show you where the eagle makes his nest
I’ll take you where rivers are born

Meet me by the sea
As I wash each grain of sand
In the lapping waves of eternity
I’ll hold you in my arms in the dappled shade
And sing you the sailor’s song
Meet me in the midst of men
As I sing of myself
And watch summer regain his stride
And strengthen the sun
-Beq 22.3.2006

Insomnia

Here I am, at 4 30 in the morning, unable to sleep and with the access to a laptop while sitting in an a/c room. Things could be worse, and they possibly will be; but not during the time it takes me to post this blog. There's a weird conversation going on in the room about gay porn and prostitution, but if you're suitably buzzed, sleep deprived and generally insomniac, then it doesn't matter. In fact you wish that the moment would last forever and the act of typing the letters of a keyboard go on and on and on without stop.
It reminds me of my sole acid experience to date. That night went on forever and yet seemed to get over too soon...so when the first birds began chirping, we retired to the room and shut all the doors and windows and lit a candle. Then we put on the Buena Vista Social Club and just forgot ourselves.
You feel like this sometimes. Just before dawn, a strange lethargy comes over you. As you stand at a balcony and look out on a wide expanse of greenery, you wish that a bush might give birth to a shadowy woman wrapped in white...who's eyes you can't see, but who's presence fills you with dread. In such times you wish that your life was worth more than what it was and that the wonder of experience would never remove its hands from your brows. Its much more than a fear to get tied down.
So when I see friends write that they are male/female and 'committed' I smile to myself and ask, "to what?" Are they lunatics awaiting incarceration, or are the unconciously sighing for the feel of rain on their faces as they walk down a deserted valley in the hills somewhere, looking for a valley of flowers to emerge from the mist? Are they 'committed' because its a word that makes them feel adult or because they are awaiting that final act of abandonment, of giving their bodies up to the wind and flying with the stars? The stars in the infinite night that they had always wished to count, but didn't know where to begin?
Maybe I'm just sleepy, maybe. Maybe.

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep :
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep !
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,

May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,

Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth !
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ;

To her may all things live, from the pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul !

O simple spirit, guided from above,

Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice.

- S T Coleridge (poet, liar)

Delhi

Thought I'd do some posting as I don't have anything else to do right now. There's beautiful weather outside. There are only so many times during the year that you could say that about Delhi. There was a sudden storm a around 4 30 while I was on my way to me friend's place near Khan Market. The problem with storms in Delhi is that they almost always start with swirling eddies of dust...and given the fact that I had just washed me hair today that was not a very nice thing. But anyways, the weather IS great and that's quite a change. The day was awfully hot and I could only take so much of it.
Right now its all cloudy and really breezy and I'm sitting sipping coffee and watching the Simpsons...Aah, the good life...

There's something about Bogart

Seriously! He's such an ugly mother, and with baad attitude to boot, and ugly one more time. But the man's absolutely fantastic. Saw Treasure of the Sierra Madre a few days ago. Though he didn't seem to be the protagonist-think the gold was-he was the best thing about the movie. The last ten minutes or so after he dies is an anti-climax. I had, of course, seen Casablanca. Who hasn't? But, think I'm falling in love with that painfully tough ugly mug after I saw The Maltese Falcon and Treasure of the Sierra Madre. The latter is a great Hollywood production. Just goes on to prove that the LA filmland wasn't always as shitty as it seems now. The movie is gloriously fake, with all those 'heroic' bums marking time in Mexico and the amusing-but deadly-Mexican bandits...but its also quite real. When the actors get dirty digging for gold, they LOOK it. And when all the suspicions and jealousies surface after the gold has been found, that seems credible too. Although Bogart does spend too much time muttering loudly to himself. But the fire and brimstone of the Mexican wilderness comes alive beautifully.
And then there's Bogart. He cusses, spits, bums money, ogles at women, rubs his lips, kills, drinks like a fish...and generally lifts the movie a few notches by just being up there on the screen. I know I know. His legend is older than my father, but now that I seem to have 'discovered' him, he seems like a personal possession.

Forever in my cups

Thought I'd bring the World Cup to this blog as well. Goes without saying, I'm quite overjoyed that its begun at long last. BUT, since I don't have a tv at home, I get to watch only a few matches...when friends who do have television are a) home and b)willing to share the space. Most of the times, they either want to be left alone with their partners or with themselves....but no matter. Felt terrible watching Zinedine Zidane and Co labour in their match against the Swiss. Despite their failings, they are one of the teams that I really like watching and the stifling nature of yesterday's game really galls. No wide play at all. Both the teams trying to bungle their way through the middle. It almost made the England-Paraguay match look as if it was oozing flair. But at least its better than losing to Senegal in 2002.
I remember that first match four years ago. I was pretty certain Les Bleus would win, but I had to miss most of the match as I had to go buy myself contact lenses...which never suited me...but that's another story.
I haven't seen Italy play, and despite Germany's 4-2 victory, I don't think they're gonna be able to do much. But then, them Germans are an obstinate lot. Of the other teams, I was quite pleased with the way Argentina played, as did Holland. But I really wish that England play better. There's nothing more frustrating than seeing all these fantastic players playing like morons as soon as they start playing for their national teams. I mean, where was Steven Gerrard? He's one of my favourite midfielders, and he was nowhere to be seen at the business end of the play...only now and then he would be charging around trying to be a defensive midfielder. And the less said about Sven Goran Eriksson, the better. England need a coach like either Rafa Benitez or, perversely enough, Jose Mourinho. Stev McLaren?? Oh No!!!

Beatles and Blues: Two Docus

I'm writing this post a second time since yesterday...I spent a good couple of hours writing only to lose it after
a) blogger took too long to publish it
b) the connection went off and
c) the post got lost
As is the case with such things, I will probably struggle to find the wit, verve and critical insights that went into yesterday's post- and that too with an Ajay Devgan action movie blasting out of the computer next to me.... I first saw the Beatles Anthology when it was premiered on DD, I think, way back in 1996. Funnily enough, No one I've spoken to seems to remember it. I was in my first throes of Beatlemania, and to watch it, I had to put in a lot of dilligent hours of studies to earn the right to watch it...For some reason, I remember two things very vividly...In the first movie, 'In My Life' starts playing over pictures of the Liverpool docks and Lennon's unmistakable voice going, "I was born in..." So when I sat down to watch the movies this time around, I was kinda waiting for that bit to play out. When it did, I got goosebumps...really!!! Anyway, this time around I went on a bender and watched six of the eight movies back to back through the night before I fell over and started snoring out of sheer exhaustion. There's only so much nervous energy you can put into anything, and the Beatles always demand such a lot of it. Thanks to miles of fantastic pictures trailing in the wake of the Beatles legend, everytime you see the boys actually moving, laughing, singing...its a pure shot of adrenaline. Yes yes, I obsess over them, but believe me, you'll feel the same, if only for a shorter period of time. I'll talk about the first movie, which covers the time from their birth to 'Please Please Me' becoming No1. Let me begin by saying that Anthology is a masterclass on editing. Its great how the narrative keeps flowing along without any needless voiceovers...apart from the boys themselves. Seeing how this is an in-house project, this does not delve into many uncomfortable topics like John and Cynthia, Lennon and Epstein, Stuart Sutcliffe's haemmorage. But then again, you should see the movie in conjunction with the book and there is a lot more in the book purely because archive wise, there are more print interviews than tv ones, certainly of Lennon. The Anthology interviews themselves are fascinating. Paul, George and Ringo speak true to themselves...Paul happy to play along, George alternating between wry and proud, and Ringo just delighted to be there. Its a humbling experience as well, cause they are the Beatles, and yet, they are perfectly nice guys. Its charming too, especially when Paul talks about their initiation into sex, drugs, booze and rock n roll in the cheap dives on the Reeperbahn with his tongue firmly in cheek or when, George talks about how he got a black eye from indignant hooligans cause Ringo had replaced Pete Best (while the gangs were screaming "Ringo never, Pete Best forever!") . I realised that if you look at the Anthology as a celebratory thing, then it works. If you look for criticism, then they are hardly the best people to provide it. Its the little details, like the three of them arguing about what Elvis was wearing when they met him, or taking sly digs at John's contention that they had jammed with Elvis ( Ringo says he probably did when the rest of them had gone to the loo ), that make it such a warm movie. And at long last, old faithfuls like the long-suffering Mal Evans, Derek Taylor, etc get a look in and get their due. George Martin apologises too much- to Ringo for not letting him play on Love Me Do, to George for not taking him too seriously, but still, the pace of the narrative never drags. The best thing about the movies are probably the wealth of live appearances. The Beatles were the first exaustively televised stars and it shows. Even the patchy footage of them at the Shea stadium is edited beautifully for the madness of the times to filter through. Seeing Lennon go crazy during that show...playing the organ with his elbows or saying...."OOHH! Look at thaaat" while another pitch invader is carried off kicking and screaming by the police is revelatory. The Beatles weren't on the road for too long, but when they were, they di so much. Can finally understand. Others would have burned out long ago. Its a miracle they lived through it all AND made such wonderful music... Poor Macca. Just when he had gotten good reviews for an album for a change- for "Chaos and Creation in the backyard", his life had to turn sour. No more Heather Mills now, and on top of that, she was a porn model in a GERMAN porn pic book??? Move over Reeperbahn, here comes Heather! Maybe he'll go back to smoking pot and write intriguing sad little ditties...but I'm being extremely selfish. I do hope that he does ok...it must be frustrating for him to know that millions arounf the world will be singing "When I'm 64" this year, while he copes with depression. But here's to Macca, and may he live long.

The other docu I saw recently was the first part of Martin Scorsese's series on the blues. Being a late- and recent- entrant to blues chorcha, it couldn't have come at a better time. A good movie, though I had a few problems with it. First of all, it is narrated as a "going back to roots" point of view thing with this young American Rasta blues musician as the protagonist. I mean, Rastafarianism and the Blues??? Ok, still, that would have been ok had it not been for the disinterest of the guy. He says things like, "My ancestors came from these shores" while cruising down some West African river. Its so American. The first part suffers a little from this long drawn out trip to Africa which establishes nothing apart from a tete a tete with a gun toting tribal militia lord who also plays the guitar. Our young American predictably tries to jam with him, and at the end of it tells us something we already know...that here in West Africa lies the root of the blues. But such irritants aside, its a good movie. There are some intriguing interviews with old bluesmen - who must've been kids themselves when the likes of Muddy Waters were in their prime- and some fascinating archive footage from the 1930's onwards. To see Son House thumping at his guitar while belting out "I'm gonna join the baptist church" or saying how the modern blues(speaking in the 40s) is nothing but presumptious kids playing jump music is rivetting. As are old footages of chain gangs singing songs sounding suspiciously like "Po Lazarus" from 'O Brother Where Art Thou?' If you've heard "High Water (Blues for Charlie Patton)" by Dylan on his Love Amd Theft album, you'll also enjoy a recording of Paton singing about the Mississippi floods over old newsreel footage of those dreaded floods that so plagued him and others. Its like travelling to the root of the blues mythos and it remains as captivating. It also reminds one of the similar fate of thousands last year becaus of Hurricane Katrina. Are things really that different? The best interview of this movie is probably that of Taj Mahal. The 60's blues rocker -best known for his barnstorming performance in the Rolling Stones Rock n Roll Circus movie- has aged beautifully and is as hoary and witty and magnificient as his idols. Scorsese uses jumpcuts beautifully to punctuate his interview. There's even a memorable performance of Muddy Waters's "Feel Like Going Home" at the same spot where Alan Lomax recorded the young Muddy in 1941. By comparison, the Rasta guy comes accross more asinine than Clapton at his worst. The Rasta guy's new slicked up blues is technically perfect, like a cd recording, and has about as much soul as American Idol. I wish Scorsese had found a different way to tell the story, cause the story that he tells has all the ingredients to keep you hooked on till the very end. For those who've read Robert Palmer's peerless book 'Deep Blues' all this is nothing new, but you do get to see heavyweights like Leadbelly, Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf et al in the flesh and that, my friend, is simply electrifying...

Ain't that a lotta love?
Cheerio

That Dying Fall

Its strange how people's taste in music change. Was just corresponding with a friend in Orkut. Haven't met him for a good 5 years or more, and it was interesting to see how his musical tastes have gone in a certain traectory...not surprising given what he was listning to then...he's listening to The Clash, Talevision, The Smiths (the intelligent punks) ...a logical progression from The Beatles, Stones and the Who which he used to listen to then...still does probably. I started out in roughly the same place and now listen toThe Band, Blind Willie McTell, Muddy Waters, Leadbelly (bluesmen), cool jazz and generally old trad American stuff (a Jack Kerouac heritage) and then stuff like Paul Weller, Traffic, etc. I guess musical geneologies manifest themselves in people in ways music critics will never be able to put their fingers on...

silence on the radio

If anyone's listening, sorry for the silence. will post something soon for sure.

You lookin' at me?

Posting from my gracious host Gopal's house while the gent is out reacting to an urgent summons from the zoo (he's a print journo who can afford to have such exotic beats).
Its great to see people commenting, though I still can't figure out who anonymous might be. But no matter. Keep em coming.
So...I'd been gone a couple of days and as a result I have quite a bit to write about. Beginning from day before yesterday when I boarded an Indian Airlines flight back to Delhi. Just my luck, the flight was supposed to leave at 8 but shifted ass only at 9...reason being that they were flying injured Bong passengers from Kashmir. Anyways, that wasn't the news...what the news was this strange little brush I almost had with celebrity:
While my mother was hugging me one last time and telling me to be good(why does everyone always ask me to be bhodro, or to be good?) when I glanced over her shoulder and saw these two foreigners putting their check-in luggage through the scanner. I stopped dead in my tracks...could that guy with the cropped hair be...dear God could he be...DeNiro? There, I was smitten and had turned into a stalker in the blink of an eye!
He definitely looked like Niro, and not too young either...the cropped hair giving him more than a passing likeness to Travis Bickle (?) of Taxidriver fame...I continued gaping and since my check in was complete I stalked him, hoping to hear someone mention his name. I would think that DeNiro would be a little older and more jowly than this but then again I could be wrong...but why was he travelling like an ordianary tourist....with just another guy? I looked for trademark expressions, but couldn't see because of the crowds. Was determined to get a closer look...and then...oi vei oi vei....he was travelling by my flight!!!
Followed him surreptitiously up the staircase to the first floor lounge meant for the IA passengers(which was cool...no rubbing shoulders with mere Jet or Sahara flyers haha) and kept staring...still nothing to give anything away...but he so looked it man....
Just as I was going to narrow the gap and get in a good stare, he turned left into some "Gold card holding passengers only" lounge...Darn! God damn the executive class!!! But that confirmed one thing...if he was who I think he was, then at least he was travelling expensive-even if on a passenger liner. Couldn't for the life of me understand why a star of his luminousity would pass a personal jet for Indian Airlines!!! And anyways, nobody seemed to recognise him. I privately sneered at everyone else at not wising up to the Presence in our midst...my heart was beating double time at the thought of talking to the guy and I quickly had a few imaginary conversations in me head...all of them ending with him either adopting me or casting me for his next film...
Then, an important decision to make...which films of his would I say I liked...should I be tough and speak only about the Scorsese movies or should I include a ribtickler like Meet The Parents? But what if he detested it? Hmm, tough call. So I mulled it over -and there was time for this, seeing how IA wasn't even bothering with boarding anyone even though it was 8:30 pm and the scheduled departure time said 8:40 pm...After much deliberation, I decided to go with Taxidriver, Godfather 2, Casino and Goodfellas...I got me diary out and tore a bit of paper and kapt it in me pocket-along with a pen- just in case I needed it.
I decided to bide my time and catch him while boarding...which started at 8:40 sharp. IA was trying to make up for the delay by pretending nothing was wrong and that they were being super punctual...so while the rest ran towards the boarding door trying to get in as soon as possible, I waited for the Executive Class to emerge from their executive cocoon...after a while they did and sure enough...there was my man, with the friend of course. By now he seemed less like a friend and more like a lackey. So I approached the line and casually positioned meself behind him and between him and the friend...
"Um, excuse me ...sorry for being rude, but are you Robert DeNiro?" (There, I'd said it!!! Cold sweat cold sweat)
"What"?
"Are you Robert DeNiro? You, um, er, look just like him, heh" (nervous, panicking)
"Oh, ho ho, no chum I'm not DeNiro, I wish I was"
"Sorry man, you look just like him" (you better admit it buster, if only to make me happy)
"Afraid I'm not." Holds out his hand, "Richard"
"Um, Beq"
"I'm a DeNiro fan too"
"Really? How nice" (Did I look like I cared any more?)
So that was the story of me brush with celebrity...only it turned out to be some old Dick.
But, then again, I have my doubts. What if he was DeNiro and just wanted peace and quite and not be besieged by morons...
When I walked past his seat, on my way to 27A right at the back, Dick winked and gave me a thumbs up...

Travelling Riverside Blues

So, that's it. Another bittersweet farewell to the city I love. Another fond goodbye to the streets and the people that sustain me...my lifeline. It seems strange that I've spent three weeks here. It seems only yesterday that My plane touched down jarringly and my ears got blocked...my father and sister coming to the airport to pick me up. Days spent...just spent...flying by me, falling through my hands and becoming memory...dunno when I'll be back again. This time I returned after about 13 months of work and sleep, sleep and work. Its difficult when your primar relationship with a city is work. It defines both you and the city. I have a support system there, but it takes time for them to grow, to deepen into something more meaningful.
Cal's changed a lot in the past year...flyovers, highrises, malls (eek!)...but hasn't changed that much either. Spent days just walking around all the old haunts in South Cal- JU, Jodhpur Park, Lake Gardens, Gariahat, Dover Lane, the lakes, Park Street, Oly pub...couldn't visit everywhere and have all the conversations with people that I wanted to, but then, what did I expect? So here's to Cal, the city by the river...
And now Delhi...my house in CR Park, the cats and the rest. Khan Market bookshops and Lodhi Gardens at dusk and Humayun's Tomb in the winter. Friends of various shapes and sizes...hah!
Oh well, here I go. Watch me fly.
p.s. All readers please please leave your comments. I've set it up so that anyone can. A blog's kinda like a strip show, some parts forever being in the shadows...and there's no fun stripping if there's no one watching

There are places I remember, all my life
Though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone, and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Though I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life, I loved them all.

Old mails and saucerful of secrets

Reading old mails can mean asking for trouble. And yet, you can't stop yourself once the urge seizes you. Its like looking at old photographs but only more vivid- at least to me they are. I first started out with a Hotmail account. I guess most start out that way. It was such a long time ago that I've even forgotten what my username was. I think beqster or something equally corny. My next mail server was Yahoo, at about the time that a computer came to our house to stay. It was the same time that I actually started mailing in earnest. Lots of mindless forwards, endless spams which seem to get a life of their own- no matter how much you blocked or reported them. I was still in high school. Hormone surges were high- and they took off for the stratosphere everytime a girl mailed.
Yes yes, us poor sods came from a crummy boys only school. It was also around the same time that I was hooked to Delta Force and read novels in the middle of exams and did horribly at math. But e mails got more important as time wore on...if only to send crummy online birthday cards to women one had crushes on (though I never did that), or silly poems to 'cool' friends who seemed to be the only critics that mattered.
But Yahoo I'll forever associate with the first proper wooing that I've ever done. My ex-girlfriend was won with the help of cyberspace and make no mistake! This was at the end of second year of college and boy did those mails matter! I remember waiting with baited breath at the end of the day when the final mail from my amour would indicate how successful the day's coyness had been. Ah, the innocence of it all. Like a warm glowing picture in the mind. But in reality those were difficult days; as fraught with tension, anxiety and frustration as any meaningful human experience. It was also around then that love made me start to be punctual- well, almost.
And so the years passed. I discovered Rediffmal in all this as it yielded a faster flow of mails and somehow worked better despite all these surreal connection problems I seemed to be having...Satyam one week, VSNL the next and then "Damn! Why isn't fucking Caltiger working just when I'm supposed to be on the Messenger talking to her???"
Those kind of problems.
Never believe Mick Jagger when he pouts "Tiiiiiiiiiiiime is on maiii saiiid" cause with time comes decline. I lost track of my Yahoo account somewhere along the way and lost a lot of important mails...I still rue their loss. All that remain are printouts of random mails from that era which pop out here and there....with priceless jokes on milking big breasted women dry...
I know I know. Its useless wthout the context. The devil is, after all, in the detail.
Anyways. The years passed and relationships ended, eras ended, friendships became tolerable irritability and that warm glow of sheer fun just slipped away into the ether somewhere...I'm sure its in a sealed glass jar somewhere in some corner of the Dream King's cupboard along with Toad's new car and Gerry's pet porcupine
A long long time ago and in a city far far away came the latest in a long succession of melancholy whores...
G mail. I remember being quite proud after I got the account. In the middle of another whirlwind love affair, me and she would sit side by side mailing each other!!! Ah, but some stories should not be told. Or perhaps told only in dreams.
Wonder what Lacan would make of blogs?

Oh Woe Ist Mein

I never knew of anyone who wanted to write and did not harbour hopes of writing haikus. Can't say I've been totally faithful to the form but in this hip hop age who is?

Haikus

I

The sun bakes the sky blue

On my hot bed

I lie and think of lilies

II

The river dazzles the eye

In a blink

The tail of the cat is black

III

The city is a jungle of spires

Spear in hand

I hunt the tiger of desire

IV

A crack in the distance

Sudden rain

A sparrow hops by with wet feet

V

The mountaintop is cloaked in mist

All day long

I am a mirror in the sun

VI

Starlight. Whispers. Sighs

Strangers in the night

Exchanging glances

Time woes

Me time seems to be all wonky. I mean its a pm now not an am!!! As Dunbar said in Catch 22, Oh well, what the hell!

Invitations

As will be glaringly obvious to any and all who visit Roma, it is in the process of being created. I can't understand half the things myself. Consequently I'm spending quite some time staring at the page and wondering how to go about things, like getting my picture in there somehow. I know there is a six easy steps thingummy but
a) I don't have the patience and
b) I'm unsure around machines that don't divulge their secrets quickly...
...cos unlike Templar mysteries and beautiful women, a good machine is one that is totally demystified. So, any of my -ahem- visitors, if you'll be kind enough to tell me in plain english how to go about things, me's a willa be quite grateful. Yes Maseh :)
Now, the reason for the name. Why Roma Koma. Unlike John Lennon, I can't say that a man appeared to me one night atop a flaming pie and said that "Henceforth yeh be los beatles", so I won't say that.
It was a whim on me part. Why not start a blog? Everyone seems to have one....and whether anyone comes here or not, I can always say what the hell I want or write about everything from John Cage (of whom I dunno much) to Jimmy Page (said it just so it'd rhyme) to Paramilitary maneuvers (a red herring see see?) and none will be the wiser. And this being so impersonal and all,
I's be less shy
and write with extreme prejudice (sounds nice don't it?)
Roma is NOT to be pronounced as in AS Roma but as in "Comma". Ditto for Koma. Now the name derives itself from a Bong joke. Now, those who know that joke will appreciate but those from other linguistic groups might be at a loss. I dunno how to explain, but I'll try:
A man writes a lovelorn letter to his beloved Roma. But being a career literalist he writes:
Priyotama Roma Koma...
Now a normal man would write:
Dearest Roma,
Now he carries on...
Tumi amar jibone jagiyechcho dolon semicolon
and on and on. Needless to say, its a hillarious letter and the genesis of the name for sucha "writerly" enterprise..all right, enough crap. Now wait for next year...

Good day sunshine

Seems like a strange time to start a blog. Now that I'm leaving Cal for good ol Delhi. First, I'll spend the remaining time trying to figure out how this thing works and how to navigate and all that. So, more after that...