Lylic It!

What do you do when you want to sing a song- say a folk tune with many verses- but you don’t necessarily want to learn up all the lyrics? Well, you resort to lylics. No that’s not a typo, but a state of mind. Lylics are those lyrics which you have to make up yourself because you can’t remember the original ones, or you can’t sing the given words right. Now, they change with the kind of genre of song you’re singing. Its decidedly difficult to lylic rock songs, or songs with a particular format, like say, Broadway standards or even Hindi film songs…but if the structure’s flexible, well, the sky’s the lylic…sorry limit.
There’s a driving unionist song we do called John Henry. My nitpickin’ friend who commented on the previous post might be able to give you a better history of this violent ditty, but this is the basic idea. Ol’ John is a dyed in the wool unionist who will resist mechanization at any cost. To resist the steam drill, he’ll die with the hammer in his hand, as he puts it. From what I know, this used to be a standard union sing-along in the US during the turbulent days of its post-war industrial intensification. Its been done by many a folk icon, from Woody Guthrie to me, and like all singalongs, the emphasis is always on the final line of each verse. Now therein lies the problem. For one, there is no ONE reliable set of lyrics. Seems to me, every successive version had been happily lylicing the song. The first verse is fairly straightforward…about ol’ Hurray Henry being a lil’ toddler getting roughshod lessons in worker’s rights from his working class father. (A minor aside: This song could also be read as an ongoing Thor family saga, what with every successive generation having a male who loves to sing his hammer. This brings us to an even more minor aside: the funniest Thor joke in any medium is the bit in Neil Gaiman’s Sandman, where Thor says this little gem to impress the cat-headed Bast- an Egyptian goddess- “Would you like to rub my little hammer? It grows bigger”). Ok, enough minors…the song, incidentally is not on a minor scale but on E… (which brings me to another minor aside: the Brit rock band Verve were sued by the American jazz label Verve over name copyright issues, so the lead singer of the band Richard Ashcroft joked about “Dropping an E for America”…you may know that E is Ecstasy which partakers often “drop”, as the lingo goes, instead of “consuming.” They didn’t drop the E, but added a “The” before their name.)
Ok, it seems I’m hijacking my own piece (which might be seen in the same connotation as Thor’s hammer…hammer…piece…get it??) ENOUGH!
Where were we? World Wide Web? MAN THIS IS INSANE!!!
Ok fine. So the first verse is okay. But then we fast forward some 30 years and Henry’s holding a conversation with his Captain- so he’s on a ship. All fine and dandy. But then what the hell are they talking about? Difficult to say. The gist seems to be that according to Henry, a man ain’t a man unless he’s swinging his hammer (but we already knew that) and then the Captain says something equally empowering to Henry. But how to sing it? Again, there’s no reliable blueprint. So you lylic it. Make up your own little conversation piece as long as it veers close to the subject in hand (no, not the hammer).
After all this strum und drang, comes the violent bit. Again, it’s a narrative jump. Suddenly we’re told that Ol’ John Henry had a girl called Molly Brown. We’re not told what the exact relation is, but therein hangs a tale. Now, Molly Brown- bless her heart- probably got fed up with Henry’s grandstanding and failure to put the money where his mouth is (and historically, men with large hammers aren’t made for good lovin’) and one fine night, while Henry’s sleeping, “ she drove steel like a man”. It’s the best bit of the song, and definitely the most enjoyable bit to sing, but what do we make of it? Did she drive a large and pointed and sharp kitchen knife through the heart, or did she do to him what he failed to do to her with his hammer? Anyway, whether its death by knife, or by too much sex, John Henry dies as he had lived- by the sword…oops, by the knife…er, by the hammer? Dunno if he died with the hammer in his hand, but hopefully Molly wasn’t wielding a steam drill.
Imagine what you want, and just lylic it.

The Fashion Thing

The fashion thing is a strange animal. It likes clothes, but it hates clothes that look like shit and cost the earth. It likes the flighty flutter of the scene, but not the models- most of who go through life with a perpetually baffled expression on their faces.
The fashion thing finds things to be at their strangest when it’s trying to get a magazine issue on fashion going. To be fair, the fashion thing isn’t the only one in this predicament. Three other souls share its dilemmas, but as it can’t vouch for them, here’s its version of the dirt.
It found that women are the easiest to deal with while sourcing clothes. They understand things easily and don’t treat clothes as if they’re bombs about to go off. And store managers can be actually charming, even if you’re not buying their clothes. Some say “si” with the perfect Italian accent though their names make you think they’re men. Others get the necessary permissions with a minimum of fuss, and help you pick the clothes. Our shop-girls are coming of age, it seems. Their male counterparts are another story all together. They start off looking as if they’ve just swallowed a hot potato, and then they ask you why you can’t shoot at the shop! They treat a simple requisition as if it’s a state secret and are at pains to get multiple permissions from a hundred bosses. It becomes their personal promotion lollipop. And after a few days of cloak and dagger, a second executive calls up from another city and begs you to be careful about the brand. His job, he says dolefully, is on the line. Disgusted, the fashion thing drops the brand. Pooh!
Then there are the models who act as if they’re posing for their personal family album. They grin like buffoons and are so stiff you can hear them creak. Some are steroid kids, while others are two-dimensional. Then the stylists come on all la-di-da (they alternate between trying to get passes to the Fashion Week, and crying to their mothers, and calling up their ‘partners’ for movie tickets). Then they run away when they’re required to do some styling. So the fashion thing and Co do it themselves. There are some hard working stylists as well, but poor guys, they seem forever marginalized. They are the ones who get into Fashion Week through hard work. So that’s cool. There are some infuriating models who carry off everything beautifully. Even if you’re shooting for fashion faux-pases they look gorgeous in the clothes. It sets the fashion thing’s teeth on edge.
And then we come to fabrics. There’s cotton (from cotton), linen(from flax), and cashmere (from goats). But then there’re chambray, tweed, denim, corduroy, etc etc etc under cotton, and worsted, micro-lite, Australian, Kamchatkan wool!!! For linen you get Italian, Irish and other anglo-saxons you don’t want to know, and then some more. Suits are not just suits, but micro-lite, worsted and cashmere (Fat lot the fashion thing cares!)
But yes, clothes are fun…as clothes. I guess couture is not the fashion thing’s cuppa but it ain’t the cuppa of most of the various fashionistas the fashion thing had the pleasure of observing. Badgering store owners for the right to click pics, the fashion thing took with him a jovial Bong and photographed the sky over Connaught Place instead….then another day, it went and took pics in a retail store through subterfuge, but while subterfuging, forgot to take the down the prices of the clothes photographed. So when the crunch came, the fashion thing spent most of the evening badgering the store attendants- over the phone!- to hunt out the mannequins in question and give out the prices…needless to say, it was tickled pink. Even better was when it called up various stores and posed as a harassed buyer who dunno what to buy and ask for prices. Shop attendants probably like the dumb buyer, because they fell over backwards to provide the information. As the fashion thing writes this, the entire fashion experience as embodied by the magazine is yet to go to press. So there are tense moments yet. But what a month. OOOOH those linen pants! They’re so, like, in!!!

Pickin' The Tune

Country- especially bluegrass- music always seemed to me to be an adolescent fairyland. I mean look at the lyrics. They are so simple-minded that its almost laughable. Especially now that my band’s performing Doc Watson songs and the like, the lyrics make me laugh from here to Tennessee. Believe me, its beautiful music, and the level of musicianship in crafting them is superlative. But the lyrics? That’s something else altogether. Let’s take this particular song that we’re doing… “Peach pickin’ time in Georgia”, by Doc Watson. Its his song, but could well be a traditional. It certainly is very topical. Its about this down-at-heels farmer, who’s looking forward to getting married, or, getting some sex.
“When its peach pickin’ time in Georgia
And apple pickin’ time in Tennessee,
Cotton pickin’ time in Mississippi
And everybody picks on me
When its roundhouse time in Texas
And the cowboys make whoopee
And way down in old Alabamy
Its gal-pickin’ time for me”
You can almost see the ol’ white Southern kid in a peaked hat hacking away at the cotton under the burning summer sun, while images of sun-kissed thighs flash through his mind. He thinks of Caroline somewhere in Arkansas and starts humming of his simple dreams of ‘gal-pickin’. Anywhere will do, it seems…and anyone. Oh those Denver doldrums, Alvah Goldbrook would say. It’s a silly song really. But like all silly songs, it makes you smile in spite of yourself. And there’s always Doc Watson’s voice. It could be the voice of one of the gents on Mount Rushmore. It could also be the voice Walt Whitman. It’s the voice of America, and when it yodels, it melts the cockles of your heart.

Note. For those of my readers who complain that I write of things very few people either know or care for, here’s some info to keep you pickin’.
The song’s by Doc Watson, a county-bluegrass legend who, at 94, is still one of the best around. Alvah Goldbrook is a fictional name for the poet Allen Ginsberg in Jack Kerouac’s ‘On The Road.’

Bus Rides

I do a lot of traveling these days. I always used to, but now I have to do so for work. As it is, where I work is about 15 km or so from my house, and then there's sundry going out and about to gather info, get photo-shoots organised, meet contacts etc etc...hence the traveling. Not that I mind, and that's probably because I'm still not sick of it. The upshot of it- as far as I'm concerned- is that I get to travel on buses. Yeah well, I can see many blanching at the very idea of someone avtually liking traveling on Delhi buses, but then again, you gotta be zen, or you won't like anything.
Let me tell you about some really nice/funny/dunno what things that bus travel afforded me to experience...

1. The seat with no backrest. Yeah, that was funny all right, and quite visually startling as well, when you consider that all the other seats in the bus HAD backrests. It threw people a bit. For starters, people couldn't figure out how to stand around it...see, te rationale for standing passengers is positioning, so that if someone nearby gets up, then you can beat some 3 other people to that seat...Now, as this pasrticular seat had no backrest, it opened up a bit of unexpected space. But you couldn't wedge yourself in there as it was still -technically- the seated passenger's place. So, people simply avoided it. To them it became a 'someone else's problem', and they happily gave it a wide berth. Lucky me, I got the seat...though subsequently I had to balance mysef by gripping on to the hand board as if I was windsurfing!!!

2. Another afternoon, I was returning from my friend's house near this place called Khan Market, when I caught a white line bus home. Its one of those which are always less crowded, due to the higher fares they charge. Anyway, another beautiful spring day, with the last echoes of a dull sun, and the trees gently swaying in the breeze. There were very few people on the bus, and by the looks of it, everyone was on their way home for a siesta, given the way almost everyone was nodding off. Then the driver- probably to stay awake- put on a tape of Kishore Kumar's greatest hits. It was one of those nice collections, with the cheesy stuff out. The effect on the passengers was like magic. Everybody started grinning, and the afternoon seemed to acquire a new glow. All the while that I was on the bus, some 5 songs were played, and everybody- including the driver, the conductor, and all new passengers- sang along, hummed along or just generally nodded their heads to the tunes and grinned from ear to ear. It was arguably one of my fondest experiences in the city.

3. What's a bus without some strange people. I can mention the religious ticket-checker or the sleeping conductor, but my favourite guy was this sadhu who hitched a ride one morning. He had no money, so he promised to entertain the driver in return for his passage. Which meant that he was only too happy sending himself up. Whether that involved hanging out of the bus window at every stop screaming "Cannoughttttt Placeeee, hahahaha! Chale ao chale ao!" or singing hindi film songs with modified lyrics praising the gods, or doing litlle tricks with his staff, which caused more consternation than entertainment. The charm wore off when he tried to crawl out the window of our bus and into another one....when the conuctor roundly abused him, he offered some hash as a peace offering. He was booted off nonetheless!!!

Amma

My grandmother passed away today after almost a decade of suffering. In fact most of my adult life I remember her either severely bed-ridden or hospitalized. Its probably good because it must have eased her suffering, but I can imagine how hard it will be on my father. They had never been on the best terms for as long as I can remember. I guess the last time when she was actively there in my life was before I turned 12. Those were the days in Purnia, in Bihar, before I started schooling in Cal. She never quite liked my mother and always, always gave her hell, and of course I hated her for it. She made it so difficult for my father- who loved her- she gave rise to such bitterness. I could never consider her a fair person, but then again, I know she liked me. Probably because I was a boy, cause she never really was very fond of my sister…
But I’d like to remember the nice things. I can still hear her calling me from the prayer room…to come and help her with the lamps, and the little cymbals, and the incense and everything. In return, I would get sweets. My favourite, I still remember was this crunchy sugar savoury called a batasha. But I had to wait patiently till it got over. She always told me about the gods, and read me little bits from the scriptures, especially all the heroic bits…like Krishna and Rama’s childhoods…every little boy’s favourite. Dunno what it was about that little prayer room, overlooking our large courtyard. It would fascinate me to see the little room get filled up by incense smoke quietly snaking up to the ceiling.
Sometimes she would get emotional and complain to me about something or the other. I could never stand people crying, but I was too small to understand anything, so all I could do was hug her and tell her it would be ok…thik acche…as we say in Bengali. I guess she never was truly happy since my grandfather passed away two years before I was born. She loved him, and I know she loved her little Bhullu (my father), when he was really little. Perhaps I reminded her of them, both of whom in their own ways had gone away never to return. She couldn’t speak these last few years. I wonder what she thought. I am unbearably sad, though I don’t know why. I hope she finds peace, wherever she is.
Tata amma, shob thik hoye jaabe,
Bublu.