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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 20^th century Classical composers as the Polish composer Krzysztof Penderecki and Frenchman Oliver Messiaen. This is a work of a profoundly gifted musician.

Hellborg Lane and The Vinayakrams- PARIS

Although largely unnoticed by the mainstream media, last Sunday bass genius Jonas Hellborg and Carnatic percussionist V Selvaganesh performed an intimate and brilliant set at Tabula Rasa at Delhi’s Square One mall. While the venue was quite a disaster and the audience largely intent on socializing than listening to the duo, the musicians themselves didn’t disappoint. Laying down impossibly funky grooves and improvising freely on a semi-acoustic bass and the kanjira, the performance went a long way to show just how much can be accomplished by widening the melodic scope of what was essentially the rhythm section. Coming at the end of a month long six-city tour, by the time Selvaganesh and Hellborg performed here they were firing on all cylinders and were clearly reveling in each other’s musical company. This isn’t of any real surprise if you consider the fact that the two have been playing together as a part of various ensembles for more than a decade now.

But before I get to the meat of the performance in another post, I want to talk about a concert DVD that I watched Sunday afternoon as a sort of preparatory exercise before seeing the two musicians. The DVD in question is Paris, documenting the first show of a tour that Hellborg undertook in 2001 with the late guitarist Shawn Lane, Selvaganesh, ghatak player Umashankar and Carnatic Classical vocalist Umamahesh. Being primarily a rock kid with an affection for three minute pop songs I approach fusion music with a degree of cynicism and suspicion, but sitting through the concert- in which the shortest song clocks in at nine and a half minutes, and the longest at a little over twenty minutes- was a mesmerizing experience. Both Hellborg and Lane are highly respected fusion musicians in their respective instruments, but they definitely deserve greater renown. Especially Hellborg. Going by what he played, I’m inclined to believe all the talk of Hellborg being the biggest jaw-dropping player of the four-stringed instrument. Moonlighting at various stages of their career as heavy metal stylists, both Lane and Hellborg do not shy away from rhythmic ferocity, but never at the cost of sheer musicality and taste. Indeed, Lane has the chops and the speed to put most virtuosos to shame, and he does so effortlessly, grimacing with concentration and occasionally smiling like a happy bear. Through it all, he chain smokes. Using effects to double track his guitar lines, a strange sound emerges. Not only does it seem that there are two guitars playing, sometimes it seems as if the guitar is dueling with a Carnatic violin. Hellborg, the leader of the group, revels in his role of being the funky backbone to the music, and the times that he breaks out in little bursts of whirlwind legato playing its fascinating to watch. For those who think of the bass as a cumbersome instrument, look at Hellborg’s playing for effortless dexterity. Again, his contribution to the sound is totally musical.

Which brings us to the three Indian musicians, who are, actually brothers. Selvaganesh and his Kanjira (a smaller version of the dafli) are the best known of the three, and the range of sounds that he generates with his complex polyrythms is breathtaking. Not only does it occasionally thunder like a rock drum, it includes passages of such delicacy, that you have to hear it to believe it. A much more subdued sonic presence is that of his brother Umamahesh. The sound of the ghatak, though is unmistakable, and the brothers, in tandem with Hellborg, create a intricate and powerful rhythm section. As opposed to purist Indian classical music, Hellborg’s bass gives the sound a heavy bottom, which thankfully, sounds completely integrated with the music. The percussionists delight in their scatty conversation in Leal Souvenir. Over all this glides Lane’s fantastic guitar. Exquisite music, if a tad overlong.

So Far

Its summer and my annual lament for the hills begins. Now that I haven’t blogged for a good few months this seems like a good way to break the silence. But first a brief summary of where things are. Well, some six months after their engagement Rudder and Mandakini got married amidst much fanfare and razzmatazz in true Delhi style with the Who’s Who jostling with the So Whats while everybody partied. After three frenzied days of Delhi parties (the sangeet-where people predictably went apeshit; the wedding- which was solemn and beautiful; and the reception- which was a dope-fuelled surreal fest); the action shifted to Calcutta. Now most of the dramatis personae were drifting towards the home base anyway, and the wedding juggernaut only provided extra impetus. And so I returned to Cal after an entire year! It was fab, catching a train full of the knowledge that nothing could touch me for the next two weeks. And it was a mind-blast all right. Two weeks of doing absolutely nothing but hanging out, mostly in dear old JU with PG 2 kids who were first year kids when I'd left in 2004. Oh well, I had decided that nostalgia would be kept at a minimum, and JU would be enjoyed on its own terms, in the present. So we got together on the lawns (yes there is a lawn now in front of JUDE), mostly kids, Rimi, Debo and assorted junta (which included Sujoy, Rudder, Mandakini), soaked in the early spring sunshine, got wasted and talked a mile. The Arts Department fest (Sannskriti) was going on just as we’d landed, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. There was the general air of festivities to add to the buzz, and the buzz was great. Man, it would be impossible to even try and narrate all that was done, and seen and experienced. Some things stand out.
First there was the impromptu Rented House performance. Yes folks, we still live! So what happened was this. We were hanging about on the lawn, passing smokes and bad jokes, as infants (relatively) came and gaped at Rudder and me and made their own assumptions about how cool we were or not. We acted the only way we could- with a detached, wry, slightly up-turned lip kinda smiling winking reminiscing free-form sorta way. I think we went down fine. When there’re myths to maintain we usually rise to the challenge. And Rimi is the Spin-meister. It’s a talent all right, the ability to package cool, and Rimi is a past master in that. Anyway, so we were sitting around when someone suggested that we should play. Sujoy- in his goofy groovy-baby avatar, which he dons when he is happy, readily agreed, as did Rudder. I was a bit skeptical, but what the hell, more myth-making! So we agreed to go around town collecting guitars from the various (countless) people we knew, so that we could get the gig done in the evening. And after many split hairs and travels around the city, which included a trip to the Supersonics’ lair, we ended up in the AV room in JUDE playing for a gaggle of kids, who loved it. And there was dear Andy Lal, the current HOD, who dropped in and had a good enough time. All fears of no-show (mostly held by Rimi and Tintin) were proved unfounded and we turned in a solid set….well, I did forget some lyrics.
Then there was the Cal reception, where me and Sujoy went in dhotis that a kindly old neighbour of his helped us wear. A much less grand affair than the Delhi one, this one was mad enough, what with the drinks and the blue smoke and the general debauchery…and so that passed. A word on the bride- Mandakini looked insanely pretty throughout, and spent a good part of that week drunk. Absolutely gorgeous. Though, I’ve decided, that was one wedding enough for this year. I’m going to no more. They give me the heebie jeebies!
The other really nice thing was meeting Dana. Whenever I do meet her, I realise just how much I miss her. Is it her charming grin, or her no-nonsense gung-ho, or her fabulous driving skills? Dunno. But its just no fun without her around. We saw this new movie on the Sixties- Across The Universe. Didn’t like it one bit. Especially after reading a book as fabulous and clearheaded (on the Sixties) as Revolution In The Head, all these crap nostalgia fests cut absolutely no ice. You want the Sixties? Come hear my 1965 playlist baby! Days of careful scholarship, and nights of assiduous downloading has ensured that I’ve got a fairly stunning lineup, from the Kinks to Cutis Mayfield, and all points in between straddling pop, rock, soul, r n b.
Before I left I saw a Tin Can play, the quite stunning (visually at least) Video.
But no Sue, and no Wee Kiddo! How could a Cal visit be fulfilling without them?! I yearned for them through those two weeks.

Anyway, Cal was done, and a bumpy, scary plane ride back and I was in Delhi, being met by Bunny-me-love who whisked me off to 4S for a beer. Welcome back! Then there was the Eastwind Music Festival. It was no Glastonbury, but it was great fun an essential boost for the Rock scene. Most of the bands were either crap or both crap AND full of themselves, but some stood out. Thermal and A Quarter were great, doing a fantastic job of spinning their funk-rock grooves….had me jumping in the aisles.

And then back to work…lots of work.

Its been two months since then, and much has happened, so very much. Daya came down for a visit, as did Shonali, met Sathe intermittently, got drunk and slept little (still do); missed meeting Avishek and KP countless times…etc etc. That and so much else… Four things need to be mentioned:
1. I love David Lynch. Sujoy turned me on to him. I remember watching Blue Velvet while in JU. It had made a strong impression on me, but it didn’t really mean much either. Then I saw the Twin Peaks seasons, as well as Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, Mulholland Drive and Lost Highway. I love his stuff, and it’ll take an entire post to say exactly what and why. Saw all the main Oscar movies too, starting with Michael Clayton, and moving onto There Will Be Blood (what a soundtrack!), Sweeny Todd and No Country For Old Men on DVD. I think I need to see Blood and Old Men again. Stuff I need to sort out. They didn’t exactly come across as great movies! I’ve been going on a movie bender. Apart from the movies I saw for reviewing in the magazine, there’s also been chestnuts like Clerks, The Leningrad Cowboys Do America and my all-time favourite, Picnic At Hanging Rock. Saw Juno with Smriti. She was a lot of fun...Juno somehow wasn't.
2. Jyoti. I knew her long ago, when I first came to Delhi, and was working as an intern at Miditech, the production house. Didn’t really speak much then, but it was cool. Then I quit, and she disappeared…till last year, when she collared me on Orkut and asked me how I was. We’ve been chatting since then, mostly online…and its like I’ve known her forever. Well, she came down to Delhi for a whirlwind visit. In my usual brilliant way I kept promising I would meet her, and invariably get waylaid by either work or women, pissing her off no end. But we met finally, she came to my office. Then to my place and dinner at Flaming Wok (with horrible coolers!) after which I dropped her to her friend’s house in Saket. Through it all we talked and we talked, and then we talked some more. Sometimes, with the right people, you just have so much to say. Met her again for a brief drink the next day. Finally the day before she left for Benaras, I went and visited her at DU. She studied there, and like me, loves the feeling of being in a campus. I’ve never really been to that part of town, so Jyoti took it upon herself to show me around….the beautiful tree-lined avenues of DU (where bigotry, in the form of a massive no-smoking zone has reared its ugly head), the alleys of Kamla Nagar, cycle rickshaws ferrying the young and the academic…finally we settled down in a lovely old courtyard in the Arts Fac (as she called it) and talked again. Then we went looking for tea. It was lovely, she was wonderful.
3. The Tibetan protest. The goddamn Olympic Torch passed through Delhi last week amidst crazy security, much chaos and general grumblings. I left early for work as I would have to pass through the very heart darkness (at least on that day) called India Gate. My auto was waved through, but for some reason I was left fuming seeing the security measures. My fair country seemed to have internalized all of China’s paranoia. This is the Indian state, I couldn’t help thinking….providing the powerful might of state machinery to a country that is a human rights violator (but then again I shouldn’t be surprised, as our good friend the US is one as well) which covets our territories openly. Dunno why, but it was a dull kind of pain and anger that wouldn’t go away. A sense of betrayal. Came to office, and bumped into Toto online. Her “kids” from Lawyer’s Collective would be going for the parallel Torch run organised by the Tibetans from Rajghat to Jantar Mantar, she said. Won’t I go? She asked. I had work, I said a little lamely, and yet before she replied, I was sure that I would do something, not just forget about it. So I headed out to Jantar Mantar, as the run itself would have already started. When I got there and saw the large crowd of Tibetans with their slogans, those beautiful flags and the hoardings, and the monks chanting, it moved me deeply. I lit some lamps to commemorate the protestors in Lhasa, and stood quietly to one side to watch. People have asked me how the gathering was. All I can say, that there was a general feeling of joyousness to the proceedings. It was a grand day for protests, with a deep blue sky and bright bright sunshine. The people looked solemn, but at peace. Some groups of kids were laughing and joshing around, others rushing about busily organising stuff. Loads of journalists, including freelance photographers from publications as diverse as Paris Flash and The New York Times. There were our own tv news channels and all the shallow poseurs that come with them. Thankfully, they weren’t hogging the limelight as they're wont to. The protest run came in three waves, as I sat with a group of elderly Tibetan women- momo sellers from Majnu Ka Tila (or Little Tibet)- and joked about journalists and Aamir Khan. Madness ensued once the speeches started. Mostly it was empty rhetoric. I just wished and hoped that the Tibetans got their say. Look at it this way- this is about them, not about self-promoting NGOs and politicians, and definitely not about Bollywood stars. I left once that geezer George Fernandes started railing against the Congress (!!) for some reason! It was heady feeling. “Summer’s here and the time is right for fighting in the streets boy!”
4. Swimming. Ah, swimming! Its begun again.

And now, the hills. I just have to have to have to go!!

The Velvet Underground

Honey don’t you know
Nobody fucks you like The Velvet Underground
Roughshod riding Neon lights
Waves in a flurry, hands everywhere
In the room where its always night
Nobody fucks you like The Velvet Underground

Honey haven’t you heard
Nobody fucks you like The Velvet Underground
Dance dance dance little sister like its alright
While the plastic explodes love
Riding the red lights to the highway
In the cold cold night
Nobody fucks you like The Velvet Underground

Here comes the ocean
Glittering diamonds in the moonlight
Your hollow hair drives me crazy
Come here, give me your souvenir
Didn’t you know that you gotta try
Gotta try and do the Watusi
Do the Watusi
Honey don’t you know
Nobody fucks you like The Velvet Underground

Tra la la

And so, here it comes- the New Year, clogging mail boxes with dimwits wishing other dimwits who have no idea who it is they’re mailing. Oh well, forgive the misanthropy, ‘APPY NEW YEAR! For the record…just so I don’t forget, I had a brilliantly sober New Year, with just one whiskey consumed (!). And I followed it up with a grand picnic and an equally peaceful evening with a couple of friends. This pretty much signified the way 2007 went, mostly. There were hardly any bangs for a change, and for a change the year went smoothly, apart from a few panic attacks, some more grey hairs and lots of people coming over to stay. May this continue! My only hope is that I manage to go to the hills. Man oh man I miss the mountains…
So here we are, and here’s another year. Cheers!