Roma Koma

Kid A, a personal history

2009-12-09T13:30:00.007+05:30

After almost a decade of the album being released, I downloaded Kid A today.

It’s a big deal for me.

Back in 2000, I was 19 years old, a sophomore and a diehard Beatles nut. I was also nuts for all of Britpop, at least the most mainstream artists in it, like Oasis, Blur, Ocean Colour Scene, Kula Shaker, The Verve. You name it, I loved it.

I loved all those melodies, the classicist songwriting, the guitar solos, the “wow these are my rockstars” kind of stars-in-your-eyes devotion that these bands inspired. I loved the way they dressed, their haircuts, their guitars, all that cool gear man!

Yet, there was one band that I just felt no attraction for. Radiohead. Of course, I had heard and loved Creep and Karma Police and Just, even No Surprises. But Subterranean Homesick Alien? Thanks but no thanks. This was just too weird for me, and I couldn’t abide by electronics. And what was with all that moaning anyway? Why couldn’t I make out what Thom Yorke was trying to say?

So no Radiohead for me then. In fact, when my copy of Ok Computer got whacked, I couldn’t give a damn. After all, Travis was much nicer. The Invisible Band? I thought it was a classic.

In 2000, I heard all that brouhaha about this crazy new album that Radiohead have come out with, something called Kid A. I read about it in music magazines- “Thom Yorke has an emotional meltdown!”; “Radiohead says, ‘No More Melody!’”; “Colin Greenwood confides, ‘We could almost kill each other’”. This weird band had apparently gotten weirder. Apparantly this album had no guitars, no songs, just ambient moaning, and lots of electronic didgeridoo.

Kid A was a work of painful genius, they said; it captured the disjointed new Millennia; it was the sound of the new century! Thank you, I’d rather weep to Parachutes. Chris Martin had a better voice I thought. The very name, Radiohead, reminded me of all those strange noisy bands on Rock Street Journal with ‘head’ in their names- Portishead, Buckethead, Motorhead, Jarhead, god-knows-what-head. It was so, you know, musty and Nineties!

When I left University with my MA in 2004, all of 23 and nowhere to go but away, my musical tastes were the same- Bob Dylan, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Oasis, Kula Shaker; and bands that sounded like them. The only anomaly to this was probably my un-analysed love for The velvet Underground

And so I carried on through those lost years (in a way), as my career atrophied and went nowhere and my yearning for the mountains grew into an unrequited hurt. But musically, 2005 and 2006 were rich years. I was finally earning, though peanuts. I had a little cd player. I could finally go to a cd shop- in this case Music Land in New Delhi- and pick up old albums by The Band, Traffic, The Byrds, Motown. I could finally hear all these great bands and their albums from the 60s and the 70’s; build up a record collection that I could be proud of.

But it was a record collection that mirrored those of my peers. There was nothing I didn’t have that they didn’t. I was hanging out with a peer group at least 5 years older than me, and it did me a world of good too, as I started listening to more Jazz, Bluegrass, Folk. But there was nothing I could call my own, apart from The Beatles, and we all know just how many other billions regard The Beatles as their own! It was as if this decade, my decade, was passing me by and I knew nothing of its music, hadn’t even bothered to hear anything new. It would all be inferior to the 60’s anyway, I told myself. Why bother?

And then, 2007.

I was finally in a job that I was comfortable in; that gave me some breathing space; that didn’t ask for too much of my time. Better still, I had a regular income. And I was in a band again.

Being in a band that rehearses every other day and that wants to play its own songs does things to you that would never otherwise happen. You start thinking of music as something organic, something that grows. It ceases to be a commodity, no matter how highly prized. The band's guitar player Sujoy (The Prof) introduced me to Bop and Swing; to Django Reinhardt, Lenny Breau, Esbjorn Svensson, Brad Meldhau and so much more. Meanwhile my editor at the magazine, Sanjoy, exhorted me to write on music.

Easier said than done. I had discovered Indie, and so my first reaction was to write on Devendra Banhart or LCD Soundsystem or The Strokes, often in a haphazard way. Would staid suits (the predominant audience of my magazine) be even remotely interested? But it was a start, and I was grateful.

I got albums by the dozen. Including Radiohead’s In Rainbows. Swayed by the beautiful, haunting songs on that album, I went back to their earlier albums, especially Ok Computer. The songs started making sense. They ceased to be miserable moanings in the dark and became immensely complex bits of enjoyment. Then I discovered all those covers of the band's music by other bands, jazzmen. These forced me to listen to Radiohead-music with fresh ears.

Over the last couple of years I’ve discovered more bands and music than I can possibly keep up with. Much of it has been great. Since I was now writing on them, I had to pay better attention. Under Sanjiv, my erstwhile editor, I was forced to think about how to write, how to present my ideas, how to tie it up in a cohesive way. All the stuff, basically, that you never learn unless you’re doing it. Again, I’m extremely grateful.

My own songs started to reflect this broad palette. That, in turn got me thinking about song structures, melodic lines, key shifts, what have you. And as I grew in music, I started looking at my old loves in a new light. For the first time, I could enjoy The Beatles in an objective way, looking out for details, making notes about the songwriting and the arrangements. The internet was there, along with a plethora of books on music, for any questions I may have. Then there was the Prof, arguing with me on every turn. That helped.

I was even going to the mountains.

And so, after years of being in denial, I downloaded Kid A. From the horns-led mayhem of The National Anthem, to the panic disco of Idioteque, and the fragile beauty of Morning Bell- I'm dissolving in an ocean of sound.

Everything in its right place.

Songs of Winter

2009-11-20T15:56:00.010+05:30

When I came in to work today, the first day in over two weeks when I don’t have anything to worry about, I was determined to make it my day of music, albums back to back. On a whim I put on the Fleet Foxes' album from last year, then The Arctic Monkey’s Humbug, and finally Antony and the Johnsons’ The Crying Light. You couldn’t have three more dissimilar albums, or three more dissimilar bands for that matter. While the tripping melodies and harmonies of Fleet Foxes are by now as familiar to me as a favourite blanket, Humbug is dark and brooding, fascinating in the details, but claustrophobic in the main.

And what can I say about The Crying Light? Its one of the most haunting and intriguing albums I’ve ever heard, and not only because of Antony Hegarty’s voice or his sexuality. As I type, he is singing seductively, teasing me to kiss his name. Joy.

So let’s get straight to my Songs of Winter, shall we?

Julian Casablancas- Phrazes for the Young

I don’t know about you, but for me any new Strokes related release is a cause for celebration, especially when its such a weird pop album like this one. Keyboards, slow soul, Krautrock, drum machines, surf guitar, loud brass…boy does he pile it on thick on this album, sometimes all of these things in the same song! But the man’s way with melody and his uber-sexy voice totally does it for me, every time I hear it.

Antony and the Johnsons- The Crying Light

Although it came out way back in January (which is when I acquired it), I’m listening to it more often- probably because winter’s approaching. These are sophisticated torch songs, flowing with melancholia that inspires, rather than saps. The baroque strings, the playfull jazz times, the beautiful melodies, and above it all, Antony Hegarty’s tremulous, mournful/playful voice weaves a rich tapestry of shadow and light.

The Beatles- Remastered boxsets, Mono and Stereo

What can I say? I’m shameless. But the detail! Its like a window to a world wiped clean of dust after a long shower. My favourite album turns out to be Beatles for Sale. Curiouser and curiouser.

Pearl Jam- Backspacer

I’ve never been too great a fan of them. So when people told me their new album was pretty great, it didn’t make much of a difference to me. Having heard it- though only twice- I can say that individual songs ARE actually pretty good, especially where they give themselves some space to stretch out.

Arctic Monkeys- Humbug

I don’t know what to make of this album. Its maddeningly dense, and many of the riffs and tempos and melodies sound like each other. There are lovely little bits of detail though. A fabulous manual of how to write a modern Indie rock album.

Love- Forever Changes

Not particularly new in my affections. No modern band has been able to capture the melodies, the songwriting, the hope, despair, ennui and rage of this diamond of an album.

Paul McCartney- Chaos and Creation in the Backyard

I just can’t tire of this album. Its just so sure-footed in its pop nous that its stunning. Just listen to the way the arrangement builds up in Friends To Go, and you’ll see what I mean.

The Supersonics- Maby Baking

I truly think this is the best Indian rock album of the year, full of stupid lyrics, great melodies, interesting arrangements, and tons of rock songs that stick in your head. The boys from Calcutta have swallowed The Strokes and Britpop whole, and have come up with this superb debut. I love Blotter.

The Strokes- Is This It? and Room On Fire

When in doubt, put on The Strokes!

Well, these are what I’ve been hearing to, obsessively. Of course, I still haven’t stopped playing Bitte Orca, the best album this year by a long, long mile.

Note to myself- Have to hear the new Devendra Banhart album.

A Week in Films Part 1

2009-10-28T16:27:00.005+05:30

I've never had a lot of time for films. I like them, sure, but they're not my art form of preference. I mean, if there's a toss up between a movie, a new album or a book, the movie would come a distant third. Imagine my amazement then, when I suddenly realised that I've been seeing a lot of movies lately- and in movie halls, no less.

There's something immensely soul destroying about going to a multiplex, paying some insane amount of money for the ticket and then being assaulted by some trash that I definitely wouldn't want to pay 150 bucks for. Anyhoof, no point in cribbing.

And while PVR Saket might be the total opposite of a New Empire or a Lighthouse or a Globe Theatre, at least the seats are nice, so you can doze off if you're not interested in the drivel on screen.

As it turned out, the movie on my screen was Quentin Tarantino's latest, Inglourious Basterds. What can I say? If you're into gratuitous violence, people not acting but pulling faces, and plenty of campy humour, this film's for you. But as war movies go, this one's brilliant for not taking anything too seriously. And there IS something deliciously funny with watching Hitler and Goebbels getting their faces shot in, and beautiful women being strangled to death, which steps over the Hollywood line of never killing the beautiful woman so, well, inglouriously. The main villain, a self styled Nazi "Jew Hunter" called Col Hans Landa, is played with bristling menace and hypnotic suaveness by Christoph Waltz.

Pic: Christoph Waltz is brilliant as the creepy Hans Landa

In fact, his performance pretty much makes the movie. Brad Pitt, as the leader of the Nazi-hunting Basterds pulls a white-trash-American-supremacist-but-anti-Nazi face and sticks to it faithfully for the rest of the film. And anyway, he's there to look good in a smoking jacket- or anything else- and toss off one-liners.

Pic: Brad Pitt pulls faces and carves swastikas on the foreheads of the Nazis that he doesn't kill

The other great thing about the film is that QT unashamedly shows off his nerd-boy love of the cinema. The main plot turns on an old Parisian cinema and its Jewish-victim-with-a-terrible-grudge owner. Then there are references to a hundred different films, dialogues from other movies, situations, sets, what have you. The Nazis are a delightfully wooden and creepy bunch. This is just as well, as a nuanced Nazi is problematic, carrying with it the twin baggage of justification (just doing our job) and general German complicity with the Nazi regime. Then there's the chance that Germans would actually take offence to bits of dialogue which move seamlessly from the Nazi-hating to what might be construed as German-hating. After all, in some places in the film, the American characters boast about killing themselves some Germans. But I guess QT can get away with non-PC, and more power to him for it.

Diane Kruger, in a small but important role, plays up the camp as the actress/double agent Bridgette von Hammersmark beautifully, and the opening scene of Lans Handa in action is perfectly taut with tension and menace.

Pic: Diane Kruger's at her campy best

In the end, QT even has the balls to get Pitt to say the film might be his masterpiece. It definitely isn't, but if you can keep your quibbles aside, its great fun. And another thought: QT can write!

Pic: The QT

But not as much fun as having that noted charlatan, Arindam Chaudhury, sit in the row in front of you, watching the movie with his entourage. Wonder if Planman plans to do a desi version of it anytime soon?

You Poet

2009-10-22T13:30:00.003+05:30

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, who died devoid of poetry forty years ago. RIP Ti Jean

Chandrashila

2009-10-09T13:53:00.003+05:30

I sat beside a cairn atop Chandrashila watching clouds rise. Freezing in Sujaan's choti at Tunganath, a combination of sleep deprivation and oxygen depletion had effectively ruled out my much cherished ambition of making it to the peak before sunrise that day. Feeling a little better as the day wore on, I decided to make a try for it. After all, it was a beautiful sunny day.

At Tunganath, the weather changes every ten minutes. This a local saying, and absolutely true. I definitely didn't want to tempt the weather while the sun was still shining. So I told Biru to wait a bit for Sujoy and Debo- the friends I was travelling with- to wake up and struck off on my own. I had last climbed it in May this year. I was way fitter then, so I had very little hopes of making it up there without huffing and puffing my lungs out. As it turned out, the mountain paid me a huge compliment. Probably because I was a lot better used to breathing on this altitude, even with stops to make calls to people (high up the peak I was getting a signal from Gopeshwar on the other side of Chandrashila!) and admire the scenery, I still managed to get up there in half an hour. I was about to ring the bell at the tiny temple of the moon, when I happened to look beyond, and time literally stood still. Far away, yet strangely near, on the North Eastern horizon rose a gaggle of sharp peaks.

Pic: Nanda Devi and her sisters hold court on the far horizon

Two I could immediately recognise because of their distinctive shapes- the mighty Nanda Devi, and Hathi Parbat, the presiding peak of the Bhyundar Valley.

The temple was forgotten. Mindful of the fact that soon either my camera's going to freeze or that the batteries are going to give up, I quickly took as many snaps of this magnificent scene as I could. In the not-quite-noonday sun, the distant white peaks look like translucent chalk sketches against a blue 3D sky. Needless to say, it was unlike anything I'd ever seen before, except maybe in some dream.

The immediate patch of rocky ground behind the temple (the highest point on the peak) is covered with cairns. These vertical structures of various sizes are made from slabs of stoes from the peak and seem to be constantly made and re-made. In May I had asked Biru what these structures signify and he'd said that these were memorial stones. To my fevered imagination they look more like portals into some other world. Amongst them, a Japanese man was singing.

It was a surreal sight. This middle aged man had planted his walking stick upright, slung his thick ski jacket and hat over it, and was lying in its shade reading a book, and occasionally breaking out into song. He grinned at me and went back to reading and singing.

Pic: A Japanese sun-worshipper on Chandrashila

A few feet from him, at another part of the peak behind some other cairns, another of his compatriots was sitting still in a lotus position with his face towards Nanda Devi, deep in meditation. In all there were three of them. I was to bump into them over the next few days, either meditating on tatami mats on the peak, or wandering about wearing a lost look in Tunganath, where they were staying at a different choti.

Making sure that I wasn't disturbing them, I plonked myself down on a rock face overlooking a deep precipice. Down below, through the haze and rising wisps of clouds I could see the wooded valley that had so caught my fancy the last time I was here. In front of me, still visible clearly, rose the distant panorama.

It felt just so exhilarating to finally see Nanda Devi, unencumbered, in all her glory. The other time I'd seen her, it wasn't this sideways view. Rather I'd seen her head on, part veiled by the Mai ki Toli ridge, but with both her twin peaks visible. This was from the Binsar sanctuary in the Almora hills of Kumaon, from where its much closer. From the peak though, she looked serene, detached from the dramatic, wild beauty of her environs. Its easy to see why people revere her so.

But my view of her and the other distant giants depended purely on the whim of the clouds. By nine thirty, the day's heat had had its effect on the sub-tropical climate in the valleys which were giving rise to a succession of little pillow like clouds. While many dissolved in the cooler air above, many more started to form little gangs, which then became bigger gangs.

Pic: Cloud-eye view

Clouds change shape better than any con artist. Constantly forming, disintegrating, reforming, flowing into, out of, over and around ridges, they form an elaborately graceful ballet of carefully choreographed chaos. And so they roamed about me, avoiding this high peak, but erecting and dismantling teasing curtains between me and the distant peaks. So every now and then, all evidence of the far vistas would vanish, leaving me to wonder at what I'd seen. The first time Nanda Devi was cloaked, two Monal took wing, circling overhead while uttering mournful cries, as if in her memory. Then there were the giant Himalayan Gryphons, their backs glinting in the sun, gliding from one air current to another, circling the upper air. They seem totally at home, yet impervious to the beauty of the place.

Pic: Massive Himalayan Gryphon flying high

As the sun climbed higher, the ever present buzzing of large , laggardly flies increased. I'm absolutely not well informed on insects, but the sheer variety I saw on this lonely peak was breathtaking. And then there were ravens. Massive black birds, graver and more ominous than your average crow. They seemed to be constantly watching, flying from one impossible rock overhang to another, squawking, and making these strange half conversational sounds. They are mysterious birds, who indeed hold parliaments when there is a quorum. I can't think of a more appropriate word to describe a group of these birds.

When there was nothing to see, I simply closed my eyes. Immediately my ears pricked up. The wind blowing; a sensation of cool moisture on my cheeks; rustling, buzzing insects; an occasional avian cry. But above all, silence. Every now and then, a sound from a distant village, many thousands of feet below. Startling and funny, like rocks talking to each other.

After a spell, I opened my eyes, and the clouds had shifted. I could see Nanda Devi and her sisters holding court again in the bright sunshine. To my right, above the great green valley that leads to the Anusuya Devi temple in the jungle, huge plumes of clouds were forming. In front of me, due north, Neelkanth was suddenly revealed in all her glory. Further North East small tufts of clouds hung in the air between Chandrashila and the Kedar Massif, casting little shadows on the rich bugyals (high altitude meadows) below the range. At moments like these, I stared in vain at my notebook, struggling to find words evocative enough to describe this beauty. I smiled to myself, imagining the poet Coleridge on this peak, startled out of his opium haze into a fresh appreciation of the sublime. He was a staunch lover of mountains, sometimes recklessly so. One one occasion, he managed to get himself trapped in an impassable grotto in the Lake District. With dusk coming on, and risking exposure, he decided to shut his eyes, take a deep breath and will his way out of there. Opening them, he realised that there indeed was a way- through a difficult and dangerous rock scramble. Sure enough he did. A fascinating story. My guess is, he'd have loved this place.

Bang in front of me, between Chandrashila and Neelkanth, rose a bleak naked rocky ridge, which the local people refer to as kala paththar. An evocative enough name. Back in May, it was covered in snow and ice, but now there were just rocks, and the occasional huge gash signifying the path of a winter snow-field. But it says something about the enormity of the geography here that these same locals believe that there's nothing there. Wrong. Behind and beyond that ridge lies Nandi Kund, an enormous lake from which rises the Madhyamaheshwar Ganga, as well as the huge green hanging valley of Pandosera. That way lies a high track that crosses a couple of high passes under the toe of mighty Chaukhamba to gain access to the Bansi Narayan temple on a massive ridge further to the East overlooking the Alakananda Valley. According to Biru, many sheep-herders often go that way, as do other local people to collect Bramhakamals or the huge lotuses that the high Himalayas are famous for. Someday I'll get to see the place, I hope.

Pic: The forested river valley below Chandrashila, with a snow covered Kala Paththar in the background.

Chandrashila is the highest peak on a long, high and incredibly serrated ridge that runs south to north from the forested valley of Chopta to the highlands below Chaukhamba, running parallel to the Sari and Madhyamaheshwar ridges. Some of the other high ridge-points that I'd been climbing over the last few days with Biru now lay below me- awesome mountains in their own right, but somehow dwarfed by their magnificent setting. As I gazed, some ravens took wing, circling lazily in the morning haze.

Through all the shifting weather, the four white pillars of Chaukhamba rose imperiously, as if above human concerns, glinting severely yet reassuring in the sun. To think that just behind its massive ramparts lay the Gangotri glacier and all those fabled peaks.

Pic: Chaukhamba

Some of them I could see from there- Thalay Sagar and Shivling, beautiful spires both, are visible slightly behind the Kedar Massif. Then come the peaks of Meru, Mandani, the Bhagirathi group. Many peaks, of which I am not sure of the names. In those fabled lands had travelled both my heroes- Eric Shipton and Umaprasad Mukherjee. Both had also come here. In his journal on the 1934 Nanda Devi expedition and the subsequest crossing of the Kedar-Badri watershed under Chaukhamba, Shipton wrote about a zig-zag high altitude pass he took to get to Chamoli back on the way to Joshimath on the road to Badrinath. There it is below me, rushing down the eastern face of Chandrashila on its way down to the forests of Mandal to join the motorable road to Gopeshwar and Chamoli.

Pic: The old pilgrim trail

Mukherjee made special mention of this pass, extolling its natural beauty and bemoaning the unwillingness of pilgrims to take this harder but more enjoyable old route just because there was a tarmac road passing below through Chopta. He was writing in the early 60s. Now, it has fallen even more into disuse. While in the dry cold weather of May, I could easily make out the contours of the path, now in verdant October, just a memory of the path existed. Mukherjee was a deeply religious man, but even he acknowledged that the true reward of making the long and arduous climb to Chandrashila was this view of the high peaks. Amen.

This land is so old. It fills you with a deep awe that's beyond simple religiosity. As I sat in that private paradise of mine, I prayed that I'd never forget it.

Good Day Sunshine!

2009-10-08T15:22:00.007+05:30

Jumping out of bed at the cold, unearthly hour of 4:30 am I stepped out in the freezing night to have my breath taken away by the galactic arm of the Milky Way stretching over me. But I hadn't much time to lose, as I had to get to the peak of Chandrashila by 6 am or miss the fabled sunrise. So I ran in the lightening darkness, my lungs heaving with the effort in the rarefied air and my head spinning with the cold and the exertion. Behind me the Chaukhamba and Kedar peaks brightened in the fast-approaching dawn. Ahead of me, on the ridge-line the silhouettes of other sunrise-spotters intent on their goal, trudging up. One by one I overtook them, my head spinning. Below and behind, I could see a torchlight in the darkness- Debo and Biru coming up behind me.

A loud yell of exhilaration escaped my throat as I rounded the last hump and came up in front of the temple of the moon atop Chandrashila. The sky had cleared behind me, though Chaukhamba and the other giants had yet to catch fire. I made my way through the gaggle of people on the peak to the farthest point on the ridge. This is what I saw, over a half hour that lasted forever. Night below me and daybreak at 4,100 m. The sun came out slowly, like a grand comedian with impeccable timing, behind the beautiful spire of Nanda Devi.

The love of mountains

2009-09-19T15:28:00.005+05:30

Durga Pujo is around the corner. When I was a kid, the very thought used to make me go weak in the knees with happiness. Tired as I grew of it, Cal's pujo is still something to behold. In my opinion, it is the closest one comes to a carnival in this country, apart from the actual Goa carnival of course. Great memories, happy memories.

Right now, all I can think of is one thing- going to the mountains. If anything can be said to have usurped Durga Pujo's place in my affections, it has got to be the mountains. In fact, the joy I get from altitude far outstrips my childhood fondness of Pujo.

Why? Well lots of reasons really. But if I were to really put my finger on it, it would be this- the Himalayas- and other hills and mountains- are the only places which are truly spiritual to me. I mean, to walk for hours up or down mountains, through the humming quiet of the roads and forests and rocks and fields; to see geography crumpled up and refashioned on such a gigantic scale; to see the high peaks glistening unimpeachably in the sky, and to look down to see deep blue valleys emerging as if out of some primordial dream of belonging- that is the closest I come to any sort of religious epiphany. I mean, if the beauty of the land can bring tears to your eyes, isn't that something to cherish? Outside of the Bengal-Bihar countryside, where I grew up- no other place affets me as deeply.

Hence, not a month goes by without me feeling eternally grateful for my life- to be able to live and work in a place from where the mountains are just six hours away; and the high Himalayas a mere 14 hours.

My parents travelled ceaselessly, or so it seemed to me as a child. From our home in Purnea in North East Bihar, Siliguri via Kishanganj was only a six to eight hour drive away, so I'd been going to Darjeeling from the age of two. Puri was the other favourite, us being Bongs, so many a holiday was spent there as well.

But some of my favourite trips with my parents has been to the mountains. I remember the December jaunt to Manali- my first snowfall!!- in 1996 and the absolutely superlative Kedarnath-Badrinath trip of 1999. That's when I really started to see the mountains as something beyond the promise of cool climes and snow peaks. The sheer sensory experience of the Garhwal was something. I'll never forget the Kedarnath massif rising out of a cloudy dawn behind the temple of Kedarnath, or Nilkantha floating like a shark's tooth in the air above Badrinath. But it wasn't just the peaks. What I loved best was the journey to get there.

Kedarnath from Gaurikund was the first trek of my life and quite unforgettable. You start among the thick forsts of Gaurikund, and over the next 14 km, you rise up inexorably to finally emerge into the high valley above the treeline, springy turf under you and exhilirating vastness all around you.

While in college, me and some friends made our way to the Valley of Flowers in 2001. A magical land if I've ever seen one, this was high altitude all right, and I realised that the Himalayas are a most happy addiction.

Imagine my plight then, when for five long years various circumstances kept me apart from my love. Only in 2006 could I go again, this time to Mussoorie. I was aghast to find the same spoilt Delhi brats whining in a Cafe Coffee Day store on the Mall Road, but heck I could not argue with the bits of clouds playing hide and seek with me around the lush mountains of Tehri Garhwal.

Another long wait of two years. By 2008 I'd had enough of all this dicking about in the city, trying to earn a livelihood and all that. So I took off to McLeodganj to meet my friend KP who was staying there. Took another friend of mine, Debo, along.

Pic: Dharamshala and Kangra Valley shrouded in clouds, seen from McLeodganj

This was it, mountain madness had finally caught up with me and had claimed me for its own. In fact I can pinpoint the moment when it happened. The first was when I awoke at dawn on the bus to Dharamshala to find us in the middle of the Shivalik highlands of Himachal Pradesh, going past a beautiful river, on the way to Kangra. In the distance, through the clouds I could see the giant ramparts of the Dhauladhars sweeping up to the sky. At that moment, I knew exactly what I'd been missing all this time.

Pic: Triund, on the ramparts of the Dhauladhar Range.

The second moment came a few days later. Debo had returned to Delhi, and me and KP were making our way up to Triund on the shoulders of the Dhauladhars, on the way to Indrahar Pass.

Trekking up after so many years with a spoilt body full of smoke and repose was always going to be hard. The fact that I was shit stoned didn't help much either. In fact, considering the difficulty, I insisted on getting even more high, and KP was only too willing. Half way up Triund, at around 2 pm or so, wheezing and pulling my tired, screaming legs up the next boulder with my heart threatening to jump right out of my body, the clouds which had surrounded us for much of the trip burst and rain came pouring down. My predicament just got worse. Not only did this meant that the going got even tougher, as veritable rivers of mud were flowing down the quagmire of a track but my dope paranoia made me imagine that the mountain was for some reason trying to shrug me off its back. Still, we kept trudging, past immense boulders and even larger dead tree trunks in a shadow land of cloud, thunder and rain. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we came around a bend and-Triund! A high altitude meadow, with a gentle mist hanging over it and myriad little flowers blooming in the grass. That's when I was convinced that this was the life for me.

Fortunately, that trip pretty much opened the floodgates. Next I went to this place called Viratkhaai above Chakrata in Western Garhwal for an adventure sport camp. I lost a tooth falling off a bike and got ravaged by leeches, but the place was magical.

Pic: The Yamuna coming down from the mountains north west of Mussoorie.

The monsoon had just hit and the various valleys were wrapped up in a shroud of mystery, as our Press bus went up along crumbly roads over horrid precipices up to the camp, past beautiful waterfalls and entire river systems swollen into floodwaters thanks to the incessant rain.

Pic: Mountains of Tehri Garhwal at Dhanolti near Mussoorie.

Next I went to Mussoorie again, which was pleasant. Come October, and I was off to Bhuira, this charming hamlet in the Shimla hills of eastern Himachal.

Pic: A cairn atop a hill in the Shimla hills near Bhuira

While there, us friends trekked up this local hill top. Crisp in the fall sunshine, I tugged at my beard and spaced staring off into the middle distance.

Early this year, in March, while it was still cold enough to discourage tourists, me and a friend of mine, Priyo went off to Binsar, a forest sanctuary above Almora in the Kumaon hills. Having missed a bus, and then having travelled for a full 12 hours through North UP (hell on wheels), when we woke up to a stunning Himalayan panorama (pic below) it was all worth it.

Pic: Nanda Devi and other giants at dawn, seen from Binsar.

Each and every moment of my time there was sublime- whether it was staying in a century-old forest guest house in the middle of an oak and rhododendron forest with some immense cedars for company, or the sight of the majestic Kumaoni peaks- Trishul, Nanda Devi, Nanda Ghunti, Panchachuli among them- or a fabulous trek of some 20 km through the beutiful valleys and ridge-tops of the Almora hills to the ancient temple town of Jageshwar from there.

Another trip to McLeodganj followed in April. This time there were quite a few of us, and the pace was less frantic. Indeed, for once, I was happy not to try and cover too much ground and just relax instead (I still forced them up to Triund though!).

Then in May, on my birthday along came the big trip to Tunganath and Chandrashila, again in the Kedarnath mountains of Garhwal.

Pic: The high Himalayas of north Garhwal, Tunganath.

I'd never been this close to the Greater Himalayas before, and although because of unseasonal bad weather I couldn't do the extensive trekking that I'd planned, climbing up to the top of Chandrashila at over 4000m was heady enough.

Over the next month, making my way through work and bad news I felt so horrible in Delhi, that I made another quick jaunt to McLeodganj. I have friends there now- especially a group of young locals who run home stays for European and American backpackers in the villages of upper Bhagsu and Dharamkot, above McLeodganj.

That was in June. Haven't been back to the mountains since. All I've been able to do to keep my mountain-starved mind from going insane is to read countless fabulous books on the mountains, my favourite ones among these being my hero Eric Shipton's collected travelogues and Journals, and the travel writings of my other mountain hero Umaprasad Mukherjee- some of whose peerless Bengali essays, I've tried to translate.

So, why all this talk about mountains at the end of September? Well, it ties in with what I said at the beginning of the blog. Durga Pujo is around the corner again, and this time, I hope to be back in Tunganath, staying in Sujaan Singh's lovely choti- with probably one of the best alpine views in the world- and meeting the irrepresible Biru.

Pic: The view outside Sujaan Singh's unassuming choti at Tunganath.

I intend to hijack him and make him take me to Madhmaheshwar and Deoria Tal, two absolutely fantastic places in the deep valleys and high ridges of the Kedarnath mountains along one of the greatest watershed areas on earth.

I've got my fingers crossed.

Lucy's Wedding Day

2009-09-16T16:08:00.004+05:30

To celebrate the new Beatles releases, I'm re-publishing one of my older posts

Pepperland, full-sun day

As I look up from my rocking-horse pie and wander about, I see Johnnie Boy on the crest of Velvet Hand 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. What a clean old man, I think. 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 has promised- "A Splendid Time Is Guaranteed For All".

Hari-baba 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. Its Johnnie Boy, that's who, weilding a slumping wedding rod shouting through the freshly minted mint leaves.

But where be Great Nose, 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, the one with the frog chorus.

"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 summersaults 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, amidst giggles.

A tinkling music slooshes through the hills surrounding Velvet Hand. Mr Henderson and his Fiery Frederick touches 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 tangerine fly trying to find a suitable spot on his hooter.

"Oh, count your lucky Starrs," hoomed Henderson, "cause Richie has put his little tiff with Paulie behind him 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, "them 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.

And 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!!!

Tunganath Part 1

2009-08-19T21:20:00.010+05:30

A very favourite travel writer of mine is the late Umaprasad Mukherjee. An avid traveller, he probably popularised the Garhwals to a good three generations of Bengalis. Its criminal that his beautiful travel pieces are available just in Bengali, his native language. So I've decided to (unofficially) translate some pieces by him and publish them here. Its impossible to do justice to the man's way with language, his deep humanism and spiritual attachment to the Himalayas. Hope you like it. It was written sometime in the early Sixties.

Umaprasad Mukherjee- Himalaya Chronicles.

Tunganath Temple

Tunganath

On the way to Kedarnath, soon after leaving the town of Guptakashi, you can often see, in the distance, a massive blue mountain. Sometimes, towards the end of winter, its peak is covered with a light dusting of snow. Sometimes there’s snow even after the rains. The mountain then looks like a frail old man swathed in a white blanket to shut out the cold. At other times, it is hidden by clouds and mist. Then the mists part and it appears again- a monarch among mountains.

This is the third of the five kedars- Tunganath.

At some 12,072 feet, Tunganath is the highest temple in the entire Kedar-Badri circuit, making the name a highly appropriate one. The peak itself looms like a massive hooded cobra another thousand feet above the temple- it is called Chandrashila.

Chandrashila Peak

At approximately 13,000 feet this is higher than both Kedarnath (11,750 feet) and Badrinath (10,244 feet). Not many pilgrims who come to these parts have heard of Madmaheshwar, Rudranath and Kalpeshwar. However, many do know of Tunganath. In fact, it used to be quite popular once upon a time.

On the way to Kedarnath lies Guptakashi. Just outside Guptakashi is the village of Nala. This is where a side-track leaves the main road, and branches down to the Mandakini river valley below. You cross the river on a pretty iron bridge, and then climb up to Ukhimath.

That was many years ago. Now, a motorable highway has swallowed the track whole, like a big snake swallows a smaller one. This highway bypasses Nala, effectively shutting off the old approach to Ukhimath. Nowadays, you head off to Ukhimath directly from Guptkashi.

Before the road came, pilgrims descending from Kedarnath would take the Nala route to Ukhimath. From there they would go further up to Tunganath, cross the mountain and head off towards Gopeshwar. From there, some more hiking would bring them to Chamoli on the Alaknanda river valley. This is where they would find the road to Badrinath. Back then there was no need to come all the way down to the confluence of the Alaknanda and Mandakini rivers at Rudraprayag to get on the road to Badrinath. The Ukhimath-Tunganath-Chamoli route was a much shorter one. And that way, pilgrims would get to pay their respects at the temples of Ukhimath and Tunganath.

But this is the era of buses. So most pilgrims nowadays descend to Guptkashi from Kedarnath and get on a bus, which takes them all the way to Badrinath. You get off the bus, pay your respects at Badri, and get back on the bus. Travellers sigh with relief at being spared a long hike up and down mountains.

It is less tiring for sure. After all, the ascent to Tunganath is nothing to sneer at!

However, I feel that to come to the Himalayas and then to trade in this 3 day trek for the convenience of a bus is to deprive yourself of an unique experience. After all, the view of the Greater Himalayan peaks that you get from Tunganath is unmatched.

The track down from Tunganath affords other pleasures.

Pilgrim Road to Tunganath

It passes through a thick forest, another thing you don’t find often on the bus route. There’s nothing to fear here, as there are hardly any wild animals, and a clear track ensures that you don’t lose your way. It winds down gently under the cool shade of the trees past many waterfalls of various sizes. This ancient forest has its own charms.

And yet, nobody comes to Tunganath anymore. Even the famed pilgrim town of Ukhimath wears a deserted look.

Recently though, a motorable road has made its way to this area. This one comes down from across the village of Kunda, and makes its way under Ukhimath and Tunganath and meets the road to Badrinath at Chamoli. Perhaps in a few years buses will ply this route too. But will that be enough to lure the convenience hungry traveller from the comforts of the bus to make the difficult trek up Chandrashila to see the Himalaya in all its glory?

to be continued...

Tunganath Part 5

2009-09-08T13:56:00.014+05:30

Chopta is about a mile from Baniyakund. Along the way are a few tea shops and flophouses. The trail to Tunganath starts at Chopta. The main road carries on to the right and below from Chopta to Bhulkona, a mile away. From there, the road descends to Pangarbasa. The way lies through a deep forest, undulating like a giant snake through the dense canopy. The forest ends at the village of Mandal. From there the road carries on via Gopeshwar to meet the Badrinath road at Chamoli. However, those who venture up to Tunganath need not retrace their steps to Chopta. A pilgrim trail runs down over a pass below the Chandrashila summit, connecting Tunganath to Bhulkona below. It’s a steep, zig zag route down which you hurtle as if someone were pushing you off the mountain. From Tunganath, Chamoli is some18 miles.

The Pilgrim trail from Tunganath (courtesy Rudraneil)

The trail to Tunganath winds up relentlessly. It’s an ascent of some three thousand feet, though the actual distance you cover is only about 3 miles. However, it is a beautiful route, and time passes by like a lazy river without you realizing it as you marvel at the scenery. Through the trees you see far away a gallery of snow peaks- the Kedarnath-Badrinath ranges. It seems as if the green leaves frame this portrait of loveliness. I feel like I’m walking down the corridor of a massive gallery of sublime paintings by the Great Artist mounted against an azure wall. After a while the tree-line ends, and lush meadows carpeted with a riot of flowers make their appearance. Occasionally you pass little streams of snowmelt. Above, the wide dome of the sky. In the distance, the long, massive wall of the Greater Himalayas. It reminds me of that passage- “White swans unfurl their wings and sit- their eyes raised up- floating in the blue ocean of the sky.”

Panorama from the trail to Tunganath

We cross a waterfall just before we reach the temple- the Akash-Ganga. A few houses, a couple of tea shops and a dharamshala. Foregrounded by the distant snow-giants lies the beautiful temple of Tunganath, looking like a giant Shiv lingam.

The lingam worshipped here is of natural origin- a swayambhu lingam. It looks like the rear end of the mythical buffalo form that Shiva took to escape underground. The deities of the other four Kedars are also worshipped here.

The tiny hamlet of Tunganath, with the temple in the background

Tunganath is a still, peaceful place. It is over 12,000 feet in height- the weather is biting cold. Hardly any yatri stays the night here. They pay their respects to the deity and go down to Bhulkona or Pangarbasa, sometimes even all the way to Mandalchoti.

Further above the temple lies the peak of Chandrashila.

Chandrashila Peak

You follow a thin track up to the top. At places, even this excuse of a track vanishes. The peak is about a mile or so from the temple, and a good thousand feet higher. The track passes through little patches of grass, jumbles of boulders and the occasional thin stream. Small flowers dot the grass like a patchwork of colour. You can also find deep crimson rhododendron flowers- the nectar from these flowers taste divine.

Cairns atop Chandrashila

On the peak, there’s a short clearing dotted with cairns. Some of the stones are so placed that they remind me of the ruins of an old village or a castle. On the way to Tibet or in the higher reaches of the Himalayas, I have come across colourful cloth and paper flags. Similar flags fly here. At over 13,000 feet, Chandrashila is the highest mountain in the area. The uninterrupted 360 degree view you get from here is breathtaking.

Chaukhamba as seen from Chandrashila

In the distance, you can see an unbroken wall of snow peaks- Bandarpooch, Gangotri, Kedarnath, Chaukhamba. On the other side, Nanda Ghunti, Trishul, Dunagiri, Nanda Devi. They look unreal, like figures etched in a white chalk over a blue slate.

From here you look down into valleys so deep that it feels like you’re peering into the underworld. You can make out the faint white ribbon of a gushing mountain river; deep forests cloak the sides of some mountains; other slopes are barren- covered in hard, rough granite. Many thousands of feet below, you can see little villages and farms that look like miniature carpets. The dolls’ houses make me feel like I’ve stumbled into the playpen of the Nature. Somewhere there in those villages a dog barks. To me it seems the mountains themselves are speaking.

Heavily forested river valley below Chandrashila

The same pilgrim paths from where I could see the massive peak of Tunganath are lost to view from here. The enormity of the mountains of the Himalayas swallows up the trail to Kedarnath.

I sit still and look at this majestic scene, and my mind dances out of time. How can I describe the perfect silence of that height? A deep, pervasive sense of peace fills me.

Chandrashila is the best reward of the hard trail to Tunganath.

Concluded.

Consumer Guilt

2009-09-05T17:41:00.011+05:30

And so, the new Beatles albums are coming.

You know, those fabulous new Stereo mixes and the old Mono transfers of the original albums on spanking new CDs. As we all know, nobody buys CDs nowadays; nor do I, except the odd old Sonic Youth CD I might find in a bargain bin in some shop, but I know I HAVE to buy these babies.

For the last few years- at least since 2006 when Love came out- I haven’t been buying Beatles albums anymore. When I heard Love, instead of gawking at the mash-ups of Beatlemusic, I just marveled at the sound. It was eye-poppingly rich, full, and juicy, like none of their music I’d ever heard outside the odd Dr. Ebbetts mixes.

That’s when I heard reports that the entire Beatles catalogue will be out soon in spanking new sound. It would really be like hearing a brand new band.

So no new Beatles CD buys in three years. That’s fine. But now, here it comes- the stealth attack on 09.09.09...

...hiding behind the deranged The Beatles: Rockband (which is a trip, but vastly less essential) game; the real deal!

Ok, so, come Wednesday, this is what things’ll look like.

Each single Stereo album- $18.98.

Each Stereo double album- White Album, for example, $24.95.

Which means that even at a conservative estimate, the Indian versions will be about Rs 800 and Rs 1200 repectively. The Stereo Box- Set is $259.98, easily Rs 10,000; and the Mono mix Box-Set (of the albums as they originally appeared in the 60’s on LP) is $298.98, about Rs 12,000. So, I’ll end up spending some 22,000 grand soon if I’m not careful.

Seized by instant anxiety so unbearable that I started tugging at the ends of my moustache, I immediately called my friend Neo the collector. He’s no ordinary mortal, he. He has a massive library of music, much of them in various formats, mixes, and fidelity. He’s the one I got my Dr. Ebbetts stuff from. He’d been grumbling about the forthcoming releases a few days ago. So I thought he’d be the ideal person to soothe my anxiety.

He picks up the phone, grave. No doubt he’s working, today being the production day of the magazine he works at. He says that if I pre-order the individual Stereo CDs on places like Amazon, then I might get them for as low as $12. Evidently he’s done that already, but I could hear the resignation in his voice when he started talking of the Mono albums. Apparently, those box sets are being made in Japan and only a limited number of them will be available initially, and even if the Mono Box-Set made its way here as a part of the multi-pronged release they’d be shit expensive anyway. And the Mono albums (which are only available in the box format, have already sold out online. As have the Stereo boxes.

His unhappiness was so deep, I forgot my own anxiety in a jiffy. I tried telling him that Beatle-music is such a surefire seller, even in these digital-download, slumping CD-sales times they’d be available in all their formats in every big music market. After all, the Capitol Box-Sets of the bands’ American edition albums are available here...

as is the Rs 3,000 Help DVD box extravaganza (an obscene, packaging tour de force)

as well as the Hip-O Select Motown singles collections.

Nothing sells like nostalgia, especially when the music’s also great.

Hearing this lessened Neo’s pain somewhat. He quickly hung up to go work. We were both somewhat soothed, and I’d come to grips with my impending financial doom.

And now I sit here fantasising. I can’t afford to myself, but should I ask my folks to gift me at least the Stereo White Album for Pujo?

Sigh. Careful what you love. It will swindle you.

So Far

2008-04-22T14:50:00.001+05:30

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!!

Hellborg Lane and The Vinayakrams- PARIS

2008-08-26T17:06:00.001+05:30

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.

There Will Be Blood

2008-08-30T15:57:00.005+05:30

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.

Tunganath Part 4

2009-09-02T14:38:00.015+05:30

I leave Ukhamath and carry on. From here a gentle road winds up the mountain. In front of me rises the tall peak of Chandrashila. To my right, far below me, lies the valley of the Akash Ganga. It flows down from Tunganath to the Mandakini stretched out far behind me like a ribbon.

The Mandakini valley

They seem to me like two daughters of Paradise, fast friends, re-uniting on Earth. Up the mountain on the other side of the Mandakini I see stray houses of a village- Mukhimath or Mukumath. The Pandas (priests) of Tunganath live there and worship the deity in the winter months.

Five miles down the road, on a turn of the mountain, lies Ganeshchoti. You come down to the riverbed and cross a bridge here. On the other bank begins the climb to Chopta, following the road to Tunganth. A beautiful forest starts a little way above. The still, peaceful path climbs up relentlessly under the shadow of gigantic trees.

The road up to Chopta (courtesy Rudraneil)

Two miles above Ganeshchoti lies Goliyab-garh. Three miles further lies Poukhibasa. A mile and half from there lies Dogalbitta. My destination, Baniyakund, is a mile from Dogalbitta. The chotis are evenly spaced by the mile but even then, the uphill trudge seems endless, like days of hardship refusing to end. But far from feeling despondent, I feel coccooned by the cool shadows of the deep forest.

At a point on the shoulder of the giant of Chandrashila, the road makes a massive turn. Going around it, we suddenly arrive at Baniyakund. The climb to Chopta ends here, much to the relief of the exhausted traveler. In front I see a wide bugiyal (meadow) in one corner of the mountain- green grass with roots in small, flowing streams. A peaceful place of great beauty. It makes me want to stay here for a few days.

A view of Chandrashila from Baniyakund

Baniyakund must be about eight to nine thousand feet above sea level. Its quite cold here. There’s a dharamshala maintained by Kalikamliwala, so boarding is not a problem. Let me tell you about an interesting little thing that once happened here.

I was staying by myself in a room on the second floor. Not too many other yatris. I heard a voice from a nearby room, a man chastising someone hard in Bengali. Occasionally I heard a woman’s muted voice in reply. The man's harsh words cast a pall on the perfect peace of the Himalayan scene.

I got to meet the man soon after. He was storming down the stairs when he saw me and approached. “You’re Bengali, aren’t you?” he asked. “Have you seen how these coolies behave? You look like a Bramhin, let me pay my respects.”

I stopped him. When I got him to tell me what had enraged him so, it turned out to be nothing substantial. Apparently his porter got late getting his luggage up to Baniyakund due to the steep climb. The discomfiture this caused to the gentleman was the reason for his anger. While telling me his story, he grew ashamed of his behaviour. He said, “I know, it must be pretty hard for him. I had resolved that I wouldn’t lose my temper, but I can’t help it. Human nature is so weak.”

He was a thin, dark man wearing a traditional black-edged dhoti. Must’ve been about 60 years old. His eyes and cheeks sunken, he was swathed from head to toe to keep out the cold. His teeth were dark red from betel juice.

He was from Calcutta, and looked it too. Financially secure, he was now out on pilgrimage. He confessed without guile, “I have lived the good life, and never paused to think about effects of my actions. But these past few years have been very hard on me, and now that I’m aware, I’m trying to reform myself. Every pilgrimage I make, I give up a vice. One day, I’ll be able to give up all of them.”

I smiled and remarked that he still hasn’t given up the betel leaf.

“That’s true,” he laughed, “but I’ll give it up in the end. Its my earliest vice you see. I go to sleep with a paan (betel leaf) in my mouth.” Then he became grave. “You see, I have grown tired of life. I mean, God has made me aware that its ephemeral. My wife died a few years ago. I lost my only son a few months back. Since then I’ve been a pilgrim. The Bramhin girl accompanying me- she’s not my relative. She’s been in my household since she was a child- a child widow. Her mother used to work in our house. Since she passed away, the girl takes care of our hearth god- Govinda. Takes care of me as well.Now she’s out on pilgrimage with me, as is Govinda. You tell me, how could I leave her behind, alone?”

He became silent for a while, thinking about something. Then he said, “I was telling you about giving up things. Well, I am leaving my material life behind, but I’m also getting entangled in my affection for the girl. How do you transcend the grief of losing your child?”

I looked at him and wondered. You can never guess a man’s inner demons, his struggle for self-transcendence from his demeanour.

So I told him a story. Not of a pilgrimage, or of the Himalayas, but of something that occurred at my house in Calcutta. A kirtan (devotional songs of Krishna) had been organized- a famous Vaishnav percussionist was to play the Srikhol (a double ended percussion instrument played at such soirees). The programme was about to start, but there was no sign of the man. Time was going by. People started wondering if he'd forgotten all about it. Someone from the audience started singing, and the programme began. A few hours later, the Vaishnav gentleman arrived. A small man, he joined his hands, and with an air of supplication made his way to the stage through the crowd. He touched the khol to his forehead and picked it up. The singing of kirtans resumed, and the man started playing the Srikhol. In an instant, the performance reached a different level. The Srikhol started singing in a sweet voice redolent with faith. The player looked overcome with emotion, immersing himself in the rhythm. As one, everyone stared at him, their faces and hearts transformed with joy at the divine music.

A traditional image of a kirtan (courtesy ISKCON)

To see him was to imagine the Srikhol come to life and in the intricate rhythms and melodies singing the praises of Radha and Krishna. The player, his instrument and song fused into one organism. The stunned audience joined him in an otherworldly place of great beauty. No one seemed to notice the passage of time. The night deepened, and the audience came out of its trance as the kirtan ended. People mobbed the khol player, telling him how deeply his music touched them. Everyone agreed that they’d never forget this performance as long as they lived. Then one man remarked how we had all waited for him to come play…

The Vaishnav raised his eyes at the remark. A wry smile passed over his blissful face. “Oh, yes, I know I was very late. My youngest son suddenly died today- I had to cremate him. I came here as soon as I could.” Nobody said another word. Neither did he. The hall fell silent again.

to be concluded...

Tunganath Part 3

2009-08-28T13:54:00.008+05:30

There’s a certain charm in passing the night at a temple town. Outside, the great silence of the Himalayas. The night has still not passed. Suddenly, a sound of drums. The priest is opening the doors of the temple. At dawn, the deity is woken up with a morning arati. From deep inside the blanket I hear the sweet sound of the temple bells. Its not quite like an earthquake, but it seems like the mountain booms with the deep sound of those bells, and my heart is filled with a sudden joy. I listen intently. A sense of contentment comes over me.

The puja ends. Silence returns.

Lying there, I suddenly remember Ben Jonson’s words- “Bells are profane, a tune may be religious.” But is that really true? I wonder. In those bells I hear the voice of divinity.

Again, bells ring outside, this time from the street. A flock of sheep and goats make their way down the road, carrying loads on their back. Little bells tied to their necks ring out as they move. In the still night, this is another beautiful Himalayan tune- the merry melody of the open road, like sudden birdsong in a still forest. Just as a single stringed instrument will play different tunes, or as different ragas compete for the mind with diverse emotions, the suggestive sounds of bells evoke different feelings.

I lay there and reminisce.

Childhood. Calcutta. The three-storied building of the Bhawanipur police station just opposite my house. On its terrace a large wooden shamiyana. A massive bell hangs there. Through the day, a red-turbaned policeman would be posted there, to ring it on the hour. I remember waking up suddenly in the middle of the night. My room is vaguely lit by the streetlamps outside. Everyone in the house is fast asleep. Suddenly the bell rings twice. Its 2 a.m.! The two gongs light up in the darkness like the twin eyes of a tiger. I turn to one side and try to sleep. In the day, the sound of the bell is subsumed by the roar of the city. In the morning, I hear the bells of a passing horse-drawn carriage. I can always pinpoint those distinct chimes despite the surfeit of sounds surrounding me. It’s the sound of my father returning from a round of the maidan at dawn. The carriage turns off the main road. The sound of bells cease. Now I hear my father’s footsteps. In a little while he will enter his massive book-lined study and work through the day. I sit in my little study with a small book. The blinding light of his intellect lights up the tiny toy lamp of my mind.

Pic: Old Calcutta

The ringing bell at school. The bell that signals the beginning of a class sounds so different from the one signalling its end. If it’s a class that I’ve enjoyed, I feel a sense of loss. The bell at the end of a class that doesn’t interest me brings relief. As I lie in my blanket, the sound of the school bell slowly fades from memory. I remember a class of my college professor. Animatedly reading Shakespeare. I listen to him with rapt attention. My imagination flies to the Bard’s world. The characters and events bloom vividly in my mind. The bell rings, but nobody seems to hear it. Another professor waits outside for the next class. Our reverie breaks. The chime of the bell fades away.

I remember various different bells at the Railway station or at the port. The bells ring and travellers hurry busily. People run to and fro, worried about missing their train. The chaos of the station bell enters language as a metaphor.

The sweetest bells are heard along the track-filled expanse of the Himalayas. A silent path. A still forest. Suddenly I hear bells, like a swelling invisible music. Far away I see a flock of approaching sheep. I stand to one side. Hundreds of furry bodies pass- some tripping on my feet- a massive flock crowding a narrow mountain path, trailing the sound of hundreds of tinkling bells.

I remember another set of bells on my way to Kailash-Mansarovar. A postman goes on his way, a sack of mails on his back. He holds a long stick, crowned with a bunch of tiny bells. He walks with long strides, and the bells keep up a steady rhythm. I stare at his burden of letters. He runs on from one village to the next. His sack reminds me of home, and I miss it so very much.

The chimes of the morning arati at Ukhimath remind me of bells at the banks of the Ganges in Haridwar or Benaras.

Pic: Evening arati at Benaras (courtesy Shonedeep)

Evening shadows lie on the great river. All around me, near and far swells the sound of a million bells. Thousands of temples all ring their bells together. The river is suddenly filled with hundreds of floating flowers. Little earthen lamps glitter amidst the blooms as they float gently on the river. It seems to me as if the night comes to honour the river bearing thousands of lamps to a symphony of bells.

to be continued...

Tunganath Part 2

2009-08-24T15:13:00.007+05:30

Ukhimath Temple (courtesy Trek Earth- www.trekearth.com)

Ukhimath is to Kedarnath what Joshimath is to Badri. Both these towns, founded by the Hindu seer Shankaracharya, serve the same purpose. When Kedar and Badri hibernate under the winter snows, the deities are worshipped at Ukhimath and Joshimath respectively.

Ukhimath is the local name for Ushamath. Legend has it that Usha, the daughter of King Bana- a political adversary of Krishna- fell in love with Krishna’s son, Aniruddha. This led to war between the king and Krishna, apparently near the town of Shonitpur in this region which was the capital city of King Bana. Local people can still point out the remnants of a fortress attributed to the legendary monarch.

The temple at Ukhimath looks like a fortress itself. You enter through a massive gate into an open court lined on all sides by houses. The temple lies at the centre- the classic layout of an ancient temple town. The deity is a silver-moulded idol of Shiva. Other gods and goddesses too are worshipped here. The ceremonial seat of Kedarnath resides here and

Ukhimath is where the head priests of Kedarnath- the Rawals- live and work. I used to know a previous Rawal here extremely well, and had spent many days at Ukhimath on my various trips to this region. In fact, he was the one who took me to Madhmaheshwar for the first time.

Another time I trekked to Deoria-tal from here. This beautiful lake lies atop a mountain North-East of Ukhimath, a leisurely day’s walk away. To get there, you proceed a little way along the road to Tunganath, and then leave it to climb the mountain on your left. You need a guide to navigate up this thin track through some dense forests. The priest had got one of his own men to accompany me. It is difficult to gauge the distance. Some say it is a mere 5 km from Ukhimath, others contend that its 10 km. It is a steady climb through the forest, with occasional stretches of level ground. Its very peaceful here. After a while, suddenly you hear the animated chatter of countless birds, and soon after you walk around a bend and the forest ends. In front lies the massive lake, at a height of 8,000 feet. I’m told the lake is about a kilometre in length and half a km across. In the distance you see the peaks of the Chaukhamba, Kedarnath and Badrinath (Neelkanth). The reflection of the peaks sways gently on the surface of the lake, as if the king of the mountains is admiring his own image.

Deoria Tal (courtesy Trek Earth- www.trekearth.com)

A hermit used to live by the banks of this lake in his little hut. A Bengali, he used to meditate here in peace, living on water-chestnuts. I never got to meet him as he had passed away a few years before I went there. I saw his deserted hut in ruins. There’s a lovely description of this man in the book Letter from the Himalayas by Ghantakarna.

I spent so many peaceful nights at Ukhimath. But once, I remember being woken up in the middle of the night by a strong quake. Everything was shaking. I could hear a distant ominous rumble, as if the mountain itself was moving. In the dark room I could feel my bed shaking. The wooden furniture started vibrating, the window was shaking. The tin roof over my head was rattling and I could hear the nasty, grinding sound of large rocks rolling down the slope somewhere close.

This was my first brush with an earthquake in the Himalayas. I remember I refused to move to safety. In the plains, during an earthquake you leave the building to gain the relative security of open ground. There’s no such security in the mountains where the ground itself might shift from under your feet. Then there’s the fear of avalanches. I lay there and gave myself over to fate.

There were other, smaller tremors during the night. Periodically I would hear the rattling tin roof mixed with that strange rumble from the bowels of the mountain.

The next morning everyone was talking about it. Fortunately, the town’s buildings had escaped with minor losses.

Over the next few days, the mild tremors persisted.

to be continued...

Song-Craft

2009-08-16T13:50:00.005+05:30

I was talking to the professor the other day- you know who, the swing-influenced guitar player in our erstwhile band Rented House- about the merits of song-craft while listening to Paul McCartney’s Chaos and Creation in the Backyard. It was a lovely rainy afternoon, and I’d just played the entirety of George Harrison’s excellent posthumous album Brainwashed. The Prof was of the opinion that though he likes the songs on both these albums, he reckons that the playing on the latter was better. Also that the standard major key-minor key formulas that McCartney employs so well in his pop songwriting were a bit same-y. Harrison’s songcraft, meanwhile, is that much more painstaking, with interesting shifts and solos.

My contention was that though admittedly Harrison’s songs and playing was beautiful, his album suffered because of Jeff Lynne’s very 80’s production, polishing the songs till they gleamed. McCartney’s album, is a much quieter affair, downbeat in tone and music, and expertly “put together”, was a more consistent one. From this talk turned to the music that the Beatles made, and the Prof opined that though their music is undeniable, their musical chops never matched up to their ambitious musical ideas. I think they didn’t feel the need to, given the fact that they had three great singers and that their songs were put together for the radio, where solos come a distant second to getting consistent melodic hooks across that wedge into your skull and refuse to let go. Their wry lyrical maturity helped too of course, which is the reason that they their oeuvre probably contains 70 great songs, as opposed to, say, the Stones’ 30. The Prof would give either band lot less classics, and I understand that.

To me, however, the Stones were a great groove band, and when they connected, they were irresistible. The Beatles’ music is a more complex affair- carefully constructed little potboilers which cherry-picked a wide gamut of musical ideas- from Motown (Drive My Car) to Country (I’ve Just Seen a Face) to Tin Pan Alley (And I Love Her) to Swing (Honey Pie)- without ever really mastering any one form. Instead their takes on these and other genres bordered on the pastiche favoured by Music Hall performers- showmen who could play anything for laughs. That is what makes them such pop geniuses I think, though admittedly if they had chosen any one of these forms to develop in their music, they’d be a different band, with good musical chops and solos. Harrison probably came closest to this, adopting the slide guitar, educating his ears to Eastern musical modes and thereby increasing his musical range. Whenever he emerged from his self-imposed exile to record music, as he did with Brainwashed, he sounded beautiful, fragile and not as irritatingly self assured as many of McCartney’s lesser works.

The Stones pioneered boogie-heavy blues rock, and as they grew more and more fascinated with Americana, they stretched out in other directions- Country (Sweet Virginia), Gospel (Gimme Shelter)- but essentially remained a Chuck Berry-influenced riff-based rock band, and after four great albums, they were bound to run out of steam and ideas.

Happiness

2009-07-29T12:08:00.010+05:30

Some music fans- if not most music fans- have no real, personal reference to the artist who’s music they admire. Yes, some fans of rock music might care very much about John Lennon’s thoughts on fashion in 1968, or Henry Rollins’s method of buying bus tickets in 1985, but that is relatively rare, even among huge fans. They’d much rather emotionally grapple with I’m so Tired or In My Head.

Most people react to a song itself, to its real or imagined meaning to them as individuals with their own very real lives. The music on the charts, i.e. the music that people are actually purchasing every single week, is never a reflection of this visceral reaction to song. If so, they reflect only in part. Much of chart-bound music is music to dance to, or weep to, or make love to. But only some of these songs actually outlive their shelf life and become something meaningful.

I hardly know Esbjorn Svensson, and not just because he was never on any chart. Yet, while on the train to Calcutta last year, after watching an Esbjorn Svensson Trio concert, I felt really sad that he was no longer alive. This wasn’t an entirely sentimental feeling; it was in large part because I like the music that he made, and as he was only in his early forties and at his creative peak at the time of his freakish passing, I felt great regret.

In a sense, I was mourning the drying up of a kind of song emanating from a particular musical source using a distinct musical language that I deeply love. That music imparted to its source- a man called Esbjorn Svensson- a particular glamour; an allure that in turn attracted me to him as a person. And there’s also the fact that the musical persona of Svensson also included the music that he in turn had soaked up. Some of these influences I connect with personally and some I’ve never heard. But its still the music that his band made, that I was missing.

There’s this song on the Dark Was the Night indie charity compilation called Happiness, an eight and a half ambient piece by an Iceland-based duo called Jonsi & Alex. More about them later. I don’t usually go for ambient music, like say Brian Eno’s, and when the song started playing, I instinctively skipped it. But I cannot let any song go without hearing at least a little part of it, so I started playing the song somewhere randomly in the middle. What I heard drew me in and captivated me- introspective, meditative strings playing a long held line that glided between two emotionally high notes, via deep troughs in between. The melody that was thus created was a widescreen, soft-focus window into a world of terrible beauty.

Seeing Valley- While I was listening to the song, in front of me on my computer screen was a picture I had recently taken during a stay in Tunganath high up in the Kedarnath hills. The picture was of a deeply forested valley, many thousands of feet below me, between the spurs of two gigantic ranges. A pretty captivating image it was, and rendered all the more eerie by the light. The sun streaming through billowing clouds above me created a lightly hazy, shimmering, and constantly changing screen of fractured light. On film, I had captured a brief moment, and the rest of the forbidding loveliness of the scene lay in what it didn’t make apparent. .

Hearing Happiness was like tuning into a bed of shifting, beeping reverb drones from which arose yet another stretched out electronic drone that kind of switches on like a tube light, in starts. Under this new drone, the earlier one continued, and then other electronic elements joined in, winking in and out. It was like trying to listen in on a gigantic radio antenna somewhere, while an electric music of the spheres suffusing every sense. I felt like I was swimming in a sea of electricity, only the particles were made up of notes. From within this swirl of sound came the stately strings, gradually swelling in volume and detail like the realization of a beautiful and vital memory lost. For a while- which seemed like an eternity of bliss tinged with longing that I was floating in- the strings played that one figure, over and over again, like the regular breathing of a gigantic organism. Through this I could hear the underlying drone, almost entirely overpowered by this grand emotion. Then the strings started falling, gently, like a floating feather coming to rest. It dissolved into a bittersweet coda of a three-note piano figure infused with a shifting sheet of white noise. Then this too dissolved, slowly, a true dying fall.

Hearing this music, and transfixed by the scene in front of me, I felt a welling up of intense longing. I wanted to cry. I felt like Adam must’ve felt after the Fall. It is cruel to have seen Paradise. You know happiness, and when you’ve lost it, you know that you will never know that feeling ever again. Yet I try. I listen to Happiness almost everyday.

Its part of an album of ambient work called Riceboy Sleeps by the duo Jonsi and Alex, which came out this year. Jonsi, is of the Icelandic band band Sigur Ros. Alex Sommers, his boyfriend, is an American musician and artist. Following their limited edition picture book in 2006, this is their first foray into music.

This got me randomly wondering.

I thought of the many gay people I know, and then of something that I’ve seen in their eyes. To me it always seemed that they’ve known great love, a swooning, swept-off-the-feet love. But I also saw the eventual tempering of that grand feeling, in the face of intolerance and bigotry. I don’t know if that spurred the duo to compose this music, but then again, does it really matter? Mine is a subjective point of view, just like any fans. You’ll hear other things, and see differently. But maybe, like me, you’ll love the song.

Songs of Summer

2009-06-29T13:05:00.019+05:30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Various- Dark Was the Night. The charity LP I was talking about. A veritable Indie who's who. However, you'd be forgiven for thinking that the Indie crowd only does acoustic-y head music and leave the body to Hip Hop. However, of the 31 songs here, there are quite easily at least 25 very good songs. Favourites-

Dirty projectors and David Byrne- Knotty Pine

Feist and Ben Gibbard- Train Song

The National- So Far Around the Bend

Grizzly Bear and Feist- Service Bell

Beirut- Mimizan

My Morning Jacket- El Caporal

Sharon Jones and The Dap Kings- Inspiration Information

The New Pornographers- Hey, Snow White

Cat Power- Amazing Grace

Riceboy Sleeps- Happiness

....and finally....

TV on the Radio- Dear Science,

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

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

Down valley

2009-05-08T14:34:00.000+05:30

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

Landour

2008-09-20T17:05:00.004+05:30

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.

Vampire Weekend

2008-11-21T18:55:00.004+05:30

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.

You Poet

2008-11-21T22:08:00.002+05:30