The Beatles, their fans, and music lists

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

I seriously can't think of any musical entity which has had as much words written on it as The Beatles. Its so obvious that I don't even know why I'm writing this. Maybe 'cause I'm such a nut for their music. Then again, unless you're trying to sell a book or do something suitably self-promoting on the back of your obsession, being crazy about the music is an honest enough reason to write. The link above will take you to a stupendous land of music nerd-dome. Some guy called JBev has gone and ranked some 185 published Beatles songs in terms of his preference. It is the countdown to end all countdowns.

Essentially every music fan has a love-hate relationship with music lists. The most irritating of which are probably Rolling Stone's. Ever since that magazine stopped being relevant sometime around the emergence of Punk in the late Seventies, much of its USP has shifted to making lists, lists, and more lists. And they NEVER take any risks with those lists. The top five is almost always the same- The Beatles, The Stones, Dylan, Springsteen; sometimes The Ramones, Radiohead or The Sex Pistols to show they're cool and more often Coldplay and U2 just so that the magazine doesn't scare away musical conservatives. Other magazines like Mojo, Q or Uncut don't do much better.

Websites like Pitchfork do lists too, and though they are commited to their demographic- Indie- as rabidly as Rolling Stone is to Baby Boomer icons, at least their lists are more fun. Check out their insanely addictive 200 Greatest Songs of the Sixties.

All this makes JBev's Beatles countdown all the more fun- because its a fan doing what a fan does well- being fanatic. Of course, the point of the list isn't about agreeing with the rankings (any of those 185 songs could be your favourite one on any given day) but joining another music fan in celebrating that elusive joy of really loving somebody's music. And JBev is an affectionate chronicler who's life has been informed by the Fabs. So in between lengthy discourses about the merit of each song, he inserts heartfelt details about how his father gifted him his first Beatles album when he was nine- this was Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band. Like a true fan he listened to the eight-track tape until he nearly wore it out, blissing out with his earphones while A Day in the Life floated around in his head. His father passed away the year after. Though the two incidents are not necessarily related, it did have a huge impact on him.

Again, he talks of his girlfriend who doesn't like The Beatles and never did. J Bev talks of the lengths he went to to get her to like the Fabs, and how he made his peace with the fact that she never will. At least they dance to In My Life. That is what a fan's life is, and of all the lists I've ever read, this one actually means something.

Another Train

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

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

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

Darkest Knight

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Whisky Tasting Session

Connoisseur’s Phrasebook

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

The first five single malts (Sober)

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next five (Drunk)…

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Poet

You Poet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah woe.

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

Vampire Weekend

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

Vampire Weekend- Vampire Weekend

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

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

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

Landour

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

There Will Be Blood

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

Johnny Greenwood- There will be Blood

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

Hellborg Lane and The Vinayakrams- PARIS

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

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

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

So Far

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

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

And then back to work…lots of work.

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

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

The Velvet Underground

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

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

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

Tra la la

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

Revolver 41, Part 1

In this article we take a look at The Beatles' Revolver, which turned 40 last year. I started this last year, but then it got too long, and I got too tired, so I shelved it. I'm finishing it now finally, and bringing it out in four part. This one deals with the album's genesis, and talks about Paul McCartney's songs. Revolver...Now that's a name to conjure with. Before Sgt Pepper's, with this 1966 album, the Beatles had already made a bid for immortality. Even if they didn't put out another musical note after that, Revolver, coupled with Rubber Soul, would have preserved their myth. Probably the first batch of pop songs to deserve the epithet 'album', Revolver carried on the exploration of sonic frontiers that had started with Rubber Soul. By '66, the Beatles were happier recording in a studio than performing live. Following a torrid year of stadium shows, death threats, hectic politics and the ever-present wall of screams every time they went on stage had dimmed whatever desire they had of playing live. As George Harrison said countless times in latter interviews, there seemed to be a riot happenning in every city that they toured- be it the US, Japan or the Phillipines. Later that year John Lennon's "bigger than Jesus" quote was to lay bare the fine line between mass adulation and hatred. The record burnings in the predminantly white southern Christian evangelical states in the US channelled all the racial tensions on that one quote. It was a dangerous time to be playing in the States, with Civil Rights workers being killed every day and racial bigotry reaching new levels. The Beatles' outspoken critiques of racial segregation at their concerts on one hand and the Vietnam War on the other only added to the fragile situation. They played that entire tour in fear of a sniper in the massed audiences.The Klu Klux Klan threatened to stop their concerts using whatever means possible. This, after facing protests in Japan and the wrath of Imelda Marcos's dictatorial regime in the Phillipines, they were relieved when the last date of the US tour at Candlestick Park in San Francisco rolled around. As they revealed in Anthology, they even took pictures, knowing that this was it. Their personal lives were changing as well. The individuals were emerging from the 'four headed monster' that they were in the public conciousness. John Lennon spent more and more time in his Weybridge Mansion, tripping on acid and devouring everything from Allen Ginsberg to the I Ching and the Tibetan Book Of The Dead to Oscar Wilde. Paul McCartney was immersing himself in the London avant garde music scene, playing with tape loops and listening to John Cage and The Beach Boys. George Harrison married, and in between his honeymoon and being a Beatle, became more and more obsessed with Indian music and spirituality. Ringo Starr rested on his laurels, being a family man and raising his son. All of them were, of course, young stars about town, going from clubs like the Speakeasy to the Bag'O'Nails and partying with the who's who of London princes like Mick Jagger, Brian Jones, Eric Burdon, Keith Moon and Eric Clapton. Back in the Abbey Road studios before the final round of tours, under the watchful eyes of producer George Martin, they tried to distil everything happening around them into a coherent artistic docuent. The Beach Boys had recently released Pet Sounds. McCartney, for one, was keen to top that. Revolver showcases the full flowering of Macca's songwriting talents at the time. The cello-violin vibe of 'Eleanor Rigby' was a first. It did not sound like a rock song, more like Baroque meeting Pinter. The lyrics plumbed emotional depths unheard of within the contemporary two-minute pop format. 'I Want To Hold Your Hand' seemed like a generation away. Here was a song about a homeless woman and an ennui-ridden priest: "All the lonely people Where do they all belong?" His other songs were gems too. Even Lennon acknowledged the fact that his songwriting partner was writing the better songs. Formal experimentation is probably the best way to describe McCartney's songwriting at the time. There's the wistful paen to his girlfriend Jane Asher 'Here There and Everywhere'. A simple song with a very retro 1920's kind of arrangeent, it highlights McCartney's formidable melodic gifts. Its touching without being trite, one of the best love ongs he ever wrote. Then there's 'Good Day Sunshine' the quintessential Sixties sunshine pop song, with McCartney singing over swinging, swelling piano chords, "I need to laugh, when the sun is out I've got something I can laugh about" Macca revels in the tune and swamps the sound with reverb to ive it a decidedly bloated, foggy haze. As Ian McDonald talks of in his "Revolution in the Head", 'Good Day Sunshine' was probably the first of a number of songs in pop that year celebrating the summer of 1966, which had been a bright hot sunny one. (Hear The Kinks' 'Sunny Afternoonh'; The Stones' 'Paint It Black'; The Lovin' Spoonful's 'Daydream' among others.) Meanwhile McCartney had still not given in to Lennon and Harrison's enthusiasm for for LSD and his drug of choice was still marijuana. His homage to grass- 'Got To Get You Into My Life' is another highlight on the album. He sings joyously and raucously about his new-found love, " Ooh, when suddenly I see you Ooh I was meant to be near you Say we'll be together everyday Got to get you into my life" Macca always approached drugs expecting profundity. When he smoked his first joint-rolled by Bob Dylan- he decided that he had found the answer to life, the universe and everything- "there are seven levels", he wrote on a scrap of paper. This song is a homage to a love that has lasted him these 40 years. It was also his homage to his other great love- Motown. Like the other three, McCartney was smitten by Americn R&B acts like Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, The Marvelletes, Marth and the Vandellas, Marvin Gaye etc. The loud bouncy bass emulating the sound Motown sessions man James Jamerson was getting out of his instrument, the horns and the high soul vocals are pure Motown. Even Ringo's little backbeat was as crip as 'Dancing In The Street'. And then there's 'For No One', probably one of his most affecting compositions. A poignant love song about absence and loss, McCartney uses his limited knowledge of the piano and turns out a confident descending C progression (being a bass player primarily, McCartney's melodic idea seems plausible) and a beautiful solo by London Philaharmonic trumpetist Alan Civil.

Rented House, Live at the Market

What is it about guitars and the middle class? Rented House played their second gig on Saturday, 13 October. It was marred by neighbours with problems with our "morality", cops who tried to bust us, and sound levels which yo-yoed all over the place. I've been agonising these past two weeks about how to get the music on my blog. Now thanks to our friend Emmanuel who hosted the show on his server all the way out in Kent State University, here's the music. That's the best I can do right now.
The stories will follow in the next post.
Enjoy.

http://www.personal.kent.edu/~edechena/rehearsal.htm

The set list:
Caravan (Soundcheck)
Mystery Train
Lovin' Cup
It don't mean a thing (If it aint got that swing)
China Cat Sunflower/ I Know You Rider
Sweet Sue
Moondance
Minor Swing
John Henry
Holiday
Folsom Prison Blues/ That's All Right (Mama)
Bird Song/ Dear Prudence
Memphis Tennessee...and then there were cops
Manha De Carnival
Sweet Virginia
Route 66....
....And the cops came again...and we had to end.

Reds, Whites and Sicilians

When the chef says “Capiche” and then points his finger at you cheerfully and says “bang bang”, you somehow guess that he is either from New York or is an Italian. Quite marvelously, not only did the chef turn out to be an Italian and a Sicilian to boot, but from Corleone! Happy Enzo (even the name was perfect) is THE mafia cook you’d want to cast in your favourite mafia movie technicolour daydream fantasy masterpiece ever. Not only does he animatedly move his hands as if he’s trying unsuccessfully to conjure up a butterfly, but he also has this deadly habit of shifting from a cheery, goofy grin to dead seriousness, short of pulling a gun from his apron.
This happy man was one of my hosts at the launch of a Sicilian wine brand, Calatrasi, yesterday. The other man was another Sicilian- the Don Vito to Enzo’s Luca Brasi- the urbane, “ciccatore” pronouncing owner of Calatrasi. I resisted the urge to whisper “Carabinieri” at him, out of a nagging suspicion that he might make a dash for it…Come to think of it, there’s a CBI-Interpol conference happening in the city. Wonder what the spooks are up to?
Anyways, back to the launch. The Indian businessmen at the do- partners in Calatrasi’s Indian odyssey- were suitably bland, as if they thought the assembled journos expected them to be bland. Which is probably true, as the journos
a) didn’t know about wines- some didn’t even drink
b) didn’t give a damn and
c) had an Englishman in their ranks- which was funny cause his paper had sent him to cover this shindig as he was a foreigner.
So they all disappointed the good Dr. Antonio (as Vito called himself) by showing no interest whatsoever in Corleone, or in the Sicilian palate. So he had this strange conversation with himself:
“You’ve all seen ze Godfather, si?”
Silence. Some people nodding their heads knowingly.
“Ah so, don’t be afraid of the mafia.”
Drunken titters. Anxious Indian partners looking at their watches, or at the women.
“They are gone, poof, vanished, mamma mia!”
Since he threw up his hands in a conjuring gesture- and with a mic in his hands, looked like a slim Phil Collins – when he said this, one of the more inebriated lady journos winked at him and grinned invitingly. Which probably threw him a bit for he said,
“Indian women are like Sicilian women, si, very jealous.”
And then,
“In Sicily, we respect the mafia.”
Silence again, so he hastily added,
“But no more!”
“They are not heros, they betray us!”
I thought his passion was going to make him cry at the betrayal. I half expected the gates of the restaurant to be locked and machine gunners let loose in retribution. But all that happened was a happy Sardar asking him, if the Dr. had been paid hush money to say this.
The audience giggled, the Englishman gulped down his second white wine and reached for a red. I hastened to emulate him. Never forget your priorities.
Later on, post lunch and the general industry-media bonhomie, I was trying to set up a photo shoot of the wines along with suitable food. Enter Enzo, and his translator Debashish. Debashish is the top chef of the restaurant- Tapas bar at the Vasant Continental- and joshingly kept saying “Godfather bam bam!” to the bemused Enzo, who sometimes looked like he was going to attack Debashish with a bit of pasta. Inbetween all that, Debashish found the time to confirm that I was a Bengali, and proceeded to be helpful. Times like these, I wonder who needs the Sicilians, certainly not the Bongs! We’ve several secret codes of our own! Anyways, it all got done between me and Enzo having fine incomprehensible conversations with each other- at one point he dangled his hand like a sword over his head and then stuffed a nostril with some parsely- and drank copious quantities of Terre di Ginestra (a fine full-bodied red, so I was told, and also the most expensive of the three). Enzo was happy with my choice, and grew redder with wine with every passing minute…good show, in all, right down to a bottle of white “with compliments from…”
P.S. The Englishman had long retired hurt and had rushed back to his office for a piss.
P.P.S. Vito was suavely chatting up some girl at a televised interview (also drinking copiously).
P.P.P.S. Debashish could not convince me to stay while he cooked me “special” lunch, so he was joshing Enzo again, who in turn was posing for my photographer Shekhar, with a plate of pasta in one hand, and a glass of red in the other, looking very much the regular Roman orgy-retiree.
P.P.P.P.S. Its all true, though some stuff is cleverly manipulated.
P.P.P.P.P.S. The wines were excellent, and cheap too!

The Dance

An old tune fades into being
Those silver stairs fade back into being
The cigarettes are relit
And forgotten
As lovers sigh and fall to passion
The skeleton piano keeps pace
The bass muscles its way
Into the velvet night
Up step the horns
And the reign of sound is renewed
Will you come to me now?
Send a shiver down my soul
And fling me to the sky
A million stars glitter and fall
Are reborn
A call to arms then
The night throbs with electricity
As the tenor blows blows
Snake on horn man
Slither across rooms
Down eager fingers
Waft gently from parted lips
Flow down breasts heavy with desire
Through fine hairs
Explode into starlight
Be the world, the universe
Endless
Flow like tears in the rain
Clad your ship in the sails of darkness
Burn lamps to light the way


The cadences fall
The misty beat of cymbals grow silent
As a new melody is prepared
A call to the night birds from their nests
And moths to flames
The long forgotten knight of the east awakens
Under a silver moonrise
Shades dance a slow number
The white and black keys
Tumble down the wells
In swelling waves of sound

Dance with me love
Dance away death, ruin
Dance the jig of life
Dance the dance of beauty out of time
Dance with me love
A dance of wild steps
Quick pirouettes

Blow man blow!

This last dance holds all creation
In the palm of my hands
In my wild hair
In the sweat, the pain
Come dance
Gather your breath, move slow

Foreheads touch, arms encircle
The heat remains
Come taste my skin
As we sway down the floor of the night


Whisper
Breath
In
My
Eyes
Mist envelops my mind
As the skeleton crew gives up the tune
And the tenor man gives a final blow
And is still

The lights go out, the stars are dim
Exhausted we lie
In each other’s arms
A new day will arise, passing fair
A day of soft, velvet mornings
We’ll remember the night
And the graceful dance of the nyads
The dance of the dervishes
A kind of blue

-Beq

Friends

I was just reading Sue's blog about all the people she knows who've left the country and have left her that much poorer. It strange when that happens to people, especially when some of the people leaving are close friends.
Nothing such as this has happened to me. Almost none of my closest friends have gone abroad, and yet so many are away. Some are right here but we don't talk much. But I guess that doesn't matter.
In the beginning there was Rajah. We became freinds when we were in school and quite inseparable ones at that. Mostly people found him difficult, pompous, self-obsessed. But show me one teenager who isn't. But what was cool about him was that he was interesting. He had this innate sense of style that was unapologetic and an intelligence that shone through his shades. We loved the Beatles, we hated the Stones, we rapped Kerouac to each other and shared books. We smoked our first cigarettes together, rolled the first joints, drank the first beers. What a guy, I hope every kid has such a friend to grow up with. Today I don't even know where he is. He's been missing for the last six years or so. It would be fair to say we drifted apart. While I opted for the cool joys of JU and Rajah took some disastrous career decisions. He was unhappy and lonely, while I was enjoying myself too much to care. So he fell off the map, and today I doubt he'd want to know me. I don't know if I'd want to know him either. I'm scared of who he might not be. So there's that.
Then there was Arj. He was the sleeping partner in the triumverate at school of which me and Rajah were the other members. He was the loosest cause he loved people so much, and people loved him back. He was easily the most popular guy in school by the sheer dint of his personality. He never held any posts, did not have any myths about a lady-killer(though he was that as well) and he was the most wonderfully random boy to talk to. You could rap about anything with him, and he'd match you blow for imaginative blow. He laughed uproariously, gave nicknames to people weirder than what I could think up, loved Douglas Adams. Its even unfair to begin to describe him. When I went to JU, he left for Presidency, and we formed our rival gangs of cool people, which loved having wild parties with each other. And so he is today, an MBA later, an executive in Bombay, who I believe in the heart of hearts, doesn't really give a damn. He continues to love and be loved, and I miss him and his madness. These days, he even has a secretary!!
Then Boz. Ah Boz! What a collossus of the imagination! He is the one person I know who was so desperate to have a lost weekend that he literally codeined himself to a weekend-long stupor from which he emerged on a Monday in college with his tattered sports bag, and his mad scientist hair and his dusty jeans and his scruffy beard looking like a Jerry Garcia of the Indian night. We were great pals in school and that friendship deepened into a form of unconcious telepathy when in college. Chewing his lips, shaking his head vigorously, making mad dashes across 2000 km to woo some girl, making a mythic monster of his nice dog to scare us, going into the sea in the buff in Goa to meet the dolphins...ah where do I stop. He started out a rocker, with his cheap Fender copy reading "Mark (Knopfler) and I", decided that we didn't appreciate Chinese tones, and so chucked it all to seriously get into photography. Today he's finishing off as a cinematographer in FTII, and making promises to come meet me and go to Manali for some hash! All the while he's dodging adoring women, proposing drunkenly and running away the next day, helping yet other women find their roots...he is the candle!
And now Rudder. I hated him for a while as a freshman. He had the temerity to say REM were better than the Beatles! But it was a ruse, really, when all he wanted to do was do cool things and have sex. He metamorphosed into a kind of living fertility symbol, who could cook, play football, swim, run, win awards at academics, go for treks, and make a succession of women swoon over him. Oh Rudder, they'd coo, and we were all the richer for it! He was my alter ego, which in a strange way he still is. We would share stories of exploits, behave like weird twins by saying the same thing together, bum condoms from each other, rap Kerouac (again!). I was in the same band as he, so we also had the music. Later, when I came to Delhi, there was no question about it. We would stay together...which we did, for a while. He's still here, and I'm still here, moving in different orbits, making the same mistakes, being ourselves and in a way reminding each other of all the things we are; all the things we have become and all the things we yet could be. We're still in a band.
And finally, Sue. She was a fresher when I was in second year, and I was floored. She wasn't glamorous, she wore her pyjamas to college and was mortally afraid of anyone touching her. But she was hot! I bumped into her down a staircase, and devised devious means to get her to go for films (with Rudder's help), get her to sing with me...when I hugged her once, she was shivering. And yet she was free. She had her own opinions, and she'd never give an inch. I pined and I kicked walls in fustration- she was with some country yokel down in Vizag- I threatened Rudder to back off when he evinced interest. Then I read her Borges at Kharagpur and told her about the fair greens of Lothlorien. In a few months we were together...a mythical Beq'n'Sue in college, the same person, always together, singing together. I guess only we knew the truth to it, and thankfully it was so complicated. I became a lover with her, I became me, I lost my arrogance, I got rhythm, and she was freed once and for all from all the chains that bound her. But after three years of (almost-though-not-quite) bliss, we had a falling out, as lovers often will. But I guess we both gained a friend in the parting. She lives in Cal with her V and the wonderful little Wee Kiddo, trying to be a good mother and a thoroughly cool human being. We have our jokes and each other, in a weird fractious family where everyone is king!

Hour Of The Wolf

I knew of Ingmar Bergman only as a rumour till last year. I was never really that crazy about films- music does it for me- but, all that changed last August. Without a home, I was backpacking my way through people’s houses, while filling up the time with freelance work here and there, which was always quite interesting, but never financially too rewarding. It wasn’t a happy time, and I often despaired. Often I felt like chucking it all and going home, dunno why I persevered. And then, in the second house that I was passing through, I saw Hour of the Wolf. I was mildly interested by the name, but nothing prepared me for it. From the very first shot of Liv Ullman standing on a windswept northern island with that unearthly daylight grabbed me. And of course it got better.
Liv’s character Alma tells the story of her troubled artist husband Johan Borg, played by Max Von Sydow, who had gone missing a few months ago under very strange circumstances. Its one of Bergman’s few horror stories, but as with all films by him, its not just that. We get to know of some strange creatures on the same island that the couple lives in. There is the fetishistic Baron who lives “on the other side of the island”, and his strange family of assorted debauched creeps. They are obnoxious exploitative people, but Van Sydow feels they are worse…that they are monsters. One, The Birdman, apparently turns into a raven, another, The Hat Lady, threatens to take her hat, and with it, her face off. But how do we know? Through the Johan’s diaries, where he writes about his daily encounters with them on his painting trips. He even draws their monstrous images.
But is it true? Is it just that he is going through a delusional breakdown brought on by their loneliness? And what of that unsettling story of a vampire boy that Johan kills one afternoon? As the movie slowly carries with its stark still images of horrible beauty, and the occasional startlingly hideous juxtapositions of the real and the imagined, Alma starts sharing her husband’s delusions. She wonders at the end if it is possible to love someone so much that you start inhabiting their madness? One surreal day, the couples’ fragile world comes crashing down in a real/imagined sequence of utter horror and beauty when the creatures- we see their true selves at last- bait and claim the artist. But is it true? Or did he just commit suicide, or was perhaps killed by his wife? We’re never told. But the centerpiece of the film is this beautifully taut scene of the night before the fateful day. Johan is afraid of going to sleep and stays awake till dawn, with the only light coming from a candle. His drawn out, exhausted face seems etched in stone. Alma stays up with him, looking at his face with a fragile, helpless, despairing gaze. Then, after what seems like an eternity, at the still hour before dawn he diagnoses his own madness and the nature of despair…or maybe he voices his fear of the night and the shadows that inhabit it. He says that this is the crucial hour, the hour of the wolf, when most people die, when children are born, when monsters creep out of our nightmares and become real. It is as poignant as it is chilling in its portrayal of the couples’ helplessness in the face of this vast unknown. I was hooked. I think I saw it another three times in a row. Sometimes I wished that the couple had some faith. That they could steel their resolve. In fact the artist does, promising to protect his wife and their unborn child, but it is in vain. It just tips him over the edge. But I knew then, as I know now, how difficult it is for faith to be born in the face of despair. But the failure of the artist and his wife to battle their demons- real, or imagined- gave me the strength to face mine.
Now I know that it is one of Bergman’s lesser known films. Since then I’ve seen and grown to love his classics like Wild Strawberries, Persona, and The Seventh Seal. But none have touched me as profoundly as has Hour of the Wolf. And to think the Bergman passed away in that very same hour, makes me feel strange. I remember him, the fondness for movies that his films gifted me, and the way he moved me. Rest in peace.