Finally, a house of my own! I thought I would feel like a new person or perhaps have some revelation, or perhaps die of shock....but none of these things happened. I moved in with a paltry few things, unpacked my clothes in over seven months on the road (somewhat!) had a couple of Pure Magic biscuits and watched the setting sun dazzle the spires of a Gurdwara. The feeling slowly sinks in...that I don't have to live with other people, see if they're available, be answerable to them, panic at the last moment cause there's nowhere to go...etc etc.
Obviously it still isn't a home like my previous house was one, but then I've been here only a couple of days. The main lock still throws me, and the local dogs want to know me better, but that's all right. I still have to work out the sun's trajectory vis a vis the house, whether there are any cats about that I can adopt, and what the faultlines are from which ants may one day emerge, but that's all right too.
You win some and you lose some. So while people drift away and I become used to not speaking for days on end, at least I have my house, and I love it.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
You're It
I dunno why people tag other people. What's the point? Who cares what I like? But well, I've been tagged and I've got time to kill, so here goes:
Three things that scare me :
birds (aaargh those fluttering wings)
dreams where you're run for hours and never get to where you're trying to get to (plain horrible)
heights (cause the fall seems so inviting)
Three people who make me laugh :
Douglas Adams (cause nobody can write about the Krikkit wars like he does)
John Lennon (I'd like just to give you this Michael, on behalf of the British public)
Wee Kiddo (Cause he's so wee, and makes such funny faces and says "gooo")
Three things I love :
Norwesters in Bengal (You just have to see them coming up from the horizon and gradually filling out your view...and then your senses. You wait with bated breath for the first crack of thunder, and then its ecstacy)
Sex (Cause its there)
Mountains (I feel like a million emperors rolled into one, and as Tintin said, "the air's like champagne". They truly go to my head
Three things I hate :
Spoilt brats (cause they're so goddamn insensitive)
Loneliness (because too much of it, and you forget how to talk)
Long faces (cause you know, something should be done about it, but dunno what to do)
Three things I don't understand :
Why mountaineering is not an optional subject in school
Why people listen to Pink Floyd
Why nobody (including me) cares
Three things on my desk :
Books (Never make a home without 'em)
Music (Is Fab)
Pen and paper (I love scribbling)
Three things I am doing right now :
Wanting to sleep (couldn't sleep last night)
Wearing my multi-coloured sweater (I love it)
About to have tea (cause otherwise I'll die)
Three things I want to do before I die
Go on at least one proper expedition (nothing can be better)
Watch Wee grow (cause he'll be smashing)
Make an album (it easier than writing a novel)
Three things I can do :
Sing (cause I can)
Bum around (Its a skill, seriously!)
stare vacantly at nothing in particular (lots of practice)
Three things you should listen to :
The Beatles (they can be your best friends if you let them)
Me (Who else would you listen to?)
Rainfall (it tells you things you should know)
Three things you should never listen to :
Vogon singing (you'll die)
Sathe (cause he's a liar)
Cats (cause they're over-rated dumbasses)
Three things I'd like to learn :
driving (Ok I DO know, but haven't done so in years)
Lie convincingly
How to really play the guitar
Three favourite foods :
Bong food
Momos
Chicken Sizzlers
Three beverages I drink regularly
Tea (Heaven)
Rum (Dunno why. Probably cause its there)
More tea (why not?)
Three TV shows/books I watched/read as a kid :
Johnny Soko and His Flying Robot (What joy! I can still do the hand movements)
Catch 22 (What a book to read when you're young!)
Vikram Aur Betal (I could never get enough)
Three people I would like to tag :
Daya (Cause she's so interesting)
Sue (Because she hasn't blogged in a long time)
KP (Because he's so goddamn secretive)
Three things that scare me :
birds (aaargh those fluttering wings)
dreams where you're run for hours and never get to where you're trying to get to (plain horrible)
heights (cause the fall seems so inviting)
Three people who make me laugh :
Douglas Adams (cause nobody can write about the Krikkit wars like he does)
John Lennon (I'd like just to give you this Michael, on behalf of the British public)
Wee Kiddo (Cause he's so wee, and makes such funny faces and says "gooo")
Three things I love :
Norwesters in Bengal (You just have to see them coming up from the horizon and gradually filling out your view...and then your senses. You wait with bated breath for the first crack of thunder, and then its ecstacy)
Sex (Cause its there)
Mountains (I feel like a million emperors rolled into one, and as Tintin said, "the air's like champagne". They truly go to my head
Three things I hate :
Spoilt brats (cause they're so goddamn insensitive)
Loneliness (because too much of it, and you forget how to talk)
Long faces (cause you know, something should be done about it, but dunno what to do)
Three things I don't understand :
Why mountaineering is not an optional subject in school
Why people listen to Pink Floyd
Why nobody (including me) cares
Three things on my desk :
Books (Never make a home without 'em)
Music (Is Fab)
Pen and paper (I love scribbling)
Three things I am doing right now :
Wanting to sleep (couldn't sleep last night)
Wearing my multi-coloured sweater (I love it)
About to have tea (cause otherwise I'll die)
Three things I want to do before I die
Go on at least one proper expedition (nothing can be better)
Watch Wee grow (cause he'll be smashing)
Make an album (it easier than writing a novel)
Three things I can do :
Sing (cause I can)
Bum around (Its a skill, seriously!)
stare vacantly at nothing in particular (lots of practice)
Three things you should listen to :
The Beatles (they can be your best friends if you let them)
Me (Who else would you listen to?)
Rainfall (it tells you things you should know)
Three things you should never listen to :
Vogon singing (you'll die)
Sathe (cause he's a liar)
Cats (cause they're over-rated dumbasses)
Three things I'd like to learn :
driving (Ok I DO know, but haven't done so in years)
Lie convincingly
How to really play the guitar
Three favourite foods :
Bong food
Momos
Chicken Sizzlers
Three beverages I drink regularly
Tea (Heaven)
Rum (Dunno why. Probably cause its there)
More tea (why not?)
Three TV shows/books I watched/read as a kid :
Johnny Soko and His Flying Robot (What joy! I can still do the hand movements)
Catch 22 (What a book to read when you're young!)
Vikram Aur Betal (I could never get enough)
Three people I would like to tag :
Daya (Cause she's so interesting)
Sue (Because she hasn't blogged in a long time)
KP (Because he's so goddamn secretive)
Monday, January 29, 2007
Wraiths
This empty season the cold is gone.
Mist walks the streets, I follow a wraith, unconnected, passing through.
Passing through?
Lucky people play a game of chance, warming the winter sun with smiles the size of kings.
Holy water sprinkles the air, clothes and eyes get damp, time to kill,
Why won't time be killed?
Phones ring in houses, in hands, in pockets, inside a dog's mouth.
Callers end with lover's greetings, promising the end of another long night
And the cold stays gone, breathing gently in dusty forests, as taillit jackets flash close.
In this city there're wraiths walking, sometimes in the alley, or riding a horse, or walking two dogs.
What will be the endgame?
Down in a well in the east, seven seconds of sunlight blind a broken man
It blinds him still, till he awakes and sees the dark, cold as labyrinths of the nameless ones.
I met a man of magic, a scar across his face.
A scar a scar a scar a scar
He noted he had walked quite far, from the ghost of Sesquehana to the bums of Times Square.
Once there were bums, and jazz and solitary jungle moaners in a dream of rainbows.
Now there are wraiths in a city, passing through like summer lightning
With marks on their faces or long black tails that bend easily.
Where is the fever? The cold fever of the biting wind?
Who knows where is the other life.
-Beq
29.1.2007
Mist walks the streets, I follow a wraith, unconnected, passing through.
Passing through?
Lucky people play a game of chance, warming the winter sun with smiles the size of kings.
Holy water sprinkles the air, clothes and eyes get damp, time to kill,
Why won't time be killed?
Phones ring in houses, in hands, in pockets, inside a dog's mouth.
Callers end with lover's greetings, promising the end of another long night
And the cold stays gone, breathing gently in dusty forests, as taillit jackets flash close.
In this city there're wraiths walking, sometimes in the alley, or riding a horse, or walking two dogs.
What will be the endgame?
Down in a well in the east, seven seconds of sunlight blind a broken man
It blinds him still, till he awakes and sees the dark, cold as labyrinths of the nameless ones.
I met a man of magic, a scar across his face.
A scar a scar a scar a scar
He noted he had walked quite far, from the ghost of Sesquehana to the bums of Times Square.
Once there were bums, and jazz and solitary jungle moaners in a dream of rainbows.
Now there are wraiths in a city, passing through like summer lightning
With marks on their faces or long black tails that bend easily.
Where is the fever? The cold fever of the biting wind?
Who knows where is the other life.
-Beq
29.1.2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Jazz It Up
Watching Herbie Hancock and Wayne Shorter a couple of weeks back, I couldn't help the goosebumps. I mean, its HANCOCK and SHORTER for chrissakes! For a while I was just grinning, after which I strated paying attention to the music. Hancock started with a rendering of "Dolphin Song". Though I've heard that song only once, it seemed great...and then it began to sag. Herbie ol boy was evidently not trying very hard. I mean, for someone of his stature, to miff lines with a bunch of greehnorns of the Thelonious Institute of Jazz was not on. And all the instrumentalists kept playing in unison, resulting in a remarkably colourless sound. It was nice jazz, but not great jazz. A version of "Criss Cross" followed and I started wondering if perhaps Hancock doesn't care for the old material anymore...I mean, he plays with turntable players these days. But try as I might, I couldn't dislike it. I mean, here was the man who made "My Point Of View", perhaps my favourite jazz album!
But Wayne Shorter was yet to come and there was hope. Seeing the old man with his soprano sax was electrifying, and when he led the band through "Footprints", I was in wonderland again. Again, he wasn't doing much outside of playing around with scales, but the feel of the man! Fabulous. I haven't heard "1+1", his Grammy-winning duet album with Hancock, but the one they DID do was good, and perhaps that rescued the show. I mean, I'll always remember the occasion, if not the musical nous.
To round it off, a few days later I heard Kenny G on VH1. Ah, now at least I didn't have to see that midget-brain perform! Why? Why? Why do Americans like stupid white men?
But Wayne Shorter was yet to come and there was hope. Seeing the old man with his soprano sax was electrifying, and when he led the band through "Footprints", I was in wonderland again. Again, he wasn't doing much outside of playing around with scales, but the feel of the man! Fabulous. I haven't heard "1+1", his Grammy-winning duet album with Hancock, but the one they DID do was good, and perhaps that rescued the show. I mean, I'll always remember the occasion, if not the musical nous.
To round it off, a few days later I heard Kenny G on VH1. Ah, now at least I didn't have to see that midget-brain perform! Why? Why? Why do Americans like stupid white men?
Friday, January 19, 2007
Long Train Running
Many years ago, I missed a train. Its not as simple as it sounds. To date that is the only train I've missed, and also the most traumatic of all the train misses I never had. Confusing? You bet your left ventricle it is! Consider this scenario. You're 20, cocky but unsure, have no money and have missed a train to the East Coast from the West with no plan B. The only silver lining to this black cloud- the rain had a BIG part to play in the story anyway- was that I had for company three other cocky 20 year olds- ok, one was and still remains 18- who were more broke than I was. Blame it on them splurging on Goan spices, knicknacks, and industrial quantities of cashew feni...I was feeling good at the end of a stingy trip where I'd saved enough money to buy my girlfriend three good meals back home. And here I was, stuck in the wrong part of the country, the only guy with any money and the tail lights of the Howrah Mail dissapearing in the rain. I think it was Shurjo- the one that had the most feni- who expressed what we were all feeling as we battled swarms of wet humanity at Victoria Terminus to get to our train...BANCHOD!!!! BOKACHODA!!! (Sister-fucker, Foolish Fornicator). But to no avail. A few of the illegal Bangladeshi immigrants seemed shocked, but on the whole Bombay didn't care. She was probably chuckling smugly at a job well done. It was she who had so spectacularly seduced us with her looks and gobsmacked us with tea and pizzas at a posh Malabar Hills apartment with a view of the Arabian Sea. It was she who had thrilled us with the sight of huge waves crashing on the marine drive as a typical Monsoon storm raged. It was she who dulled us with delicious condiments in a warm house and then watched us swear our way through spectacularly conested traffic while the soothing melancholic strains of Coldplay's "Parachutes" played out.
"I never meant to cause you trouble
I never meant to do you harm."
So sang Chris Martin as Shurjo (again) occasionaly thrust an angry fist out of the Honda City- courtesy his rich relatives (he has them everywhere)- and cursed the city. We were worried but stoned enough and full enough to trust Bombay.
Which led to the vanishing tail lights incident.
So what now?
An hour later while I was being crushed between Shurjo's huge backpack and mine by enthusiastic local train commuters on the way to Kurla Station, I almost wondered if I shouldn't give them the slip, save my money and get my parents to bail me out. But where to stay? And what about pride? So, I reluctantly fished out all my money, and while trying to get past a seemingly station-full of touts trying to give us random tickets we rushed to the station master, who smiled sweetly at us and told us to get tickets from the touts. We said sorry, that we were students, so he said well, there's the Kurla-Howrah Express which leaves in an hour from the opposite side of town, if we were interested. Damn right we were, and hence the crushed backpacks. The commuters laughed at us, pushed us and encouraged us to push back. One of them also asked me seriously if Shurjo was from China. I think Shurjo had asked some stupid question. Rudder and Julius were more unlucky. In their rush and ignorace they had clambered on to the Ladies Compartment and given their "lean and hungry Cassius" and ominous backpacks, they came close to being thrown off the train by the cops. I think they managed to stay on because
a) Legitimate women would heve been thrown off the train as well, just to make way for all that baggage and
b)Some sweet college kids flipped over Rudder's cleft chin and pleaded with the cops.
When we reached Kurla, the crowds vomited us out....
...into the waiting arms of the auto mafia, who fought amongst themselves with knives and invectives for the right to kidnap us- get us to the main Kurla Terminus. What followed was a dogfight...but the guys who eventually bundled us in were the sneaky chappies who let the main contestants shed their blood while they got the loot. A careening ride through dark rainswept sewers followed and just when Julius was about lose hope-and temper- and get his rusty Rampuri Chaku out...wonder of wonders, Kurla Junction. I don't remember what we paid the Chota Shakeels of the Kurla Auto Association, but our objective was to get on that train even if it were our corpses that made the journey.
"Find the TT!"
"There he is"
"Sir, we're poor lost students. Not much money. Miss train. Please tickets."
Gentle smiles (from the TTs)
Grimaces(Us)
Well, we did manage to get tickets, albeit with broken feni bottles and seats all over one compartment. The train stopped on every station and by the time we got home FOUR(!!) days later, we were hungrier than Ulysses when he got to Ithaca, and we almost kissed the garden of germs, that is the platform at Howrah...but that's another epic.
"If you ever feel neglected
And you think that all is lost
I'll be counting up my demons
And tell you eerything's not lost"
"I never meant to cause you trouble
I never meant to do you harm."
So sang Chris Martin as Shurjo (again) occasionaly thrust an angry fist out of the Honda City- courtesy his rich relatives (he has them everywhere)- and cursed the city. We were worried but stoned enough and full enough to trust Bombay.
Which led to the vanishing tail lights incident.
So what now?
An hour later while I was being crushed between Shurjo's huge backpack and mine by enthusiastic local train commuters on the way to Kurla Station, I almost wondered if I shouldn't give them the slip, save my money and get my parents to bail me out. But where to stay? And what about pride? So, I reluctantly fished out all my money, and while trying to get past a seemingly station-full of touts trying to give us random tickets we rushed to the station master, who smiled sweetly at us and told us to get tickets from the touts. We said sorry, that we were students, so he said well, there's the Kurla-Howrah Express which leaves in an hour from the opposite side of town, if we were interested. Damn right we were, and hence the crushed backpacks. The commuters laughed at us, pushed us and encouraged us to push back. One of them also asked me seriously if Shurjo was from China. I think Shurjo had asked some stupid question. Rudder and Julius were more unlucky. In their rush and ignorace they had clambered on to the Ladies Compartment and given their "lean and hungry Cassius" and ominous backpacks, they came close to being thrown off the train by the cops. I think they managed to stay on because
a) Legitimate women would heve been thrown off the train as well, just to make way for all that baggage and
b)Some sweet college kids flipped over Rudder's cleft chin and pleaded with the cops.
When we reached Kurla, the crowds vomited us out....
...into the waiting arms of the auto mafia, who fought amongst themselves with knives and invectives for the right to kidnap us- get us to the main Kurla Terminus. What followed was a dogfight...but the guys who eventually bundled us in were the sneaky chappies who let the main contestants shed their blood while they got the loot. A careening ride through dark rainswept sewers followed and just when Julius was about lose hope-and temper- and get his rusty Rampuri Chaku out...wonder of wonders, Kurla Junction. I don't remember what we paid the Chota Shakeels of the Kurla Auto Association, but our objective was to get on that train even if it were our corpses that made the journey.
"Find the TT!"
"There he is"
"Sir, we're poor lost students. Not much money. Miss train. Please tickets."
Gentle smiles (from the TTs)
Grimaces(Us)
Well, we did manage to get tickets, albeit with broken feni bottles and seats all over one compartment. The train stopped on every station and by the time we got home FOUR(!!) days later, we were hungrier than Ulysses when he got to Ithaca, and we almost kissed the garden of germs, that is the platform at Howrah...but that's another epic.
"If you ever feel neglected
And you think that all is lost
I'll be counting up my demons
And tell you eerything's not lost"
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Sunday, January 07, 2007
7.1.07
I'm extremely tired. My eyes are refusing to be coordinated (like a certain drunken cat I know) and my hands don't feel like moving, and my legs are numb. This is the worst possible time to type this out, but then again, it might be the best. I don't aim to be lucid.
Many of my friends have written some quite nice little things on the new year. Emotionally, I think they've covered it all. One, for example, was drunk, and the other had a baby trying to rage against the world while they wrote theirs, so I cannot say that my state is particularly trying. And I've had a nice, nice, nice day. Started the day with a vintage car rally, which was better than the dog show; and ended it with a tale of a dancing penguin which got me humming "Staying Alive" and jiving in my head. And I had some nice company. And yet, and yet...
As I start getting used to another year, I find that all the words of kindness linger on when I no longer need them. I read Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas, and I know what its like to be free and be totally helpless at the same time. Like a man on an ether binge. Old Gonzo Thompson says that ether makes your body lose grip on reality. Everything's wonky, you're wonky, the laughing peon at the edge of the University green is a hyena, and you say "Good day, Jose" to a passing policeman. But you're brain's fine, and is a little curious about the body's antics. Hmm, he thinks, funny. Ether. It makes you free, but you're helpless, helpless, helpless. Hope this year's not an ether binge for anyone that I know, and that covers a lot.
And in the end the love you take
Is equal to the love you make.
Many of my friends have written some quite nice little things on the new year. Emotionally, I think they've covered it all. One, for example, was drunk, and the other had a baby trying to rage against the world while they wrote theirs, so I cannot say that my state is particularly trying. And I've had a nice, nice, nice day. Started the day with a vintage car rally, which was better than the dog show; and ended it with a tale of a dancing penguin which got me humming "Staying Alive" and jiving in my head. And I had some nice company. And yet, and yet...
As I start getting used to another year, I find that all the words of kindness linger on when I no longer need them. I read Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas, and I know what its like to be free and be totally helpless at the same time. Like a man on an ether binge. Old Gonzo Thompson says that ether makes your body lose grip on reality. Everything's wonky, you're wonky, the laughing peon at the edge of the University green is a hyena, and you say "Good day, Jose" to a passing policeman. But you're brain's fine, and is a little curious about the body's antics. Hmm, he thinks, funny. Ether. It makes you free, but you're helpless, helpless, helpless. Hope this year's not an ether binge for anyone that I know, and that covers a lot.
And in the end the love you take
Is equal to the love you make.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Tea And Sympathy: Cal Chronicles 2
Second week in Cal, and things are already better. Much more interesting than the first one, in any case. For one, the Sherlock Holmes was a better one, The Speckled Band. To think of it, the tv series isn't really as great as it could have been. Of course, as a kid, it seemed fabulous, but parts of each episode do seem bland. I mean, Jeremy Brett is still intensely fascinating, and the title tune is haunting, but...um...well, maybe it would work better as a Sunday morning show- or even a Sunday evening show- than a Tuesday night show. The Speckled Band did have one great thing though- Dr Grimesby Roylott, scary as hell. I think what I'd like is some more darkness in the stories. So far its just been the lighter cases, not the really intriguing ones. I long for post-sundown foggy hansom chases, and flashing Colt .45s and blood-curdling eerieness. Ah! The modern youth I tell you.
Earlier that Tuesday, I got a better treat- a performance by the St Xavier's choir. Now, I will never profess to understanding what goes on in the making of a good choir, but I do know that I like a good one when I hear it. This one was fabulous. The harmonies were mostly spot on and sometimes the force of the singing really got you. The carols sounded exactly the way I had hoped they'd sound. Full credits to the guy playing the piano, and the arrangement of Xaviers' much loved prof Bertie. I love how these things just happen so unexpectedly in Cal. I was loafing about Park Street when my friend Dana called me up and asked if I wanted to go hear the choir. Her brother was one of the singers. Now, I wasn't even aware of such a thing here. Well, a nice surprise.
The days passed by in a daze. Met my ACJ friend Virat for lunch at Flury's (excellent Chicken Strogonoff) and then made a short trip to New Market to pick up some of Nahoums' legendary brownies as a Christmas gift for Suhrid and Payal. The good journo was in a rotten mood when I met him at his office, fuming at some beaureaucratic turd from the Planning Commission who'd dared be insolent with him! Had to help him down four pegs of gin in record time at 4 in the afternoon! Then, dunno why, I blithely got on the Metro and travelled a couple of stations the wrong way before switching tracks...
Lemme tell you about my friend Dr D. He first earned my gratitude by sheltering me for a couple of weeks in his Vasundhara Enclave apartment in Delhi when I was without a place to live. While there, he entertained me with a stream of excellent movies which made a cine fan out of me. As if that wasn't enough, he entertained me further by fleeing the city following some fuck-up in office (which involved angry, threatning Jats, go figure). This meant packing up all our stuff and slipping off to the railway station at 6 in the morning for him to catch a train at 4:30 in the evening! A very eventful day it was too. He earned my gratitude some more by carrying my books and cds back to Cal. Now, he has his defects- horrible English which he pigheadedly feels proud about being one of them- but I love him al the same. I messaged him cause I wanted to meet him and get my stuff back. He replied, "Am shifting to Dargeling (sic) tomorrow night. Meet me soon." The sentence threw me a little, but I recovered to realise that he couldn't possibly be shifting there for good. I went to his house the next day. The journey was short but interesting, taking me into little-known depths of Jadavpur. He has the habit of spending all the money he earns, which is a tidy bit, on books, cds and dvds. Quite a stupendous collection. His profligate philosophy is that if he can buy it, he won't burn it. Reprehensible case of wastefulness, but it means a lot of entertainment for reprehensible me. So when I got back home a couple of hours back, apart from a sackful of books, I had two Traffic Live dvds, two Traffic albums, a Thelonius Monk album and the George Harrison Concert For Bangladesh dvd...hmm. As you can imagine, he's well stocked.
What I needed was loads of sleep, but I could only get fitful snatches of it. This left me a lazy lout with a killer headache. This meant I missed my morning appointment with Virat. I had promised him that I would show him the sights and sounds of this fair city, like the museum and BBD Bag (where all the fab colonial palaces are). Hungover and bullshitting, it was the last thing on my mind. Afternoon came and went, with it a random Hepatitis A shot which my lunatic doctor of a father thought was good for me. I finally met Virat at sundown, skulking outside the British Council, Poor soul, I had wanted to ease his lonely soul, but booze had got the better of me. Had coffee, walked about, and went to his place at the YMCA on SN Banerjee Road. Man what a place to stay. Old Calcutta personified. My regard for the Markandeya (for such is his name) went through the roof. Its tough not to have friends in an alien place.
Anyways, was meeting Dana for SomePlace Else, as she had been working her ass off and I felt she needed some fun. Yeah, I'm the messiah of the work-oppressed. So this meant reacquainting myself with my old haunts at the Park. Some things don't change. Some P is one of them. Well, the silly cover-charge routine is gone, but that bunch of octogenarian noddy-heads, Hip Pocket still play "Classic Rock" in bland-out mode and the croud feels they have to appalaud it to be hip. So me, Virat and Dana hung around, got a table, and to keep it had to drink. Well, me and Virat did anyways. So Hip Pocket lumbered through some shit they called jazz, and was soon playing Doors and Scorpions. Then came the slap in the face. Oh yeah? the band seemed to say. You think we can't add stuff to our repertoire? Well, here's Linkin Park!
I died a little.
One of my oldest pals, Arj the energetic messiah of every down and out soul, showed up, as I knew he would, with two more old chestnuts from school, Kakeesh and Boy (not their real names, but real enough.) Things change, so while Kakeesh is set to marry, Boy's planning to open a Lebanese restuarant. A lot of bullshitting and some cigars later, Hip decided they need to sleep, so they played some more Rolling Stones. I was disgusted. Dana had had enough and wanted to go home. So I left Virat- who had become a part of the upholstery by then- in the care of nobody in particular and stepped out to see Dana to her car. Wham, wham wham!!! I meet people and places in the lobby whom I've not met in years, including a girl who I last met in a Presidency orgy. She had left before the orgy, but well, here she was 6 years on, asking me about jobs in Delhi!! Then other kids, juniors of mine from College and finally Rohan the Riddermark, a Chris Martin-Pete Townshend lookalike, my favourite guitar player and good friend. He was suitably rude, especially as I seemed too eagre to get people's numbers. Oh well, he asked me if I wanted to sing with his band who were going on after the sleepy fogeys. I said yeah. So we enter the cavern- smelling of beer and cigarettes- again, and I find Virat has vanished. Oh woe, what'll I tell his parents? But he was there somewhere, and I soon found him between a woman about to pass out and a man about to feel her up. I got to him before he could get traumatized and hauled him out. The bunch of wobbly knees also known as Hip Pocket were looking as if they needed some life support system to keep em up and duly retired. Rohan's band took to stage, with Malmshi the frontman, a dedicated bassist, a zen keyboard player, and Chotu the drummer. The are, a bit unfortunately, called Supersonics, and they play their own stuff. Whch is laudable, given the lounge-core old men who had preceded them. Supersonic were punky, their words couldn't be heard, Rohan was rocking as only he can- laconica morosa- and they kept getting electrocuted. While their songs sound the same, they are energetic...well, a ROCK band. I stood around and looked disdainful at their originals. What was funniest was that these guys have an awestruck fan-following of their own -the present college kids, who hover like proud parents, go "ooh aah" at Rohan's leads and hold on to harmonicas when they're not being used...Rohan has developed into a mean harp player as well...Soon enough they limbered up to play "their only cover" which turned out to be "I'm Free" by the Rolling Stones. While in the middle of the song, Rohan asked me to come up on stage. I was a bit embarassed but well, how can I be asked to perform and refuse? With the music muted, Rohan says, "I'd like to introduce an old friend of mine, Beq!", and he leads the band into the bouncy rhythm of "Sympathy For The Devil". What ensued was frenetic dancing (me), loud singing(me), wild cheering (a packed SomeP, with Hip Pocket induced dozers finally waking up), and a happy happy Rohan. By the time I started howling "Won'tcha tell me baybee, what's maai naaaime," the place was going wild, which meant an extended chorus, tearing my voice to shreds!!! Anyways, it ended in a stream of flashlights, and screams of encore...The song ended, and I did a Beatle bow, and said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, The Supersonics!" Mamshi, clapping over his Gibson hollowbody, "Bibek!"
"No no. Beq." Rohan.
So ended my rockstar -in miniature performance.
I came off the stage in a barrage of back thumpings from enthusiastic revellers. The overawed kids, seemed overawed yet again, and some offered me their beers. Virat who had never seen anything like this in Delhi, was simply loving it.
Then a drunken hand grabbed me by the hair and a voice bawled, "Vivaaaash". Arj, of course.
A splendid time was had by all.
Earlier that Tuesday, I got a better treat- a performance by the St Xavier's choir. Now, I will never profess to understanding what goes on in the making of a good choir, but I do know that I like a good one when I hear it. This one was fabulous. The harmonies were mostly spot on and sometimes the force of the singing really got you. The carols sounded exactly the way I had hoped they'd sound. Full credits to the guy playing the piano, and the arrangement of Xaviers' much loved prof Bertie. I love how these things just happen so unexpectedly in Cal. I was loafing about Park Street when my friend Dana called me up and asked if I wanted to go hear the choir. Her brother was one of the singers. Now, I wasn't even aware of such a thing here. Well, a nice surprise.
The days passed by in a daze. Met my ACJ friend Virat for lunch at Flury's (excellent Chicken Strogonoff) and then made a short trip to New Market to pick up some of Nahoums' legendary brownies as a Christmas gift for Suhrid and Payal. The good journo was in a rotten mood when I met him at his office, fuming at some beaureaucratic turd from the Planning Commission who'd dared be insolent with him! Had to help him down four pegs of gin in record time at 4 in the afternoon! Then, dunno why, I blithely got on the Metro and travelled a couple of stations the wrong way before switching tracks...
Lemme tell you about my friend Dr D. He first earned my gratitude by sheltering me for a couple of weeks in his Vasundhara Enclave apartment in Delhi when I was without a place to live. While there, he entertained me with a stream of excellent movies which made a cine fan out of me. As if that wasn't enough, he entertained me further by fleeing the city following some fuck-up in office (which involved angry, threatning Jats, go figure). This meant packing up all our stuff and slipping off to the railway station at 6 in the morning for him to catch a train at 4:30 in the evening! A very eventful day it was too. He earned my gratitude some more by carrying my books and cds back to Cal. Now, he has his defects- horrible English which he pigheadedly feels proud about being one of them- but I love him al the same. I messaged him cause I wanted to meet him and get my stuff back. He replied, "Am shifting to Dargeling (sic) tomorrow night. Meet me soon." The sentence threw me a little, but I recovered to realise that he couldn't possibly be shifting there for good. I went to his house the next day. The journey was short but interesting, taking me into little-known depths of Jadavpur. He has the habit of spending all the money he earns, which is a tidy bit, on books, cds and dvds. Quite a stupendous collection. His profligate philosophy is that if he can buy it, he won't burn it. Reprehensible case of wastefulness, but it means a lot of entertainment for reprehensible me. So when I got back home a couple of hours back, apart from a sackful of books, I had two Traffic Live dvds, two Traffic albums, a Thelonius Monk album and the George Harrison Concert For Bangladesh dvd...hmm. As you can imagine, he's well stocked.
What I needed was loads of sleep, but I could only get fitful snatches of it. This left me a lazy lout with a killer headache. This meant I missed my morning appointment with Virat. I had promised him that I would show him the sights and sounds of this fair city, like the museum and BBD Bag (where all the fab colonial palaces are). Hungover and bullshitting, it was the last thing on my mind. Afternoon came and went, with it a random Hepatitis A shot which my lunatic doctor of a father thought was good for me. I finally met Virat at sundown, skulking outside the British Council, Poor soul, I had wanted to ease his lonely soul, but booze had got the better of me. Had coffee, walked about, and went to his place at the YMCA on SN Banerjee Road. Man what a place to stay. Old Calcutta personified. My regard for the Markandeya (for such is his name) went through the roof. Its tough not to have friends in an alien place.
Anyways, was meeting Dana for SomePlace Else, as she had been working her ass off and I felt she needed some fun. Yeah, I'm the messiah of the work-oppressed. So this meant reacquainting myself with my old haunts at the Park. Some things don't change. Some P is one of them. Well, the silly cover-charge routine is gone, but that bunch of octogenarian noddy-heads, Hip Pocket still play "Classic Rock" in bland-out mode and the croud feels they have to appalaud it to be hip. So me, Virat and Dana hung around, got a table, and to keep it had to drink. Well, me and Virat did anyways. So Hip Pocket lumbered through some shit they called jazz, and was soon playing Doors and Scorpions. Then came the slap in the face. Oh yeah? the band seemed to say. You think we can't add stuff to our repertoire? Well, here's Linkin Park!
I died a little.
One of my oldest pals, Arj the energetic messiah of every down and out soul, showed up, as I knew he would, with two more old chestnuts from school, Kakeesh and Boy (not their real names, but real enough.) Things change, so while Kakeesh is set to marry, Boy's planning to open a Lebanese restuarant. A lot of bullshitting and some cigars later, Hip decided they need to sleep, so they played some more Rolling Stones. I was disgusted. Dana had had enough and wanted to go home. So I left Virat- who had become a part of the upholstery by then- in the care of nobody in particular and stepped out to see Dana to her car. Wham, wham wham!!! I meet people and places in the lobby whom I've not met in years, including a girl who I last met in a Presidency orgy. She had left before the orgy, but well, here she was 6 years on, asking me about jobs in Delhi!! Then other kids, juniors of mine from College and finally Rohan the Riddermark, a Chris Martin-Pete Townshend lookalike, my favourite guitar player and good friend. He was suitably rude, especially as I seemed too eagre to get people's numbers. Oh well, he asked me if I wanted to sing with his band who were going on after the sleepy fogeys. I said yeah. So we enter the cavern- smelling of beer and cigarettes- again, and I find Virat has vanished. Oh woe, what'll I tell his parents? But he was there somewhere, and I soon found him between a woman about to pass out and a man about to feel her up. I got to him before he could get traumatized and hauled him out. The bunch of wobbly knees also known as Hip Pocket were looking as if they needed some life support system to keep em up and duly retired. Rohan's band took to stage, with Malmshi the frontman, a dedicated bassist, a zen keyboard player, and Chotu the drummer. The are, a bit unfortunately, called Supersonics, and they play their own stuff. Whch is laudable, given the lounge-core old men who had preceded them. Supersonic were punky, their words couldn't be heard, Rohan was rocking as only he can- laconica morosa- and they kept getting electrocuted. While their songs sound the same, they are energetic...well, a ROCK band. I stood around and looked disdainful at their originals. What was funniest was that these guys have an awestruck fan-following of their own -the present college kids, who hover like proud parents, go "ooh aah" at Rohan's leads and hold on to harmonicas when they're not being used...Rohan has developed into a mean harp player as well...Soon enough they limbered up to play "their only cover" which turned out to be "I'm Free" by the Rolling Stones. While in the middle of the song, Rohan asked me to come up on stage. I was a bit embarassed but well, how can I be asked to perform and refuse? With the music muted, Rohan says, "I'd like to introduce an old friend of mine, Beq!", and he leads the band into the bouncy rhythm of "Sympathy For The Devil". What ensued was frenetic dancing (me), loud singing(me), wild cheering (a packed SomeP, with Hip Pocket induced dozers finally waking up), and a happy happy Rohan. By the time I started howling "Won'tcha tell me baybee, what's maai naaaime," the place was going wild, which meant an extended chorus, tearing my voice to shreds!!! Anyways, it ended in a stream of flashlights, and screams of encore...The song ended, and I did a Beatle bow, and said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, The Supersonics!" Mamshi, clapping over his Gibson hollowbody, "Bibek!"
"No no. Beq." Rohan.
So ended my rockstar -in miniature performance.
I came off the stage in a barrage of back thumpings from enthusiastic revellers. The overawed kids, seemed overawed yet again, and some offered me their beers. Virat who had never seen anything like this in Delhi, was simply loving it.
Then a drunken hand grabbed me by the hair and a voice bawled, "Vivaaaash". Arj, of course.
A splendid time was had by all.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Of Fruitcakes and Seven Percent Solutions
You can't have the Christmas holiday season without the flavour of fruitcakes from New Market and brownies from Nahoum's. In fact I'm already salivating at the prospect. Ah, to see the shops on Park Street and in New Market drowning under a deluge of Christmas trees and stick candies, and Santas of all shapes and sizes. Ah. Totally missed the feeling last year in Delhi, doing a night shift...Christmas isn't as important to people over there still recovering from the rigours of Diwali partying. I can't say how much I'm looking forward to this.
On another note, History Channel is showing Sherlock Holmes with the incomparable Jeremy Brett in the title role! Ah, the joy of hearing the violins giving me the willies and the hansom cabs and the gaslight....I was a tiny little kid when they used to show the series on Doordarshan in the 80's. But, along with the title track, some images were forever ingrained in my soul. For example, the snake sliding down in the Speckled Band, or Holmes and Moriarty tumbling off the cliff at Reichenback Falls, or the wax models showing up against the glass windows in The Empty House? But I guess my favourite is the Sign Of Four. Who can forget that chase on the Thames? Or the jarwa pigmy with the poisonous arrows? Or the cocaine? What joy. Come to think of it, I've forgotten a lot of the episodes, and frankly, the series couldn't have come at a better time. What better way to be of good cheer?
On another note, History Channel is showing Sherlock Holmes with the incomparable Jeremy Brett in the title role! Ah, the joy of hearing the violins giving me the willies and the hansom cabs and the gaslight....I was a tiny little kid when they used to show the series on Doordarshan in the 80's. But, along with the title track, some images were forever ingrained in my soul. For example, the snake sliding down in the Speckled Band, or Holmes and Moriarty tumbling off the cliff at Reichenback Falls, or the wax models showing up against the glass windows in The Empty House? But I guess my favourite is the Sign Of Four. Who can forget that chase on the Thames? Or the jarwa pigmy with the poisonous arrows? Or the cocaine? What joy. Come to think of it, I've forgotten a lot of the episodes, and frankly, the series couldn't have come at a better time. What better way to be of good cheer?
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Weekly Cal Review
This evening I complete a week in Cal! A week?! I mean, it seems just yesterday that I was forced into chatting with my co-passengers in Poorva just becasue I had run out of ways to be bored...yes the train was 3 hours late! Anyways, I'm less stunned with Cal this time around than May. Probably because it hasn't been able to come out with anything newly shocking in the past 6 months or so! But the occassional thig still throws me, like the Dhakuria overhead pedestrian passage. I still gwap at it. It just so doesn't belong there (not that anyone much uses it!) I mean, half the fun of crossing is to be blithely unconcerned about which mad cabbie or bus might be hurtling at you from where! Oh well. But among older haunts, I was saddened by the fact that the road from Jadavpur PS to JU hasn't changed a bit. The pavements seem like out of some post-holocaust movie, never mind the garbage.
One good fun thing that I did see was this dog show I went for yesterday. My first ever, I'm proud to say, and good fun. The first thing that strikes you are the variety of barks coming from everywhere. Despite the variety, they are all predominately friendly yelps - or, in the case of lost daschunds or spoilt labrador pups- yelps for love and affection from errant owners. Even the poor Dobermanns were primarily curious, not ravenously baying for blood as popular myth would have them be. But who can blame you for having a temper, if you spend hte best part of a lazy Saturday morning, trotting round and round in circles, and having your teeth looked at by crummy old men? I even saw a carefree dobermann. Yes, such things DO exist! This one was a blithe spirit with floppy ears who just wanted to have fun, not run around as if he were a conscript at some elite army barracks. As a result, he never looked straight, couldn't straighten his ears, didn't look ferocious, tried to run at the judge when he was supposed to be trotting around him like a shetland pony, and understandably, didn't win anything! Bu he did have fun I'm sure, more so than the other losers who won beer mugs(??) as prizes.
So that's been the sum toal of my life so far, apart from Suhrid's lil daughter Shreya, and a classic Bengal bandh!
One good fun thing that I did see was this dog show I went for yesterday. My first ever, I'm proud to say, and good fun. The first thing that strikes you are the variety of barks coming from everywhere. Despite the variety, they are all predominately friendly yelps - or, in the case of lost daschunds or spoilt labrador pups- yelps for love and affection from errant owners. Even the poor Dobermanns were primarily curious, not ravenously baying for blood as popular myth would have them be. But who can blame you for having a temper, if you spend hte best part of a lazy Saturday morning, trotting round and round in circles, and having your teeth looked at by crummy old men? I even saw a carefree dobermann. Yes, such things DO exist! This one was a blithe spirit with floppy ears who just wanted to have fun, not run around as if he were a conscript at some elite army barracks. As a result, he never looked straight, couldn't straighten his ears, didn't look ferocious, tried to run at the judge when he was supposed to be trotting around him like a shetland pony, and understandably, didn't win anything! Bu he did have fun I'm sure, more so than the other losers who won beer mugs(??) as prizes.
So that's been the sum toal of my life so far, apart from Suhrid's lil daughter Shreya, and a classic Bengal bandh!
Thursday, December 14, 2006
A Board Or Two
I love board games. I miss boad games. So I was wondering what's out there. While nothing can beat the universal appeal of Monopoly, Battleships, Scotland Yard, Pictionary or even Ludo and Snakes and Ladders, here are some other new ones that are worthy successors of the old chestnuts!
Ticket To Ride:
This multi award-winning game was published in 2004 to wide acclaim and popularity. It is designed as an old world travel game. Up to 5 players choose "destination cards" showing two cities between which they have to travel. Every turn they choose "railway car" cards -and in some versions, "ferry", and "tunnel" cards as well. There are even "locomotive" wildcards. Each player has to build unique networks between the two main cities as they go along, capturing different stations in the process. No two players can share the same route. This calls for a lot of delicious strategising. There are other secret goals to meet, the ultimate prize going to whoever completes his journey first. Its a beautifully designed game, and comes in three different map versions- the United States, Europe and Germany. Its popularity has seen it get a computer gaming avatar as well.
Another game in this tradition: Age Of Steam
Tigris And Euphrates:
This is a much more complex game, taking over an hour to complete, and all the better for it. The premise is simple. You will have to compete with at least 2 other players to build communities on a map between the two rivers. Like many other board games, it is played with coloured tiles representing religion, trading, farming and people. Then there are playing tiles, catastrophe tiles and unification tiles. The objective is to develop a fully functioning ancient civilsation with a careful balance of the four main components. A lopsided civilisation will get you lesser points. The player with the biggest score wins. This is, though, only the tip of the iceberg. This wonderfully complicated game has entire websites dedicated to strategies. Like all modern European board games, it is beautifully designed.
Another game in this tradition: Civilization
BattleLore:
This one's for the fantasy enthusiasts. Combining elements of history and outright “Lord of The Rings”-like fantasy, each of the two players is given the command over a vast array of armies- human and supernatural- and mercenaries like the Iron Dwarves and other mythical creatures. The objective is to capture the banner of the competing player through a series of adventures. Each player has his own war council, made up of lore masters, wizards, clerics, and warriors. Each stage is governed by different possibilities, which lead to an unforeseeable outcome. The "Player Powers" depend on the success of the adventures. The battles are card driven, and the different sculpted creatures, and hundreds of plastic figures add to the fun. If your troops are brimming with confidence, you can ignore enemy threats, and bring in the archers to gain the upper hand in a hand-to-hand conflict. Epic fantasy on a tabletop!
Another game in this tradition: Commands And Colours.
-Bibek Bhattacharya
Ticket To Ride:
This multi award-winning game was published in 2004 to wide acclaim and popularity. It is designed as an old world travel game. Up to 5 players choose "destination cards" showing two cities between which they have to travel. Every turn they choose "railway car" cards -and in some versions, "ferry", and "tunnel" cards as well. There are even "locomotive" wildcards. Each player has to build unique networks between the two main cities as they go along, capturing different stations in the process. No two players can share the same route. This calls for a lot of delicious strategising. There are other secret goals to meet, the ultimate prize going to whoever completes his journey first. Its a beautifully designed game, and comes in three different map versions- the United States, Europe and Germany. Its popularity has seen it get a computer gaming avatar as well.
Another game in this tradition: Age Of Steam
Tigris And Euphrates:
This is a much more complex game, taking over an hour to complete, and all the better for it. The premise is simple. You will have to compete with at least 2 other players to build communities on a map between the two rivers. Like many other board games, it is played with coloured tiles representing religion, trading, farming and people. Then there are playing tiles, catastrophe tiles and unification tiles. The objective is to develop a fully functioning ancient civilsation with a careful balance of the four main components. A lopsided civilisation will get you lesser points. The player with the biggest score wins. This is, though, only the tip of the iceberg. This wonderfully complicated game has entire websites dedicated to strategies. Like all modern European board games, it is beautifully designed.
Another game in this tradition: Civilization
BattleLore:
This one's for the fantasy enthusiasts. Combining elements of history and outright “Lord of The Rings”-like fantasy, each of the two players is given the command over a vast array of armies- human and supernatural- and mercenaries like the Iron Dwarves and other mythical creatures. The objective is to capture the banner of the competing player through a series of adventures. Each player has his own war council, made up of lore masters, wizards, clerics, and warriors. Each stage is governed by different possibilities, which lead to an unforeseeable outcome. The "Player Powers" depend on the success of the adventures. The battles are card driven, and the different sculpted creatures, and hundreds of plastic figures add to the fun. If your troops are brimming with confidence, you can ignore enemy threats, and bring in the archers to gain the upper hand in a hand-to-hand conflict. Epic fantasy on a tabletop!
Another game in this tradition: Commands And Colours.
-Bibek Bhattacharya
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Vignettes
I
In the event of any postal threat that you may have recieved, I would advise you to go to the Sierra Madre mountains. There is a little sign there that says "Beware, here be rattlesnakes." But don't be despirited. A regular humdinger if there was one, and make no mistake its a sign that I put up myself, as a well respected and concientous protector of peace, it is my solemn duty to inform the misplaced postal bureau that only if one exercises one's imagination can the red letter day come calling. Man I'm drunk.
II
It was dark, and the rain hadn't let up. Maggie called about an hour back, saying the baby needed some food. Shit. What world is this, where I can't get an hour's peace, never mind a drink. Something moved at the end of the alley. Can't be a cat. Cats hate rain. And it was something bigger. There it is again. I can't see too good because of the fucking rain, and there's no light. I walk on, a little warily. You can't trust Boston alleys, even if you've grown up there. Them fucking Irish bastards.
III
It was a little late in the day for apologies. I wanted him, and I wanted him bad. I wanted to make him bleed, to smash my boots down on his stinky rotten face and twist my heels. I wanted to hear him scream and drown them out with my own. I wanted all the hurt to go rushing at him like a bullet..a bullet as big as a building. All the blood in the world cannot satisfy this stink. Why this anger? Why? Motherfucker.
IV
I wonder what those flowers are called. Mother never told me. Or maybe she did and I've forgotten. All those years ago.Wang Wei, "Idly I watch Cassiopa flowers fall." What are cassiopas? I always imagined them to be white. I always pictured Wang Wei at dusk or at dawn. Light and dark. The drifting song of the water chestnut pickers as they wander home. What is home? That could be my home, though I've never been to China. I imagine the people living in the forgotten hills. Wang Wei says that you can only get there by following the grove of peach tree blossoms. And that too only if the forgotten land wants you to enter.
V
Welcome to Xanadu Station on 102.5 Night Time Radio FM with me Beq B. Tonight I've got for you The Beatles and Bob Dylan, John Coltrane and Satchmo, Memphis Minnie and the Dixietown Five. I got 'em as I like 'em, without labels and fully fancy free. Tonight we got no themes, but what we got is hurt. Yes my friend, what hurts can't be bad. It reminds you of the reason you're living, and the reason why you can't chuck what you're doing out of the window and follow it. Tonight I got songs that hurt, that ache till you can't breathe; songs that hurt so much that you smile. Here's Skip James with Hard Time Killing Floor Blues.
VI
Ever been to Benaras? I was there once, long ago, when I was in college. There was a light on that town that I never saw again. Sort of like sepia, only deeper, if you know what I mean. Of course, I can never say for sure, as I can't name colours too well. But it was there all the same. And the river. Ah my friend the river was holiest river I ever saw. No no, of course I don't believe in all that, but the thought of the Ganga flowing past the steps of that city makes me close my eyes and sigh. You know what, my most tangible memory of the place is an imagined one. About a storm on the river, a wild apocalyptic storm that I never actually saw. Makes you wonder huh? Memories.
In the event of any postal threat that you may have recieved, I would advise you to go to the Sierra Madre mountains. There is a little sign there that says "Beware, here be rattlesnakes." But don't be despirited. A regular humdinger if there was one, and make no mistake its a sign that I put up myself, as a well respected and concientous protector of peace, it is my solemn duty to inform the misplaced postal bureau that only if one exercises one's imagination can the red letter day come calling. Man I'm drunk.
II
It was dark, and the rain hadn't let up. Maggie called about an hour back, saying the baby needed some food. Shit. What world is this, where I can't get an hour's peace, never mind a drink. Something moved at the end of the alley. Can't be a cat. Cats hate rain. And it was something bigger. There it is again. I can't see too good because of the fucking rain, and there's no light. I walk on, a little warily. You can't trust Boston alleys, even if you've grown up there. Them fucking Irish bastards.
III
It was a little late in the day for apologies. I wanted him, and I wanted him bad. I wanted to make him bleed, to smash my boots down on his stinky rotten face and twist my heels. I wanted to hear him scream and drown them out with my own. I wanted all the hurt to go rushing at him like a bullet..a bullet as big as a building. All the blood in the world cannot satisfy this stink. Why this anger? Why? Motherfucker.
IV
I wonder what those flowers are called. Mother never told me. Or maybe she did and I've forgotten. All those years ago.Wang Wei, "Idly I watch Cassiopa flowers fall." What are cassiopas? I always imagined them to be white. I always pictured Wang Wei at dusk or at dawn. Light and dark. The drifting song of the water chestnut pickers as they wander home. What is home? That could be my home, though I've never been to China. I imagine the people living in the forgotten hills. Wang Wei says that you can only get there by following the grove of peach tree blossoms. And that too only if the forgotten land wants you to enter.
V
Welcome to Xanadu Station on 102.5 Night Time Radio FM with me Beq B. Tonight I've got for you The Beatles and Bob Dylan, John Coltrane and Satchmo, Memphis Minnie and the Dixietown Five. I got 'em as I like 'em, without labels and fully fancy free. Tonight we got no themes, but what we got is hurt. Yes my friend, what hurts can't be bad. It reminds you of the reason you're living, and the reason why you can't chuck what you're doing out of the window and follow it. Tonight I got songs that hurt, that ache till you can't breathe; songs that hurt so much that you smile. Here's Skip James with Hard Time Killing Floor Blues.
VI
Ever been to Benaras? I was there once, long ago, when I was in college. There was a light on that town that I never saw again. Sort of like sepia, only deeper, if you know what I mean. Of course, I can never say for sure, as I can't name colours too well. But it was there all the same. And the river. Ah my friend the river was holiest river I ever saw. No no, of course I don't believe in all that, but the thought of the Ganga flowing past the steps of that city makes me close my eyes and sigh. You know what, my most tangible memory of the place is an imagined one. About a storm on the river, a wild apocalyptic storm that I never actually saw. Makes you wonder huh? Memories.
A First Class Mook
A healthy start to the day. As Mister Kosher from the far away Firangi pani lodge was going over his morning options, it suddenly dawned upon him that the easiest way to the laundromat is through the kitchen. A holistic hostelier if there ever was one, Mister K happily nonced up the ladder to the buzzard-me-timbers and took down his coattail which he then proceeded to dangle from his ear like a neanderthal antenna of the soul. Ah the kitchen, he remembered. But the way to the kitchen is hard and its difficult for the righteous man to pick his way through the gravelly shite that lurks in the hearts of men. So he curved up the pantry way, took a sharp right from the bottle of Sherry and took three steps back over the upholstery and hey presto! He was in the kitchen. The kitchen was wearing its usual morning face, which is the same as its evening and night faces, but different fropm its lunchtime face. Never one to mess with the natural order of things, Mister K hit the mountain of pans like a hurricane in winter and blasted a way to the laundromat. But what's the use of a way to the laundromat if there isn't one at the end of the road? So he took off his coattail, attached a few rubber bands to the hook and stretched it to the nearest kettle snout. Now taut, he started thrumming on the vibrating rubber a curious melody of bass notes and higher, rising falling, till all the utensils were singing that same music of the spheres and vaguely cuboid life forms. Finally, as if magic, the first faint shapes of the laundromat began to throb into focus. Maybe if Mister K had been intent on this marvellous phenomenon, he would have continued till the event had reached fruition, but now his nostrils were tickled with the most delicious aroma of pan-fried chicken dancing in warm honey down from Mook's Corner. Needless to say the thrumming stopped. And then there was siilence. No, not really. There was the sound of Mister K carefully camouflaging the way to the laundromat with casually placed items of everyday kitchen-ware. There was also the sound of Mister K tiptoeing his way out the kitchen and through the rose alley and finally into the roling meadow called Mook's Head on Mook's Hill. Ah yes, there was Mook, a happy jumping presence in the hazy noon day sun. garnishing the chicken with love and care and doing an occassional happy jig whenever he thought of the mmmmm creation ending up in his gullet. Mister K decided to make his presence known. He was never one for sneaking up on food when he could stride to it.
Hallo there young Mook, he said, what's cooking by the brook?
Oh Great Mook, gasped young Mook, by the book, isn't that the lanky frame of Mister K dashing this way?
Surprised but eager to show off his new cook-book souped-up schtook, young Mook of Mook's Head on Mook's hill elaborately bowed and inwardly vowed that Mister K would not leave this day without uttering wow at the remarkable chicken that he'd been cooking this wide day.
What ho there Young Mook? Is that a delicious chicken I smell old fruit?
Oh yes Mister K, I dare say, a little something to pass this lazy day, said Mook.
Ah, capital, young fellow, it looks too good to eat, by my jowls, exclaimed the devious Mister K with a slight twitch of his snickered whiskers.
Too good to eat? Exclaimed the surprised Mook, who looked even more like a Mook when he was surprised. But my dear Mister K, as I live today, I say this chicken is for the pallette.
And of many hues too, cried the notorious K and pirouetted around on tippy-toes. The fried yellow here, and that honey red there. Ah my master artisan, what a veritable feast of the senses hast thou made!
A surprised young Mook gave way to a pleased-as-a-peach Mook. Words wouldn't come to his mouth even if he had sallowed an entire book. Thank you dear Mister K, its nothing really. Would you care for a bite?
A bite? Screamed an enraged Mister K. Oh to take a bite out of this most precious creation would be a sacrilege akin to eating all of it. No dear young Mook, what would your other Mooking relatives say? You don't want to be the black Mook in the family book would you? I tell you dear boy, this is a work of art and it deserves to be shown to all the humble parishioners of this county. Tell you what, said the mischievous Mister K, I know an Under Assistant East Coat Agent who'll be overjoyed to get it shown at the MeeRakow Institute Of Distinguished Feasts. Give me this chicken this instant and I guarantee you immortality.
Young Mook could already see himself rising to the top of the Mook pile. Why, maybe coming generations would gaze with awe on this spot and say, Now look here me hearties, for that is the very spot where young Mook authored his swan song!
Our story is near an end. It ends as you all imagine....a happy lunch for the noncing Mister K of Firangi Pani lodge and the shaming of poor unfortunate young Mook. For what its worth, story of this great Mookery became a happy bedtime story and a cautionary tale about gullible Mooks, and long afterwards, people would gaze with awe at Mook's Head on Mook's Hill and say, by my grand mam (may Heaven bless her breeches) , isn't that the selfsame spot where young Mook met his denouement!
Understandibly, not many people know of the Laundromat. A healthy start to the day for Mister Kosher.
Hallo there young Mook, he said, what's cooking by the brook?
Oh Great Mook, gasped young Mook, by the book, isn't that the lanky frame of Mister K dashing this way?
Surprised but eager to show off his new cook-book souped-up schtook, young Mook of Mook's Head on Mook's hill elaborately bowed and inwardly vowed that Mister K would not leave this day without uttering wow at the remarkable chicken that he'd been cooking this wide day.
What ho there Young Mook? Is that a delicious chicken I smell old fruit?
Oh yes Mister K, I dare say, a little something to pass this lazy day, said Mook.
Ah, capital, young fellow, it looks too good to eat, by my jowls, exclaimed the devious Mister K with a slight twitch of his snickered whiskers.
Too good to eat? Exclaimed the surprised Mook, who looked even more like a Mook when he was surprised. But my dear Mister K, as I live today, I say this chicken is for the pallette.
And of many hues too, cried the notorious K and pirouetted around on tippy-toes. The fried yellow here, and that honey red there. Ah my master artisan, what a veritable feast of the senses hast thou made!
A surprised young Mook gave way to a pleased-as-a-peach Mook. Words wouldn't come to his mouth even if he had sallowed an entire book. Thank you dear Mister K, its nothing really. Would you care for a bite?
A bite? Screamed an enraged Mister K. Oh to take a bite out of this most precious creation would be a sacrilege akin to eating all of it. No dear young Mook, what would your other Mooking relatives say? You don't want to be the black Mook in the family book would you? I tell you dear boy, this is a work of art and it deserves to be shown to all the humble parishioners of this county. Tell you what, said the mischievous Mister K, I know an Under Assistant East Coat Agent who'll be overjoyed to get it shown at the MeeRakow Institute Of Distinguished Feasts. Give me this chicken this instant and I guarantee you immortality.
Young Mook could already see himself rising to the top of the Mook pile. Why, maybe coming generations would gaze with awe on this spot and say, Now look here me hearties, for that is the very spot where young Mook authored his swan song!
Our story is near an end. It ends as you all imagine....a happy lunch for the noncing Mister K of Firangi Pani lodge and the shaming of poor unfortunate young Mook. For what its worth, story of this great Mookery became a happy bedtime story and a cautionary tale about gullible Mooks, and long afterwards, people would gaze with awe at Mook's Head on Mook's Hill and say, by my grand mam (may Heaven bless her breeches) , isn't that the selfsame spot where young Mook met his denouement!
Understandibly, not many people know of the Laundromat. A healthy start to the day for Mister Kosher.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
The Band
Another time, another band. A swing band, a country band, a blues band. But also a rock band? I dunno really. In case you're wondering, I'm reffering to my new band. And a cool band at that. It bops, rocks and shuffles. It plays songs about going back to the womb and plays major songs like Minor Swing. It hopes to play songs on drunkenness, and songs about feeling good, and neurotic songs about the story of a man of constant sorrow. Its a good feeling all right, especially when melancholic little 2-5-1 minor sketches etch out a movie soundtrack in the dead of the night and neighbours howl to hear the preacherman saying, "You gotta move, you gotta move. Cause when the Lord gets ready, you gotta move." When the only defence left is to blame it all on the whiskey.
I like the eclectic mix. A blues stylist, a jazz prof, a busy virtuoso and a charlatan CAN make music together, as we prove everytime that we possibly can. Let me introduce some members of the band.
O'Neil: Goes by many names, mostly shifting. Has been called many things in the past, the Fertility God not being the least of them. He likes a bottle-neck and one suspects has a weakness for raucousness...at least on the record. Off it, he's enthusiastic but overworked, probably grits his teeth privately, and unfortunately calls people "babu" affectionately. Enough said.
The Prof: Ever wanted to know about the aeolian cadences of Stephane Grappelli's gay violin when he played the Moonlight Sonata in the buff? Yes? Then don't go to the Prof. Cause the Prof will take deep thought and say, "You see, that was a top forty hit." What you could approach the Prof with are intricate problems like the best way to play Eb7 6th in the seventh cycle of a true tour-de-force.Or a piece-de-resistance? Don't ask me. The Prof's waiting for queries such as these with his mp3's and dvd's and a band in the box called Pandora.
Obbligato Virtuoso: Ever wanted to know what sound a deep sea excavatory machine on the bed of the Mississipi would make? Come to Obbligato, and he'll wobble some mandolin legatos in your direction while you were absently humming Dark Hollow.
Running Obbligato eaves dropped: "I have a sexy mandolin." "Beethoven was a bugeoise sentimentalist." "I like long flutes." "Did you ever think that the unconcious doesn't need the mirror stage to recognise a buxom girl when it sees on?" (The last one isn't true, but you can't say where his mind might wander to.)
Charlatan: I whistle, I sing, I bandanna, I bling. I disaggree wholeheartedly till I'm agreeing against myself. I write a song filched from another song filched from another song filched from Gershwin. I'm his 85th cousin twice removed. I want to sing Aguas De Marco, cause I don't know any better, and it would be even better if I could segue it into Grateful When You're Dead. Say yeah yeah yeah someone, or I'll be deeply umbraged.
So there you have it, a motley of many coloured hues, dusty from all the earthy songs we do. A phenomenon of a foothistory, a postmodern pachyderm. But who cares? Its great fun!!
I like the eclectic mix. A blues stylist, a jazz prof, a busy virtuoso and a charlatan CAN make music together, as we prove everytime that we possibly can. Let me introduce some members of the band.
O'Neil: Goes by many names, mostly shifting. Has been called many things in the past, the Fertility God not being the least of them. He likes a bottle-neck and one suspects has a weakness for raucousness...at least on the record. Off it, he's enthusiastic but overworked, probably grits his teeth privately, and unfortunately calls people "babu" affectionately. Enough said.
The Prof: Ever wanted to know about the aeolian cadences of Stephane Grappelli's gay violin when he played the Moonlight Sonata in the buff? Yes? Then don't go to the Prof. Cause the Prof will take deep thought and say, "You see, that was a top forty hit." What you could approach the Prof with are intricate problems like the best way to play Eb7 6th in the seventh cycle of a true tour-de-force.Or a piece-de-resistance? Don't ask me. The Prof's waiting for queries such as these with his mp3's and dvd's and a band in the box called Pandora.
Obbligato Virtuoso: Ever wanted to know what sound a deep sea excavatory machine on the bed of the Mississipi would make? Come to Obbligato, and he'll wobble some mandolin legatos in your direction while you were absently humming Dark Hollow.
Running Obbligato eaves dropped: "I have a sexy mandolin." "Beethoven was a bugeoise sentimentalist." "I like long flutes." "Did you ever think that the unconcious doesn't need the mirror stage to recognise a buxom girl when it sees on?" (The last one isn't true, but you can't say where his mind might wander to.)
Charlatan: I whistle, I sing, I bandanna, I bling. I disaggree wholeheartedly till I'm agreeing against myself. I write a song filched from another song filched from another song filched from Gershwin. I'm his 85th cousin twice removed. I want to sing Aguas De Marco, cause I don't know any better, and it would be even better if I could segue it into Grateful When You're Dead. Say yeah yeah yeah someone, or I'll be deeply umbraged.
So there you have it, a motley of many coloured hues, dusty from all the earthy songs we do. A phenomenon of a foothistory, a postmodern pachyderm. But who cares? Its great fun!!
Sunday, October 29, 2006
A Cavalry Charge
I recently saw a m0vie with a fantastic cavalry charge...yes cavalry charge. Remember the fascination that warlords of all shapes, sizes, hues and ideologies had for men on horses leading the line? Wasn't too long back either. In these days of stealth bombing and collateral damages, sweaty men riding frothing horses while waving a sword seems impossibly quaint. But as a scene from a movie made it vividly clear, they were as deadly as napalm bombings, and in their own way, perhaps more human.
Understandably, it is a fantasy. Peter Jackson's humungous, kill'em by the millions epic Lord Of The Rings-Return Of the King. The cavalry charge I refer to is the great ride of the Rohirrim in the shadow of Minas Tirith. The men of Gondor have been all but vanquished by the bloodyminded assault of the orcs and the assorted Nazgul. The demented Steward of Gondor, Denethor, is about to set fire to his own son, thinking all is lost. Gandalf the wizard is reduced to giving homilies to Pippin the hobbit that dying is not a bad thing after all, when it is heard, the horn of the Riders Of Rohan, come to beleagured Gondor's aid at last. Thanks to the MASSIVE animation used in the film, what we get is a long line of impressively arrayed Teutonic horsemen overlooking the slaughter of the men of the West. The orcs are enjoying themselves and the Nazgul are picking off the odd warrior here and there. King Theoden of Rohan is horrified by the carnage he sees. But then he steels himself and gears up for the final pep talk. Unlike your typical Braveheart-style harangue, where you feel like taking off Mel Gibson's Kilt just cause he looks so pompous, King Theoden's message is pretty simple. Here we are, and this is the last cavalry charge we're ever gonna do. So might as well fuck 'em. This is pretty grim kamikaze stuff, and his scream of "Ride Ride!" is as chilling as they could get. He leads the charge himself, on his white horse, at first ambling, then breaking into a brisk trot and finally into a no-holds barred assault. The orc-army is vaster than the Rohirrims, but the sheer momentum of the charge quails the orc-heart. And believe me dearies. When the Riders sweep through the ranks of the yelping orcs, it creates the strongest moment of the entire film, maybe of the entire Trilogy. Tolkien's book was always about the grim Teutonic fatality which lies at the heart of the Icelandic Eddas, the Norse myths and the Old English sagas. These were untamed and wild people that he was talking about, and never mind the nobility and the impressive genealogy of the charecters, during war you were supposed to go insane. A truly grand moment in the film, which made me a fan of cavalry charges.
Somebody in some book I read recently said that we are rapidly falling into the world of the impersonal. And cavalry charges were as personal as personal could be.
Understandably, it is a fantasy. Peter Jackson's humungous, kill'em by the millions epic Lord Of The Rings-Return Of the King. The cavalry charge I refer to is the great ride of the Rohirrim in the shadow of Minas Tirith. The men of Gondor have been all but vanquished by the bloodyminded assault of the orcs and the assorted Nazgul. The demented Steward of Gondor, Denethor, is about to set fire to his own son, thinking all is lost. Gandalf the wizard is reduced to giving homilies to Pippin the hobbit that dying is not a bad thing after all, when it is heard, the horn of the Riders Of Rohan, come to beleagured Gondor's aid at last. Thanks to the MASSIVE animation used in the film, what we get is a long line of impressively arrayed Teutonic horsemen overlooking the slaughter of the men of the West. The orcs are enjoying themselves and the Nazgul are picking off the odd warrior here and there. King Theoden of Rohan is horrified by the carnage he sees. But then he steels himself and gears up for the final pep talk. Unlike your typical Braveheart-style harangue, where you feel like taking off Mel Gibson's Kilt just cause he looks so pompous, King Theoden's message is pretty simple. Here we are, and this is the last cavalry charge we're ever gonna do. So might as well fuck 'em. This is pretty grim kamikaze stuff, and his scream of "Ride Ride!" is as chilling as they could get. He leads the charge himself, on his white horse, at first ambling, then breaking into a brisk trot and finally into a no-holds barred assault. The orc-army is vaster than the Rohirrims, but the sheer momentum of the charge quails the orc-heart. And believe me dearies. When the Riders sweep through the ranks of the yelping orcs, it creates the strongest moment of the entire film, maybe of the entire Trilogy. Tolkien's book was always about the grim Teutonic fatality which lies at the heart of the Icelandic Eddas, the Norse myths and the Old English sagas. These were untamed and wild people that he was talking about, and never mind the nobility and the impressive genealogy of the charecters, during war you were supposed to go insane. A truly grand moment in the film, which made me a fan of cavalry charges.
Somebody in some book I read recently said that we are rapidly falling into the world of the impersonal. And cavalry charges were as personal as personal could be.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Howl
Allen Ginsberg’s Howl and Other Writings, one of the 20th Century’s most influential books of poetry completes 50 years in print this year. And while Ginsberg is not around to perform it any more, the poem’s technique and message continues to find new followers and continuous relevance.
Published by the poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s City Lights press in 1956, the poem shot to fame after an article on the
To defend the book, literary experts testified on its merits, both as a literary text and as a social document. In addition to that, the book was strongly supported by the American Civil Liberties Union. Ferlinghetti won the case, and along with Ginsberg, escaped possible imprisonment after the presiding judge ruled in favour of the poem for its “redeeming social importance.” And thus, a legend was born.
The literary world’s introduction to Ginsberg’s first volume of poetry, Howl, especially the title poem, was a revelation. On October 6 1955, Ginsberg organised a group reading at the Six Gallery in
“Anyway I followed the whole gang of howling poets to the reading at Gallery Six (Six Gallery) that night, which was, among other important things, the night of the birth of the San Francisco Poetry Renaissance. Everyone was there. It was a mad night. And I was the one who got things jumping by going around collecting dimes and quarters from the rather stiff audience standing around in the gallery and coming back with three huge gallon jugs of California Burgundy and getting them all piffed so that by eleven o'clock when Alvah Goldbrook (Ginsberg) was reading his, wailing poem "Wail" (Howl) drunk with arms outspread everybody was yelling "Go! Go! Go!" (like a jam session) and old Rheinhold Cacoethes (Kenneth Rexroth) the father of the Frisco poetry scene was wiping tears in gladness.”[1]
Howl began on a note of extremes. The words did not wait to jump up and take the reader deep in to the experiences of the radical Beat generation in the heart of conservative America in the shadow of Senator McCarthy’s witch-hunt of communists, and the ever-present threat of war. Yet, it was as much a personal document as it was a call for social change, “…the first blow for freedom” as Ginsberg himself called it.
“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow- eyed and high sat
smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold- water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,”[2]
The rolling, muscular cadences of the long line does not let go, nor does it offer any respite. However, it does vary its pace, allow for a draw of breath, before blowing again, like a jazz saxophonist. The world described by the poem is a blistering vision of intense emotions and turmoil, of movement and of violence. The full prophetic message of the poem follows a process of condensing chaos into a closed space and then making it explode upon the senses and thus altering perception.
This contraction and jumps in space and time are what Ginsberg refers to as “ellipsis”- a way of presenting images as they flash through the mind. Thus you have the densely packed images in vivid cinematic detail that remove the voice of the author from the lines and help create a democratic area of reception where the images get translated according to the perception of the reader,
“…Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of
Thus all action is condensed into one white- hot moment producing and reproducing the same tropes through the repetition of words and lines and themes. This in turn, produces its own unique meanings.
The treatment of homoeroticism in the poem is fairly graphic. To Ginsberg, this was only a matter of taking Walt Whitman’s idea of democratic love to its logical conclusion. Ginsberg was himself homosexual and in Howl he describes the agony and ecstasy of the experience,
“who howled on their knees in the subway and were
dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
gardens and the grass of public parks and
cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
whomever come who may.”[4]
Even in all this self- referential action, strong allusions are constantly made to the terror and tyranny of the totalitarian American dream and its threat to destabilise all that he considers is the natural, the unmediated. Even the unabashed sexuality of many of the experiences are tempered with reminders of the wider social prudery,
“…who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
threads on the craftsman’s loom…”[5]
The poem goes into the prophetic mode only towards the end when Ginsberg screams of the loss of those madmen angels to the “sphinx of cement and aluminium” which “bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination…” The mad, loveless “Moloch” of repression; whose mind is “pure machinery”, blood of “running money… whose fingers are ten armies”; the spectre is the embodiment of all that is enslaving and castrating. Moloch is the mythical equivalent of Blake’s “Nobodaddy”, a fearful, jealous god, devouring the imagination- and by extension, the organic and political self- of man with his “granite cocks” and “monstrous bombs”. Moloch is Ginsberg’s metaphor of industrial
“…saw it all, the wild eyes!
The holy yells! They bade farewell!
They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
Carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!”[6]
Howl continues to be- along with Jack Kerouac’s On The Road- hugely popular with over a million copies in print. The relevance of Ginsberg’s vision has not faded with time, nor has his influence. Whether its Bob Dylan’s lyrics or the rap of New Journalism, Howl’s long line and social comment find echoes even today. Since his death in 1997, history has seen
-Bibek Bhattacharya
13.09.2006
[1] Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums,
[2]Allen Ginsberg, Howl and other Poems.
[3]ibid. pp. 10.
[4]ibid. pp. 13.
[5] ibid. pp 24.
[6]Allen Ginsberg, Howl and other Poems.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Choo
And here it is finally folks. My jab at consistent typing. I'm starting a serialised novel. Don't ask me what its about 'cause I dunno. I'm just gonna rap and ramble and see what I can come up with. A writing exercise if you please. When I take a break I'll be listening to Theme Time Radio with Your Host Bob Dylan. And so here it goes...
Net Wonders
To someone who doesn't really investigate the internet beyond the usual avenues- read me- sudden discoveries are the toast of life. Temporary residence at me friend Sathe's house and the lack of anything to do, has engendered the copious use- and abuse- of the internet. So when I'm not downloading songs like a madman (the entire new Bob Dylan album and Paul McCartney's latest for example), I keep stumbling across things which warm the cockles of my heart. The greatest joy has been afforded by my chance discovery of www.youtube.com. Like most things, its discover came by way of Wikipedia. A couple of days ago, while reading up on Kula Shaker, I came across a link to YouTube for some live appearance of the band or the other. Imagine my joy at finding a site where you can watch music videos, ads, live performances, blah blah blah.
So I watched a few George Harriso vids. Then some Beatles. Then Stones, Byrds, Who, Kinks, Kylie Minogue 'Agent Provocateur' lingerie ads. Ah the joy. I even signed up and downloaded videos and made a playlist and uploaded them.
Now I'm investigating the newly-launched Google video. Same concept, just more streamlined and corporatised. For this same reason, the quality of the videos are better...but the content is nowhere near as mindblowing as YouTube. Where else would you find, 15 different videos of The Who performing "My Generation", from 1965 to 2006! Or the Stones's 1967 Ed Sullivan show performance where they had to change the lyric of "Let's Spend The Night Together" to "Let's Spend Some Time Together". Or the studio film of the Beatles miming to "Rain" for Top Of The Pops? Fragulous I say. I'm smitten. I even have my own playlist called The Velvet Rope on the site!!!
A minor aside. Those interested in the urban myth of Paul McCartney dying in 1966 in a motorcycle crash, check out the fab Wikipedia write-up on the subject. Entire books have been written on the subject, one as recently as last year. Its too vast to explain in a paragraph. You'll find the article here
Once you've done that, check out this link. It'll lead to really fab download. A cultural artefact I daresay, in which the Dark Knight meets the Fab Four.
So I watched a few George Harriso vids. Then some Beatles. Then Stones, Byrds, Who, Kinks, Kylie Minogue 'Agent Provocateur' lingerie ads. Ah the joy. I even signed up and downloaded videos and made a playlist and uploaded them.
Now I'm investigating the newly-launched Google video. Same concept, just more streamlined and corporatised. For this same reason, the quality of the videos are better...but the content is nowhere near as mindblowing as YouTube. Where else would you find, 15 different videos of The Who performing "My Generation", from 1965 to 2006! Or the Stones's 1967 Ed Sullivan show performance where they had to change the lyric of "Let's Spend The Night Together" to "Let's Spend Some Time Together". Or the studio film of the Beatles miming to "Rain" for Top Of The Pops? Fragulous I say. I'm smitten. I even have my own playlist called The Velvet Rope on the site!!!
A minor aside. Those interested in the urban myth of Paul McCartney dying in 1966 in a motorcycle crash, check out the fab Wikipedia write-up on the subject. Entire books have been written on the subject, one as recently as last year. Its too vast to explain in a paragraph. You'll find the article here
Once you've done that, check out this link. It'll lead to really fab download. A cultural artefact I daresay, in which the Dark Knight meets the Fab Four.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Pot Pourri
What is it with Paul McCartney and grass? The weed has such a hold on him that even today, some 42 years after he probably smoked up for the first time, he continues to espouse it. Even the man who had allegedly rolled it for the Fabs in 1964 seems to have given up the joys of the weed. And though Paul's ouvre or his appeal will never be on the counter-culture scale of Dylan's, none can accuse him of being a conservative or a sell-out either. Important as his music has been, its those little quirks about him that still endears him to the young turks and makes him a godfather and not a grandfather. Let me try to put this into some perspective.
Paul was late to the scene in the 60's. Lennon and Harrison beat him to mind-expanders. But once he got there, he fell in love for life. First grass and then acid. It was Paul who actually wrote that famous ode to pot- 'Got To Get You Into My Life'. And again, it was he who went public with acid first in '68. In between, The Beatles were the biggest name to sign a landmark petition to legalise and de-criminalise marijuana. Well, those were the days, and it seemed natural that the fabs would be involved neck-deep.
What's intriguing is that despite McCartney's long creative slide since the demise of the group , and his percieved 'square'ness among hip circles, his fondness for the radical smoke of choice never wavered. He ambitiously, and injudiciously, planted cannabis plants inj his Arizona ranch, only to be busted. Then in 1980, he was arrested in Tokyo airport for carrying grass on his person. Following that particular peak, no more was heard of his fondness of the weed. Linda being as much part of the 60's set as Paul, it seemed unlikely that she would do something as square as banning the dope. Come to think of it...vegetarianism, peace, love and grass...sounds familiar, doesn't it? Only, McCartney wrote 'Silly Love Songs' to make the point where he had written 'Here There And Everywhere' before. Just a slight decline in standards, not in faith. Then, after a long lack of any news on McCartney's smoking habits, comes this big one in 1997.
The recently knighted McCartney, in the wake of the immense successful Beatles Anthology and the acclaimed solo album Flaming Pie, goes and marks the 30th anniversary of the Summer Of Love by saying that he still thinks cannabis should be legalised, at least decriminalised! Furore furore everywhere! A knight of the British Empire? Unthinkable! Simplify man!
But all things must pass. Around 2000, McCartney falls in love with Heather Mills. Heather is no hippy, and so McCartney has to choose between love and the drag. He opts for love, and makes an announcement about it. Why not? Such long relationships don't just end, and that too without fanfare. As is his wont, McCartney's pot references have been missing for some time now...but Heather Mills too is gone...now, erm, matey...could I have a drag? After all, his latest album does have a sweet song about, ahem, English tea...
A minor aside. When McCartney quit, it caused many around the world to shed a tear or two. Message boards on countless green sites were full of heated discussions about whether this was right, or whether Heather was jealous or if Paul had a supplier or grew it himself. If he grew it, then, as one punter said, the plant should be procured and put o good use. After all, as he said, he would be honoured to smoke the leaf from the plant that supplied Macca's tokes... here's the link:
boards.cannabis.com/
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Monkey
If a great town was known for its sound, would the ruhing heebeejeebies come and steal whatever little fruit from the town orchards. A ponderous question it is, and one that deserves as little attention as can be given it. On the other hand was a monkey who hated mistakes. His was a hard life, trying to be perfect and hustling the right people to better his lot in the order of things. Not that he really objected to any objectification that came his way. After all, it got him grants and entry to select parties where he could avoid making mistakes and wear a beard just to be sure. One day he decided to go abroad to better his lot and lay the foundation for future wealth. Who wouldn't want a little bit of money for a tail comb. So he wrote books of fantasy and gave exams in a/c trees. Alcohol he touched but only so.
In the red corner was the marmeluke counterpart of the Syrian flagstaff who said he came from a house of infidels that did not know. But then if your lot is to be stuck on mountain peaks with the best of them, then you might pine for donkey's tails.
Cheerio and good luck.
In the red corner was the marmeluke counterpart of the Syrian flagstaff who said he came from a house of infidels that did not know. But then if your lot is to be stuck on mountain peaks with the best of them, then you might pine for donkey's tails.
Cheerio and good luck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
