Ad-libbing lyrics in songs is one of the more fun things one can do in a group, especially a drunken group. Now whether it be at Fuzz Club/BLEACH or at Yorks or even General, some of the most hilarious times I recall were usually right after some particularly funny ad-libs. The classics of course, were the “B-sides” that involved mainly AJG and me (and often an army of others) turning songs by Rage Against The Machine, System Of A Down, Disturbed and countless other bands into paeans to cheese and ham, brioche rolls, sleeping till late and some other less-than-complimentary concepts attributed (perhaps unfairly) to a friend of ours.
Then there were the General Sessions© that featured musical tributes to chips, Johnson’s stupidity, gaathia, all-night dandia and other such essential elements of life to the music of Bon Jovi, Metallica, Godsmack, Limp Bizkit and such like. The purpose of this exercise was not because we were devoid of original ideas. In fact, far from it. We enjoyed these songs and wanted to put a new twist on them. A customisation to suit present company. And it was a hoot. It was never for commercial gains or success either.
The major success one gained from this ad-libbing was being able to elicit laughter. If you did a particularly funny rhyme, your target got laughed at and if you’re ad-lib was lame, you were the one being laughed at. Everyone was a winner. And at the end of the night, each original track still had its dignity. Even professional bands ad-lib. Some change their own lyrics, some borrow lyrics from another band’s song and throw them in, just to get a pop out of audiences. But none of this is done with a view to making oneself seem cool or to make money. It’s always just about making a good time slightly more special.
Which is probably why I was mildly irritated (initially) and damn near apoplectic a few minutes later after listening to a song by another one of those dime-a-dozen products that America keeps churning out of its cookie-cutter of shit.
When I watched The Wedding Singer over 12 years ago, a song that plays at the very start of the film caught my attention. The song had that typically 80s vibe which made it catchy as hell and it got stuck in my head like a fishhook. Being an 80s classic, of course the theme was rooted in that era — it’s a song about hitting on someone, nothing particularly lewd or crude. Playful, more than anything. It was years later that a cover of that song by a nu-metal band, blew my mind. While preserving the playful theme and flow of the original, the song was now harder, edgier and rocked way way harder.
Now we return to 2010. A few years after Dope had “had their way now, bay-bayyyyyy” with Dead or Alive’s track, some unoriginal dipshit (look at his name if you need further evidence) called Flo Rida decides to get himself a piece of the action. Don’t get me wrong. I love covers that are vastly different from the originals, as long as they are a reflection of the spirit of the original song. One such cover is Terrible Lie (Maynard James Keenan’s version of a Nine Inch Nails track).
But back to Flo Rida now (what’s next? A reggae act called Mass Achu Setts?). So if it’s not bad enough that he wants to have a name like that, he decides to mess with a classic. In the process, he ropes in a woman (with probably the most ghetto-ass name out there) called Kesha (or is it Ke$ha?). And they go and turn You Spin Me Around (Like a Record) into a song about oral sex. What the hell, man?
“You spin my head round, when you go down-down?” Are you serious? Then after “Ke$ha” has finished singing that line, Mr Rida jumps in with something that sounds like “hibidi jibidi dibidi doo, hibidi jibidi dibidi foo” (I shit you not. If you don’t want to take my word for it, assail your ears and listen to it. It actually sounds like that). What he probably meant was something like “my ride’s so dope, my bling gives me hope, come play with my rope”. It’s horrific that people can get away with something like that. I’m all for songs about sex, sure. But not every song needs to be about sex. And these fuckwits killed the spirit of the song by shitting all over it for nothing but commercial purposes. Songs about fucking sell. It wasn’t something special done at a live show or among friends.
And I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me that I have a bias against hip-hop. You’re going to tell me to stop taking lyrics so seriously because “the song is great to dance to”. Well first of all, I don’t think the song is hip-hop at all. There’s hip-hop and there’s pop music, both of which are genres that know where they stand and do their thing. I may not be a fan, but they believe in what they’re doing. Hip-pop is the category that this cock-sucking cover falls under. It’s got all the “bling-bling, guns, bitches and hos” stereotypes from hip-hop and the manufactured fakeness of what passes for pop (not talking about the late MJ here) today.
As for the point about dancing to it, go for it, dance to it. I don’t think it was ever my contention that you shouldn’t dance to it. I was merely railing against the uninspired, unoriginal, lame way Mr Rida (or the person who writes his “music”) decided to turn one of the most playful songs ever into just another piece of drivel about fucking. And there’s so much of it out there already. Just what are you trying to prove? That you have a dick?
Answers may be sent to the usual address. (I really hope he or ghetto-ass name woman reply)
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
With apologies to...
... Jishnu Dasgupta, Sid Coutto and Wesley (I’m sorry but I do not know your surname)
There’s no easy way of saying this, so I’d like to preface this post by saying that none of this is meant to be hurtful or malicious, but it is something that needs to be said. So, here goes. They say that the mighty French football team at the 2002 World Cup faltered and fell apart not so much as a result of being crappy. It wasn’t that they did so appallingly because the opposition was mind-blowingly better.
Napoleon didn’t lose out in Waterloo because he was a poor tactician. Goliath wasn’t slain by David because the latter was a champion fighter. The United States didn’t get ripped to shreds in Vietnam because the US Army was a shoddy armed force. The one thing that I can really put my finger on that is common to all these vanquished parties that I mentioned is their complacency, which led to their fall.
Similarly, I honestly believe complacency ruined Friday night for me. Yes, to a large extent, my own complacency did so too. I did take it as a given that a night with x performing at y venue would be a guaranteed awesome night. I got complacent and was ultimately shown up by a decidedly mediocre and — to quote Gautam Gambhir — ‘ordinary’ night.
To digress ever so slightly, I recall an orthodontist of mine in New Delhi over 12 years ago, Dr Vinod Verma (whoo hoo, I’d been killing myself to remember his name) said something that’s still stuck in my head. I was on one of the chairs there getting a tune up on my braces (yes, I did have braces; hence, my wonderfully shaped teeth today) and one of his assistants was working on this boy’s biters, rippers and gnashers. His dad — one of those typical businessman-types, who would probably have given his son a lame looking beige and orange toy car on his birthday instead of a nice red one, because the former cost a rupee less.
He looked disdainfully at the assistant and then at Dr Verma and said, “I don’t want the assistant working on my son. I came to your practice because I thought you would do it.” The assistant walked away a little hurt and after the man left with his son, Dr Verma said, “They think that because they pay a man, they own his soul.” Made sense then. Still does today.
So no, I do not believe that just because I pay a cover charge or a ticket fee that I own the artiste or venue management’s soul. Yet at the same time, I do believe I’m entitled to a certain quality of entertainment and service respectively. Let’s deal with the latter first. Dealing with the franchise that it was and with staff like Wesley (who is among the hardest working and yet, politest waiters I have ever seen), you would have thought that the Mumbai chapter of that rock music-themed restaurant/bar would put up a better show.
Sadly not. Poorly managed seating-standing coupled with insipid food (a far cry from what the food used to be like). Complacency.
But, I didn’t really go to that place for the food or the ambience. I went for the music. One band I’d heard good things about but never seen live really (apart from some semi acoustic show at a rooftop Bandra restaurant). I’d heard nothing but good things about them hitherto. We’ll call them A. Then there was a band I’ve seen live lots of times before and they’ve never failed to please. We’ll call them B. And band C, we’ll call them Pentagram.
A, for some reason I don’t really know, were abysmal. It’s even worse when the band you’re watching think they’re the cat’s whiskers. But really... Honestly, A... go back to the drawing boards. B realised that they’ve been complacently putting up the same routine day-in-day-out. It doesn’t work if the audience doesn’t really give a rat’s ass and would rather get a beer than listen to some childish “sixth grade Michael Moore logic” sociopolitical rants from an act that really ought to know better. That’s some more complacency right there. Change the routine and ditch the clichéd skit you put on every time, B and don’t for God’s sake, make the mistake of imagining yourself to be Rage Against The Machine, because you are not. That still doesn’t forgive the distinctly flat show put on.
Pentagram though, were incredible.
But I couldn’t help thinking that the show overall was a massive waste of time. I complacently believed that it would be as good as always. But then B probably went in with the belief that the crowd would be as receptive as always. Just as A probably believed that everyone was going to love their music as much as the small group of sycophants they deal with (or fans of the previous band they were in), did.
An unsatisfactory night begets an unsatisfactory post.
Prost!!
(sorry)
There’s no easy way of saying this, so I’d like to preface this post by saying that none of this is meant to be hurtful or malicious, but it is something that needs to be said. So, here goes. They say that the mighty French football team at the 2002 World Cup faltered and fell apart not so much as a result of being crappy. It wasn’t that they did so appallingly because the opposition was mind-blowingly better.
Napoleon didn’t lose out in Waterloo because he was a poor tactician. Goliath wasn’t slain by David because the latter was a champion fighter. The United States didn’t get ripped to shreds in Vietnam because the US Army was a shoddy armed force. The one thing that I can really put my finger on that is common to all these vanquished parties that I mentioned is their complacency, which led to their fall.
Similarly, I honestly believe complacency ruined Friday night for me. Yes, to a large extent, my own complacency did so too. I did take it as a given that a night with x performing at y venue would be a guaranteed awesome night. I got complacent and was ultimately shown up by a decidedly mediocre and — to quote Gautam Gambhir — ‘ordinary’ night.
To digress ever so slightly, I recall an orthodontist of mine in New Delhi over 12 years ago, Dr Vinod Verma (whoo hoo, I’d been killing myself to remember his name) said something that’s still stuck in my head. I was on one of the chairs there getting a tune up on my braces (yes, I did have braces; hence, my wonderfully shaped teeth today) and one of his assistants was working on this boy’s biters, rippers and gnashers. His dad — one of those typical businessman-types, who would probably have given his son a lame looking beige and orange toy car on his birthday instead of a nice red one, because the former cost a rupee less.
He looked disdainfully at the assistant and then at Dr Verma and said, “I don’t want the assistant working on my son. I came to your practice because I thought you would do it.” The assistant walked away a little hurt and after the man left with his son, Dr Verma said, “They think that because they pay a man, they own his soul.” Made sense then. Still does today.
So no, I do not believe that just because I pay a cover charge or a ticket fee that I own the artiste or venue management’s soul. Yet at the same time, I do believe I’m entitled to a certain quality of entertainment and service respectively. Let’s deal with the latter first. Dealing with the franchise that it was and with staff like Wesley (who is among the hardest working and yet, politest waiters I have ever seen), you would have thought that the Mumbai chapter of that rock music-themed restaurant/bar would put up a better show.
Sadly not. Poorly managed seating-standing coupled with insipid food (a far cry from what the food used to be like). Complacency.
But, I didn’t really go to that place for the food or the ambience. I went for the music. One band I’d heard good things about but never seen live really (apart from some semi acoustic show at a rooftop Bandra restaurant). I’d heard nothing but good things about them hitherto. We’ll call them A. Then there was a band I’ve seen live lots of times before and they’ve never failed to please. We’ll call them B. And band C, we’ll call them Pentagram.
A, for some reason I don’t really know, were abysmal. It’s even worse when the band you’re watching think they’re the cat’s whiskers. But really... Honestly, A... go back to the drawing boards. B realised that they’ve been complacently putting up the same routine day-in-day-out. It doesn’t work if the audience doesn’t really give a rat’s ass and would rather get a beer than listen to some childish “sixth grade Michael Moore logic” sociopolitical rants from an act that really ought to know better. That’s some more complacency right there. Change the routine and ditch the clichéd skit you put on every time, B and don’t for God’s sake, make the mistake of imagining yourself to be Rage Against The Machine, because you are not. That still doesn’t forgive the distinctly flat show put on.
Pentagram though, were incredible.
But I couldn’t help thinking that the show overall was a massive waste of time. I complacently believed that it would be as good as always. But then B probably went in with the belief that the crowd would be as receptive as always. Just as A probably believed that everyone was going to love their music as much as the small group of sycophants they deal with (or fans of the previous band they were in), did.
An unsatisfactory night begets an unsatisfactory post.
Prost!!
(sorry)
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Get your hands off my tune, mothertruckers
(Note: The subject of my Republic Day rant has me so befuddled and confused that I’ve spent the last 23 minutes and 42 seconds of my life trying to work out an intro that makes sense. And I’ve come up with nothing. That’s how disoriented I am by this whole thing. I’ll give it a shot anyway)
I don’t understand and never have completely grasped why Mainstream Hindi Cinema (MHC for short) and its proponents have always been completely at ease with their industry being called “Bollywood”. So much so that for a while, there have been tags like “Kollywood”, “Tollywood” and even urghh... even “Lollywood” being thrown around to describe different industries.
I refuse to go into the etymology or nomenclature of those bastardised phrases, suffice it to say that despite overtaking the American film industry in the 1970s, people were still so in awe of phoren maal, the West (most notably Amreeka) and aping them in every way that they decided that it made perfect sense to take the fact that a city called Hollywood happens to house a set of film studies and turn into “Bollywood” as a catch-all for MHC.
In the 2000s with spiralling film budgets and MHC films/actors being recognised across the world, the “Bollywood” fraternity has decided that it hates the name. It hates the fact that as a result of Hollywood, the MHC’s name is forever going to be known as this shitty portmanteau of Hollywood and Bombay (which is now called Mumbai. There, I said it. Now don’t you dare come and wreck my blog, you shit-for-brains. You know who you are).
And so, the MHC as a whole went on this killing spree of sorts. Let’s take everything nice and pleasant in the world and ruin it. Switzerland was first on their hit-list and courtesy Yash Chopra, they succeeded with aplomb. The Maldives, the Seychelles, Sun City (South Africa), Singapore, New York and London were the next targets. Countries across the world began shaking in fear.
Calls were frantically made from one nation to another. “Listen pal, I know you guys and us guys got issues,” said a Palestinian diplomatic to an Israeli one, “But this is bigger than all that. We need to protect ourselves from a bigger threat.” The Mexicans told their Cuban “ese”s to “Relax meng, cuz joo know we gotta save ourselves and our families, joo know”. Meanwhile over in Far East Asia, “people be tripping” just like “when Godzilla be coming, they be all ‘Gaica! Gaica!’.”
Damn. Meandered off the path again.
Anyway so once all those nations safeguarded themselves, these filthy MHCers set their crosshairs on what was once a sacred institution. A rite of passage. A test that separate the boys from the... bigger boys. The game of cricket. With a saboteur-in-chief on the inside, the MHCers tore apart the institution that once was cricket. Cricket turned to a three-letter acronym shared by a club called the Irish Protestant Ladies. That crushing last attack left most people reeling, bleeding and gasping for air, while all along praying, “Please Lord, let this be the end of their reign of destruction.”
Meanwhile, the good people in Marathi Cinema put out one brilliant movie after another to try and save the world from these MHC-mothertruckers, but the shittiest (there really is no better word) films ever made (so bad that they make Hiroshima Mon Amour look like a great film... I didn’t think it was possible either) by the MHC still drew bigger crowds. By this point one would believe that the MHC had made its point against the world. The whole world wanted to just forget all about that name “Bollywood” that had angered the MHC so.
The MHC was having none of it.
Finally, today, drunk with the power the MHC did the unthinkable. It attacked a major Indian institution that wasn’t a sport. It was a part of all our histories. If you ever watched Doordarshan (in the days when we had only one TV channel... and DD-Metro), you will know what I’m talking about and maybe you like it, perhaps you love it... shit, you may even hate it or find it cheesy. But you respect it.
Combining elements from most parts of India, with some eminent personalities of the time, this six-or-so-minute capsule carried by a song that translates literally to “When your tune meets mine, the tune becomes ours”, was first aired on Independence Day in 1988. Written by ad-man Piyush Pandey, this little segment often played between shows to make up time that hadn’t been bought by advertisers. Or there were no ads about upcoming shows. I don’t know. All I know is that if a certain show got over and there were 7 or 8 minutes left till the next one, BANG! This would play. Watch it for yourself, if you haven’t a clue about what I’m saying.
Seen it? Like it? I like it too. A lot. Especially the part at 5 minutes and a second that sounds like it was written by Europe (of The Final Countdown fame, if you weren’t sure that is).
Which is why I was highly pissed off to see the new version they were playing on some shitty channel. I refuse to put up the videos here so if you are curious to see why I’m so piqued, go here and here. It’s so damn long that it’s divided into two parts. It runs at a whopping 16 minutes, gets boring in no time, has a few flashes of brilliance — Sivamani, Gino/Louis Banks, Anoushka Shankar and Ustad Amjad Ali Khan and sons.
The rest of it is the most heinous act ever carried out by the MHCers. EVER. While a sportsperson like Baichung Bhutia — who has given nearly as much time to Indian football as Sachin has to Indian cricket — gets barely a couple of seconds onscreen, these MHC floozies-posing-as-actresses get nearly 30-40 seconds EACH. These flavour-of-the-month idiots who are obviously lip-syncing prance around like idiots and we’re supposed to believe this shit is “the new generation’s Mile Sur Mera Tumhara”?.
Sorry bub, go back to the drawing boards because this shit don’t fly. This is one institution that those — screw it, I don’t care — Bollywood boneheads will not ruin for me. Who’s with me?
I don’t understand and never have completely grasped why Mainstream Hindi Cinema (MHC for short) and its proponents have always been completely at ease with their industry being called “Bollywood”. So much so that for a while, there have been tags like “Kollywood”, “Tollywood” and even urghh... even “Lollywood” being thrown around to describe different industries.
I refuse to go into the etymology or nomenclature of those bastardised phrases, suffice it to say that despite overtaking the American film industry in the 1970s, people were still so in awe of phoren maal, the West (most notably Amreeka) and aping them in every way that they decided that it made perfect sense to take the fact that a city called Hollywood happens to house a set of film studies and turn into “Bollywood” as a catch-all for MHC.
In the 2000s with spiralling film budgets and MHC films/actors being recognised across the world, the “Bollywood” fraternity has decided that it hates the name. It hates the fact that as a result of Hollywood, the MHC’s name is forever going to be known as this shitty portmanteau of Hollywood and Bombay (which is now called Mumbai. There, I said it. Now don’t you dare come and wreck my blog, you shit-for-brains. You know who you are).
And so, the MHC as a whole went on this killing spree of sorts. Let’s take everything nice and pleasant in the world and ruin it. Switzerland was first on their hit-list and courtesy Yash Chopra, they succeeded with aplomb. The Maldives, the Seychelles, Sun City (South Africa), Singapore, New York and London were the next targets. Countries across the world began shaking in fear.
Calls were frantically made from one nation to another. “Listen pal, I know you guys and us guys got issues,” said a Palestinian diplomatic to an Israeli one, “But this is bigger than all that. We need to protect ourselves from a bigger threat.” The Mexicans told their Cuban “ese”s to “Relax meng, cuz joo know we gotta save ourselves and our families, joo know”. Meanwhile over in Far East Asia, “people be tripping” just like “when Godzilla be coming, they be all ‘Gaica! Gaica!’.”
Damn. Meandered off the path again.
Anyway so once all those nations safeguarded themselves, these filthy MHCers set their crosshairs on what was once a sacred institution. A rite of passage. A test that separate the boys from the... bigger boys. The game of cricket. With a saboteur-in-chief on the inside, the MHCers tore apart the institution that once was cricket. Cricket turned to a three-letter acronym shared by a club called the Irish Protestant Ladies. That crushing last attack left most people reeling, bleeding and gasping for air, while all along praying, “Please Lord, let this be the end of their reign of destruction.”
Meanwhile, the good people in Marathi Cinema put out one brilliant movie after another to try and save the world from these MHC-mothertruckers, but the shittiest (there really is no better word) films ever made (so bad that they make Hiroshima Mon Amour look like a great film... I didn’t think it was possible either) by the MHC still drew bigger crowds. By this point one would believe that the MHC had made its point against the world. The whole world wanted to just forget all about that name “Bollywood” that had angered the MHC so.
The MHC was having none of it.
Finally, today, drunk with the power the MHC did the unthinkable. It attacked a major Indian institution that wasn’t a sport. It was a part of all our histories. If you ever watched Doordarshan (in the days when we had only one TV channel... and DD-Metro), you will know what I’m talking about and maybe you like it, perhaps you love it... shit, you may even hate it or find it cheesy. But you respect it.
Combining elements from most parts of India, with some eminent personalities of the time, this six-or-so-minute capsule carried by a song that translates literally to “When your tune meets mine, the tune becomes ours”, was first aired on Independence Day in 1988. Written by ad-man Piyush Pandey, this little segment often played between shows to make up time that hadn’t been bought by advertisers. Or there were no ads about upcoming shows. I don’t know. All I know is that if a certain show got over and there were 7 or 8 minutes left till the next one, BANG! This would play. Watch it for yourself, if you haven’t a clue about what I’m saying.
Seen it? Like it? I like it too. A lot. Especially the part at 5 minutes and a second that sounds like it was written by Europe (of The Final Countdown fame, if you weren’t sure that is).
Which is why I was highly pissed off to see the new version they were playing on some shitty channel. I refuse to put up the videos here so if you are curious to see why I’m so piqued, go here and here. It’s so damn long that it’s divided into two parts. It runs at a whopping 16 minutes, gets boring in no time, has a few flashes of brilliance — Sivamani, Gino/Louis Banks, Anoushka Shankar and Ustad Amjad Ali Khan and sons.
The rest of it is the most heinous act ever carried out by the MHCers. EVER. While a sportsperson like Baichung Bhutia — who has given nearly as much time to Indian football as Sachin has to Indian cricket — gets barely a couple of seconds onscreen, these MHC floozies-posing-as-actresses get nearly 30-40 seconds EACH. These flavour-of-the-month idiots who are obviously lip-syncing prance around like idiots and we’re supposed to believe this shit is “the new generation’s Mile Sur Mera Tumhara”?.
Sorry bub, go back to the drawing boards because this shit don’t fly. This is one institution that those — screw it, I don’t care — Bollywood boneheads will not ruin for me. Who’s with me?
Friday, October 30, 2009
All spinal-tapped out...
Alternatively, the title of this post could very well be Who the hell is MJ? - Volume 2. But that would take away from the point of this particular post and so it would not be a very good title after all. Now MJ was always in the business of blowing people’s regularly and consistently and even after his death, “let me tell you, cousin, business is booming”.
What was downright bizarre was how someone in that level of fitness, was found as such a broken man when they found his body. There’s no way that person could be the same MJ. Note: I am not supporting Joe Jackson’s theory about the use of body doubles. And at the same time, MJ was one of the only people onscreen who wore full-sleeves throughout the documentary. You never get to see his arms. Which leads me to believe that a) he may have been cold (Thank you, Chim-tee) or b) his arms were covered with injection marks, which would seem logical.
But, now’s not the time to discuss all that. I hear the film’s in theatres only for two weeks. Go watch it. You won’t be sorry. Just as I’m not sorry that I’m not ending this post with some lame way using the phrase “This is It”.
Chamone!
P.S. - Also saw the trailer for the upcoming 2012 and well, that did a whole different number on my spine. There’s a special place in my heart for disaster films and this particular one is shaping up very nicely to occupy a little corner in that special place.
But that’s not what this post is about; it’s actually about my back — one that’s reputed for its constant propensity to leave me in tremendous pain. Today was dif—... Apologies, it’s tomorrow now, so, yesterday’s back issues were different. Markedly so. The last time my back got this sort of treatment was... well, I don’t remember really. Enough foreplay now, I think.
I’m still recovering from the countless chills that travelled up and down my spine like it was the goddamn Bandra-Worli Sealink, as I watched This is It last night. As I’m sure a gigantic majority of you, 
dear readers are aware it’s the posthumously edited film containing footage of MJ preparing for his 50-date O2 Arena engagement in London. Now the first thought that entered my mind was that it was either going to begin or end with the “real story” of MJ’s demise and honestly, that would have sucked. Big time.
Fortunately though there was none of that. Only rehearsals and the build-up to the the mammoth London tour. If it’s just one city, I’m not sure if it can be called a tour or not. Hmmm.. something to think about.
Anyway, I won’t go into too many details, so I’ll keep it short. I think it’s fair to say that IF he’d lived on to actually perform the kind of show he was planning... I realise that’s a huge “if”, but stay with me. If he’d actually performed even one of those shows, I can guaran-damn-tee that it would have been the finest live performance ever ever ever witnessed anywhere on this planet. (Sorry Till, Cristoph, Oli, Richard, Flake and Paul... I can’t wait to get my mits on your newest album though, if that’s any consolation)
Where was I? Ah yes, let’s just put it this way, the kind of budget the show had and the way green-screen (chroma to some of you) was being used all over the place and music videos were being created on a whim... well, it’s a kind of Roland Emmerich, Stephen Sommers, Ridley Scott and Peter Jackson project with William Gibson, Anne Rice and Haruki Murakami ideas... And obviously, the music is banging!
I’m gushing, I realise. You would too if your spinal column had been turned to jelly over the course of around two hours or so. Jelly-fic! The kind of attention to detail the man paid was something that really shines in the film or maybe the film’s made to look like he was hands-on. I don’t know. I especially enjoyed the bits where he was
communicating and sharing ideas with musicians on how to mix it up with songs, by singing the parts for them, whether “bum-ba-thish-thish-boo-doo-ba” to the bassist or hitting one of them high-pitched notes for the incredibly talented Orianthi Panagaris (in picture) to work out a guitar solo. Not once did he cheapen his music to chords and notes and octave this and bar that. His tunes were always beyond all that.
What was weird though, was his repeated “God bless you”s, but then he was always supposedly a bit kookie. What I felt also was that this massive routine that was being planned — though visually and aurally fantastic — would probably get a little old by the 12th or 13th show. Once you’ve seen it and been mesmerised, would it hold the same awe the next time around? Maybe they had different routines planned. Maybe they expected a new set of 20,000-odd people to turn up to each show.
dear readers are aware it’s the posthumously edited film containing footage of MJ preparing for his 50-date O2 Arena engagement in London. Now the first thought that entered my mind was that it was either going to begin or end with the “real story” of MJ’s demise and honestly, that would have sucked. Big time.Fortunately though there was none of that. Only rehearsals and the build-up to the the mammoth London tour. If it’s just one city, I’m not sure if it can be called a tour or not. Hmmm.. something to think about.
Anyway, I won’t go into too many details, so I’ll keep it short. I think it’s fair to say that IF he’d lived on to actually perform the kind of show he was planning... I realise that’s a huge “if”, but stay with me. If he’d actually performed even one of those shows, I can guaran-damn-tee that it would have been the finest live performance ever ever ever witnessed anywhere on this planet. (Sorry Till, Cristoph, Oli, Richard, Flake and Paul... I can’t wait to get my mits on your newest album though, if that’s any consolation)
Where was I? Ah yes, let’s just put it this way, the kind of budget the show had and the way green-screen (chroma to some of you) was being used all over the place and music videos were being created on a whim... well, it’s a kind of Roland Emmerich, Stephen Sommers, Ridley Scott and Peter Jackson project with William Gibson, Anne Rice and Haruki Murakami ideas... And obviously, the music is banging!
I’m gushing, I realise. You would too if your spinal column had been turned to jelly over the course of around two hours or so. Jelly-fic! The kind of attention to detail the man paid was something that really shines in the film or maybe the film’s made to look like he was hands-on. I don’t know. I especially enjoyed the bits where he was
communicating and sharing ideas with musicians on how to mix it up with songs, by singing the parts for them, whether “bum-ba-thish-thish-boo-doo-ba” to the bassist or hitting one of them high-pitched notes for the incredibly talented Orianthi Panagaris (in picture) to work out a guitar solo. Not once did he cheapen his music to chords and notes and octave this and bar that. His tunes were always beyond all that.What was weird though, was his repeated “God bless you”s, but then he was always supposedly a bit kookie. What I felt also was that this massive routine that was being planned — though visually and aurally fantastic — would probably get a little old by the 12th or 13th show. Once you’ve seen it and been mesmerised, would it hold the same awe the next time around? Maybe they had different routines planned. Maybe they expected a new set of 20,000-odd people to turn up to each show.
What was downright bizarre was how someone in that level of fitness, was found as such a broken man when they found his body. There’s no way that person could be the same MJ. Note: I am not supporting Joe Jackson’s theory about the use of body doubles. And at the same time, MJ was one of the only people onscreen who wore full-sleeves throughout the documentary. You never get to see his arms. Which leads me to believe that a) he may have been cold (Thank you, Chim-tee) or b) his arms were covered with injection marks, which would seem logical.
But, now’s not the time to discuss all that. I hear the film’s in theatres only for two weeks. Go watch it. You won’t be sorry. Just as I’m not sorry that I’m not ending this post with some lame way using the phrase “This is It”.
Chamone!
P.S. - Also saw the trailer for the upcoming 2012 and well, that did a whole different number on my spine. There’s a special place in my heart for disaster films and this particular one is shaping up very nicely to occupy a little corner in that special place.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
A Nation Built on Sweat...
A Nation built on Blood
A Nation built on Dreams
A Nation - A Nation!
A Struggle - A Struggle!
A Weapon - A Weapon!
— Sepultura - Sepulnation
I’m feeling patriotic today... I don’t quite know why... It’s not that jingoistic, chest-beating and making an anus of myself kind of patriotism. I didn’t just finish watching Lagaan.It’s not Independence Day or Republic Day... Hell, it’s not even a dry day. Well, now that I know what it ain’t, let’s look at the amalgamation of what it is...
As with most things I blather on about, the reasoning is manifold. Part of it is the fact that I’m just happy, in general. Another contributing factor is that I recently read the rant of an ungrateful sod (I refuse to name you. I have dignity), selling out his country, in a bid to earn sympathy and dare I say it, friends (?) to a bunch of strangers — who are probably going to think, “Oh no, what a hell-hole India must be... poor guy”. How much or how little sympathy he got is none of my concern, but that letter did make me look around and appreciate my country for what it is.
Another potential contributing factor could be the fact that the elections are just around the corner... and watching people whip themselves into a frenzy with campaigning, bringing down their opponents or trying to win the faith of citizens is just... well, it’s a trip. Then of course there’s the feeling of dazed exhaustion at the end of a hard day’s work (No, I’m not claiming I’ve paid my “dues” or any such shit) in your own homeland, where people treat you (unless you’re a film actor, cricketer or dynastic politician) like you deserve to on the basis of what you’ve done. Actually done. Not who you are or who your daddy is.
Then of course, there’s the buzz I still have from last night. There’s a Guns ‘n’ Roses video I remember
watching where Slash busts out a solo of The Godfather Theme and everyone in the audience is spellbound. I recall getting a similar vibe through the way popular culture defines Jimi Hendrix’s Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock ’69. That’s kinda what it was like watching Motherjane’s Baiju belt out a Carnatic Music-infused version of Vande Mataram — India’s National Song, for the uninitiated. And for the even less initiated, it’s not to be confused with the National Anthem. Ever.
Yes, I’m aware that I don’t need to hear National pieces of music for my love for my country to be realised. And yet, I sat there last night with my heart thumping like a bass drum as I heard every strain and note of that song resonate inside me. We’re by no means, a perfect Nation. Far from it. I dislike most of my fellow Indians
But, I digress as always.
Sigh, what a rendition of Vande Mataram that was..
What a performance...
What a band...
Sigh.
As for the aforementioned, ungrateful sod, I doubt I’ll be hearing from him any time soon. I’m an Indian after all. With the things he’s said, he’d either have to be really shameless or really stupid to talk to this Indian again... Hmmm.. Now that I think about it—...
Jai Hind
A Nation built on Dreams
A Nation - A Nation!
A Struggle - A Struggle!
A Weapon - A Weapon!
— Sepultura - Sepulnation
I’m feeling patriotic today... I don’t quite know why... It’s not that jingoistic, chest-beating and making an anus of myself kind of patriotism. I didn’t just finish watching Lagaan.It’s not Independence Day or Republic Day... Hell, it’s not even a dry day. Well, now that I know what it ain’t, let’s look at the amalgamation of what it is...
As with most things I blather on about, the reasoning is manifold. Part of it is the fact that I’m just happy, in general. Another contributing factor is that I recently read the rant of an ungrateful sod (I refuse to name you. I have dignity), selling out his country, in a bid to earn sympathy and dare I say it, friends (?) to a bunch of strangers — who are probably going to think, “Oh no, what a hell-hole India must be... poor guy”. How much or how little sympathy he got is none of my concern, but that letter did make me look around and appreciate my country for what it is.
Another potential contributing factor could be the fact that the elections are just around the corner... and watching people whip themselves into a frenzy with campaigning, bringing down their opponents or trying to win the faith of citizens is just... well, it’s a trip. Then of course there’s the feeling of dazed exhaustion at the end of a hard day’s work (No, I’m not claiming I’ve paid my “dues” or any such shit) in your own homeland, where people treat you (unless you’re a film actor, cricketer or dynastic politician) like you deserve to on the basis of what you’ve done. Actually done. Not who you are or who your daddy is.
Then of course, there’s the buzz I still have from last night. There’s a Guns ‘n’ Roses video I remember
watching where Slash busts out a solo of The Godfather Theme and everyone in the audience is spellbound. I recall getting a similar vibe through the way popular culture defines Jimi Hendrix’s Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock ’69. That’s kinda what it was like watching Motherjane’s Baiju belt out a Carnatic Music-infused version of Vande Mataram — India’s National Song, for the uninitiated. And for the even less initiated, it’s not to be confused with the National Anthem. Ever.
Yes, I’m aware that I don’t need to hear National pieces of music for my love for my country to be realised. And yet, I sat there last night with my heart thumping like a bass drum as I heard every strain and note of that song resonate inside me. We’re by no means, a perfect Nation. Far from it. I dislike most of my fellow Indians
But, I digress as always.
Sigh, what a rendition of Vande Mataram that was..
What a performance...
What a band...
Sigh.
As for the aforementioned, ungrateful sod, I doubt I’ll be hearing from him any time soon. I’m an Indian after all. With the things he’s said, he’d either have to be really shameless or really stupid to talk to this Indian again... Hmmm.. Now that I think about it—...
Jai Hind
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Through the Wormhole
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, oh here we go again. He’s going to start by saying something like “The Oxford Dictionary” describes a wormhole as...” and then lead onto Stephen Hawking’s view on wormholes and then tie it all together with a ropey analogy. And perhaps, you may be right. That’s why I’m purposely getting down to brass-tacks immediately with minimal fanny-ing around. Well, perhaps just a little.
In the span of the week or so, I’ve made trips back to 2001 1990 for different reasons and have returned more and more jet-lagged and nostalgic every time. A lack of desire to listen to any of the music I had on my iPod, dragged me over to an old stack of CDs that I briefly flipped through. A green CD-R caught my eye. On it was a marker pen scrawl. The scrawl read “Bouncing Souls — How I spent my Summer Vacation”. Twas my summer of 2001 when I heard that record the first time.
School was out and the summer holidays had just begun. Simple Man and I decided we’d spend a majority of the summer at the skate park trying to practice and get better, but for that we’d need tunes. The subsequent trip to the local record store helped us unearth this little gem, which after that day, was on heavy rotation in our earphones all day and all night. That summer culminated with a number of live shows (the Big Cheese festival, Less than Jake live and some others I can’t recall) and on September 14 (three days into London’s amber alert because two planes had flown into two towers across the pond), we finally saw Bouncing Souls... live!
Certain parts of the album still send shivers up and down my spine. I was pleasantly surprised.
Now, a little while after this nostalgia trip, came another in the form of G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra. Now I’d enjoyed the Spidey flicks, the Batman ones and hell, even the X-Men films and spin-off, but I’d never really read the comics as a little boy. Shit, I didn’t even know the X-Men existed. But G.I. Joe, I definitely knew about G.I. Joe as a kid in 1990, playing with the first two action figures I owned — Firefly and Major Bludd. (Thinking about it, I did own mostly Cobra action figures).
Using Blu-Tack, bits of twine (excellent for making aerial ropeslides and nets), Lego blocks and my tiny posse of Cobras, I’d create some elaborate little diorama-style domino-effect setups, where one small action would trigger off a series of things sliding, crashing, falling, swooping and falling into a net. I never did manage to work out how to get one action figure to swoop down past another and lift it up. As usual, I digress.
Going to watch the film, I knew better than to expect anything remarkable (Just like with Doom). I knew there’d be no brain-busting storyline, but I also knew that it would be a CGI-driven frag-fest and I was salivating at the prospect of the Snake Eyes-Storm Shadow showdown. The film as expected, was nothing remarkable. The tingle in my spine came a little later, when I realised that I’d actually seen a live action film that contained the same characters I’d sent on various dangerous missions — each more dangerous than the next. The same characters that under my command had at some point or the other been grievously injured or were staring into the chasm of death. And I’d just seen them on the big screen.
My stories and action sequences were better.
In the span of the week or so, I’ve made trips back to 2001 1990 for different reasons and have returned more and more jet-lagged and nostalgic every time. A lack of desire to listen to any of the music I had on my iPod, dragged me over to an old stack of CDs that I briefly flipped through. A green CD-R caught my eye. On it was a marker pen scrawl. The scrawl read “Bouncing Souls — How I spent my Summer Vacation”. Twas my summer of 2001 when I heard that record the first time.
School was out and the summer holidays had just begun. Simple Man and I decided we’d spend a majority of the summer at the skate park trying to practice and get better, but for that we’d need tunes. The subsequent trip to the local record store helped us unearth this little gem, which after that day, was on heavy rotation in our earphones all day and all night. That summer culminated with a number of live shows (the Big Cheese festival, Less than Jake live and some others I can’t recall) and on September 14 (three days into London’s amber alert because two planes had flown into two towers across the pond), we finally saw Bouncing Souls... live!
Certain parts of the album still send shivers up and down my spine. I was pleasantly surprised.
Now, a little while after this nostalgia trip, came another in the form of G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra. Now I’d enjoyed the Spidey flicks, the Batman ones and hell, even the X-Men films and spin-off, but I’d never really read the comics as a little boy. Shit, I didn’t even know the X-Men existed. But G.I. Joe, I definitely knew about G.I. Joe as a kid in 1990, playing with the first two action figures I owned — Firefly and Major Bludd. (Thinking about it, I did own mostly Cobra action figures).
Using Blu-Tack, bits of twine (excellent for making aerial ropeslides and nets), Lego blocks and my tiny posse of Cobras, I’d create some elaborate little diorama-style domino-effect setups, where one small action would trigger off a series of things sliding, crashing, falling, swooping and falling into a net. I never did manage to work out how to get one action figure to swoop down past another and lift it up. As usual, I digress.
Going to watch the film, I knew better than to expect anything remarkable (Just like with Doom). I knew there’d be no brain-busting storyline, but I also knew that it would be a CGI-driven frag-fest and I was salivating at the prospect of the Snake Eyes-Storm Shadow showdown. The film as expected, was nothing remarkable. The tingle in my spine came a little later, when I realised that I’d actually seen a live action film that contained the same characters I’d sent on various dangerous missions — each more dangerous than the next. The same characters that under my command had at some point or the other been grievously injured or were staring into the chasm of death. And I’d just seen them on the big screen.
My stories and action sequences were better.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Scratching on from day-to-day
As regular as clockwork, a number of songs dart around in my head everyday at around 5 pm. Why 5 pm? Because that's usually when I'm travelling and I like to travel by myself. Some of the songs do the darting thing because of a catchy hook or a particularly pounding drum-part, others, for the lyrics maybe and still others, for their vibe. They dart around like demented homing missiles that for some reason, are just lost and have nothing to home in on.
Homing missiles without a target...
Re-read that previous line and let the amazingly pointless existence of those missiles sink in.
Sunken in? Good, let's proceed. It's that theme of leading a pointless existence that very neatly ties in to my original point about the songs darting around my head, because of late, a song I've been a huge fan of for a while, has been doing the rounds in my head. Not for any particularly specific reason. More because of an amalgamation of things that are going on at the moment — the general elections, the rat-race that is formal employment and watching people scurrying all over the place for jobs, university courses, something to do, something to be, some way to get out... But out of what?
All we want is a head rush
All we want is to get out of our skin for a while
We have nothing to lose because we don't have anything
Anything we want anyway...
We used to hate people
Now we just make fun of them
It's more effective that way
We don't live
We just scratch on day-to-day
With nothing but matchbooks and
Sarcasm in our pockets
And all we are waiting for
Is for something worth waiting for
Let's admit America gets the celebrities we deserve
Let's stop saying "Don't quote me"
Because if no one quotes you
You probably haven't said a thing worth saying
We need something to kill the pain
Of all that nothing inside
We all just want to die a little bit
We fear that pop-culture
Is the only culture we're ever going to have
We want to stop reading magazines
Stop watching TV
Stop caring about Hollywood
But we're addicted to the things we hate
We don't run Washington and no one really does
Ask not what you can do for your country
Ask what your country did to you
The only reason you're still alive is because someone
Has decided to let you live
We owe so much money we're not broke we're broken
We're so poor we can't even pay attention
So what do you want
You want to be famous and rich and happy
But you're terrified you have nothing to offer this world
Nothing to say and no way to say it
But you can say it in three languages
You are more than the sum of what you consume
Desire is not an occupation
You are alternately thrilled and desperate
Sky-high and fucked
Let's stop praying for someone
To save us and start saving ourselves
Let's stop this and start over
Let's go out - Let's keep going
This is your life — This is your fucking life
We need something to kill
The pain of all that nothing inside
Quit whining you haven't done
Anything wrong because frankly
You haven't done much of anything
Someone's writing down your mistakes
Someone's documenting your downfall
— Dogma by KMFDM
Homing missiles without a target...
Re-read that previous line and let the amazingly pointless existence of those missiles sink in.
Sunken in? Good, let's proceed. It's that theme of leading a pointless existence that very neatly ties in to my original point about the songs darting around my head, because of late, a song I've been a huge fan of for a while, has been doing the rounds in my head. Not for any particularly specific reason. More because of an amalgamation of things that are going on at the moment — the general elections, the rat-race that is formal employment and watching people scurrying all over the place for jobs, university courses, something to do, something to be, some way to get out... But out of what?
All we want is a head rush
All we want is to get out of our skin for a while
We have nothing to lose because we don't have anything
Anything we want anyway...
We used to hate people
Now we just make fun of them
It's more effective that way
We don't live
We just scratch on day-to-day
With nothing but matchbooks and
Sarcasm in our pockets
And all we are waiting for
Is for something worth waiting for
Let's admit America gets the celebrities we deserve
Let's stop saying "Don't quote me"
Because if no one quotes you
You probably haven't said a thing worth saying
We need something to kill the pain
Of all that nothing inside
We all just want to die a little bit
We fear that pop-culture
Is the only culture we're ever going to have
We want to stop reading magazines
Stop watching TV
Stop caring about Hollywood
But we're addicted to the things we hate
We don't run Washington and no one really does
Ask not what you can do for your country
Ask what your country did to you
The only reason you're still alive is because someone
Has decided to let you live
We owe so much money we're not broke we're broken
We're so poor we can't even pay attention
So what do you want
You want to be famous and rich and happy
But you're terrified you have nothing to offer this world
Nothing to say and no way to say it
But you can say it in three languages
You are more than the sum of what you consume
Desire is not an occupation
You are alternately thrilled and desperate
Sky-high and fucked
Let's stop praying for someone
To save us and start saving ourselves
Let's stop this and start over
Let's go out - Let's keep going
This is your life — This is your fucking life
We need something to kill
The pain of all that nothing inside
Quit whining you haven't done
Anything wrong because frankly
You haven't done much of anything
Someone's writing down your mistakes
Someone's documenting your downfall
— Dogma by KMFDM
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Electric... Electric... Electric
So much for all that guff a few posts ago about traversing the unknown and unfamiliar, eh?
I'm nearly two weeks into my job and I've got to say — Familiarity effin' Rules!!
Back at the publication I worked with in the past (revelation of names could result in lawsuits or rather less extreme mirth-making at my expense or something), living large and in charge, minus the "in charge" part. As far as corporate hierarchy goes, I think I'm somewhere just above the guy who makes tea and glares at me if I ask him when it's gonna arrive and why it's taking so goddamn long.
Regardless, I'd believed (foolishly perhaps) that going back to the same publication as before, could lead to a stagnation of style, thought and self. Therefore, it would seem by that rationale, that working at a different place is the way to go. Right? Not quite, but partially correct.
Partially correct in that one would gain new exposure yada yada yada with new people and new ideologies... but wait! That only works if one's been at an organisation long enough to stagnate, which clearly wasn't the case with me and so nullifies this argument and finds me out trawling the streets for stories in my new job as a reporter. A real reporter and not just one who covers music shows, art exhibitions and plays (honest to God, plays!!). Scouring the administrative process for a little lead that could translate to a story is a lot more fun than I'd previously imagined or believed. But it's early days yet; everyone loves their job at the very very start.
I still didn't have the whole life-affirming, grab you by the nuts, take no guff from these swine, supercharged and electrified vibe. The little buzz inside or a tiny click that lets you know you're in the right place. Until, of course, Friday night with notorious miscreant Maavesh Kumar.
For the umpteenth time, I saw what is fast becoming one of my favourite bands in the world (good enough to break the top 5 soon), Pentagram live. And for the umpteenth time, they blew me away! It wasn't that it was a particularly great venue or that the Duke-Gonzo (in the absence of the regular Gonzo) act we tried to pull on the venue's owners was a great success or anything. Or even that as a member of the press, I got respect or anything. Far from it. In fact, that's another gripe for another time. The ol' "Why Broadcast Journalism and Journalists Suck Ass" debate. You are all invited to participate in the same.
It was the reminder that I can be a serious reporter dealing with serious issues and handle the fun stuff as well. Duality. Familiarity with the organisation led them to believe I could handle both and so here, I am going to see bands for free on one hand and hassling the administration and the authoritaah on the other.
Suddenly, the concept of being a working stiff doesn't suck so hard anymore!
I'm nearly two weeks into my job and I've got to say — Familiarity effin' Rules!!
Back at the publication I worked with in the past (revelation of names could result in lawsuits or rather less extreme mirth-making at my expense or something), living large and in charge, minus the "in charge" part. As far as corporate hierarchy goes, I think I'm somewhere just above the guy who makes tea and glares at me if I ask him when it's gonna arrive and why it's taking so goddamn long.
Regardless, I'd believed (foolishly perhaps) that going back to the same publication as before, could lead to a stagnation of style, thought and self. Therefore, it would seem by that rationale, that working at a different place is the way to go. Right? Not quite, but partially correct.
Partially correct in that one would gain new exposure yada yada yada with new people and new ideologies... but wait! That only works if one's been at an organisation long enough to stagnate, which clearly wasn't the case with me and so nullifies this argument and finds me out trawling the streets for stories in my new job as a reporter. A real reporter and not just one who covers music shows, art exhibitions and plays (honest to God, plays!!). Scouring the administrative process for a little lead that could translate to a story is a lot more fun than I'd previously imagined or believed. But it's early days yet; everyone loves their job at the very very start.
I still didn't have the whole life-affirming, grab you by the nuts, take no guff from these swine, supercharged and electrified vibe. The little buzz inside or a tiny click that lets you know you're in the right place. Until, of course, Friday night with notorious miscreant Maavesh Kumar.
For the umpteenth time, I saw what is fast becoming one of my favourite bands in the world (good enough to break the top 5 soon), Pentagram live. And for the umpteenth time, they blew me away! It wasn't that it was a particularly great venue or that the Duke-Gonzo (in the absence of the regular Gonzo) act we tried to pull on the venue's owners was a great success or anything. Or even that as a member of the press, I got respect or anything. Far from it. In fact, that's another gripe for another time. The ol' "Why Broadcast Journalism and Journalists Suck Ass" debate. You are all invited to participate in the same.
It was the reminder that I can be a serious reporter dealing with serious issues and handle the fun stuff as well. Duality. Familiarity with the organisation led them to believe I could handle both and so here, I am going to see bands for free on one hand and hassling the administration and the authoritaah on the other.
Suddenly, the concept of being a working stiff doesn't suck so hard anymore!
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Disco Sucks, Fuck Everything
What's the point of going on?Overlooked for the overrated
But we wont hear that talk
Frustration, frustration is all we get
You might think we're finished
We haven't started yet.
Because there's more far more to know
Because our voices must say more
Because these words come from the soul.
This is not a mission
This is not a fucking game.
A burning desire from deep inside
The will, the drive, to keep pushing on.
No matter what may come
No matter what may come.
Hollow trends
Shallow lives
They drag you down.
They try to drag you down
They'll drag you down.
For every hurdle cleared, two takes its place.
For every level reached, they raise the stakes.
What is our inspiration? What is our drive?
To chose our destiny and be in control of our lives.
This is not an image, This is our lives.
This is our inspiration, this is our lives
This is not an image, This is our lives.
This is our inspiration, this is our lives
These would be the lyrics to the song Disco Sucks, Fuck Everything by Sick of it All, a band I greatly admire and respect and the picture depicts guitarist Pete Koller in full flight during what was no doubt a rabid show with singer Lou Koller half in shot. I know for a fact that my man, JB will appreciate this reference (JB being Jonjo; being revealed as I don't really enjoy dealing in any abbreviation for a name except my own and of course, AJG) . Our second set of lyrics comes from the seminal (in my opinion at least; to hell with the doubters) ska-punk band Goldfinger:
What happened to dignity
Did it go away again?
Just like a worn out trend?
Will I still defend emotions?
What happened to honesty?
I don't see it on the Top Ten
I only see it in what has been
Cuz' I still defend devotion
Am I alone?
Don't wanna rest
I don't wanna breathe
When I wanna hear about life
Don't wanna hear a spokesman
I don't wanna test I want to believe
The Goddamn singer wrote the song
Don't wanna hear a spokesman
What happened to integrity I don't see it on MTV
All I see is choreography
And I'll never be a dancer
What happened to puberty?
Bad skin and insecurity?
And who the fuck is Felicity?
'Cuz I got problems of my own
Am I alone?
Obviously, the full length song entails a refrain of the chorus and stuff, but that shouldn't detract from the lyrics or the fact that this band was responsible in a huge way for setting me on my path to vegetarianism. RE: Show in Sheffield where they signed everything given to them, including copies of a CD containing their song Free Me to some horrific visuals of animals being slaughtered. But I digress...
What is it exactly that the two songs' lyrics have in common? Let me help you out; not a whole heap. Instead they refer more to my state of mind today when I went to someplace to which I don't belong, have never belonged and will never belong. These songs struck so many chords with me during my entire time at said place that I finally accepted one tiny thing — I am NOT averse to change, but change is something I will only allow myself to entertain IF I am ready. And as sure as I am that grass is green and sycophants are morons, I am sure that I am NOT ready to dance like a moron at a blooming ball of all things.
Being called a musical fascist is de rigeuer (regular readers will recognise my fondness for the phrase) for someone as horrifically possessive about his/her music and vehement about his/her love for it as I am. Sure, there are tons of people who can enjoy all sorts of music. I am not one of them and of this fact I am immensely proud. Certain circumstances beyond my control brought me to an avenue and arena where I could appreciate music that kicks me in the teeth and now, ten years on, I love it to death.
That fact and certain other realisations make me feel like an absolute moron for having inflicted this moronic ball upon myself. On a different, yet oddly related note, I bring this unashamedly pointless rant to a close by saying, "Just as every film comes to a close with its final flickering images; just as every song winds down and phases out with its last guitar whine and just as every trend dies a painful death with its purveyors branded as "so last year", so too is this the very end and the very last time." You know who you are.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Rise up! Rise up!! SEPULNATION!!!
After what seemed like a wait that spanned all eternity, — considering the April 1 gig at MMRDA, Mumbai didn't come to fruition — here it was!
SEPULTURA IN BANGALORE!!!
November 3, 2007
This is not the detailed blow-by-blow account of the show, although that will be posted on a different blog soon and will be linked via this website. Worry not! This is more of a pictorial summary of the show and its
periphery.
Firstly, how in God's name did I get there? See that bad boy on the right? That was my ticket into the show and into the absolute front, beyond the barrier and among the security guards, support band members, band crews and my arch nemesis-turned-nice guy of the tour there, Andre, as represented pictorially below. This was basically the go-to-guy for any and ALL matters pertaining to Sepultura.
So, this ends a large chunk of the written part of this account. Be assured that you haven't heard the last on this topic from me, for there are tons of stories, not just from the show, but from the two days in Bangalore, that must be told, stupid as they were.
For now though, enjoy ze photos!
Ominous clouds overhead. We're in for some rain, chaps!
SEPULTURA IN BANGALORE!!!November 3, 2007
This is not the detailed blow-by-blow account of the show, although that will be posted on a different blog soon and will be linked via this website. Worry not! This is more of a pictorial summary of the show and its
periphery.Firstly, how in God's name did I get there? See that bad boy on the right? That was my ticket into the show and into the absolute front, beyond the barrier and among the security guards, support band members, band crews and my arch nemesis-turned-nice guy of the tour there, Andre, as represented pictorially below. This was basically the go-to-guy for any and ALL matters pertaining to Sepultura.
So, this ends a large chunk of the written part of this account. Be assured that you haven't heard the last on this topic from me, for there are tons of stories, not just from the show, but from the two days in Bangalore, that must be told, stupid as they were.For now though, enjoy ze photos!
Ominous clouds overhead. We're in for some rain, chaps!
The changing face of Andreas Kisser
Derrick Green unleashes another gut-rumbling growl
Sepultura's banging rhythm section. Paulo Jr. above and our good buddy, Jean Dolabella below.
Setlist complete with the plectrum thrown very kindly at yours truly by Paulo Jr.
"Thank you, Goodnight!"
Derrick Green unleashes another gut-rumbling growl
Sepultura's banging rhythm section. Paulo Jr. above and our good buddy, Jean Dolabella below.
Setlist complete with the plectrum thrown very kindly at yours truly by Paulo Jr.
"Thank you, Goodnight!"Sunday, August 26, 2007
End-game Bliss and the power of Machine Head
What, I ask you, gentle readers, do the following concepts have in common?
Essentially, I am a born-optimist. I've always been optimistic in my outlook to life, whether to do with interpersonal relationships, the weather or even about a film being good/better than the reviews suggest.
This week I found my optimism smashed to bits about a tiny and rather inconsequential matter that I thought reason held the answer to. Reason is and always has been touted as man's greatest gift and one that seemingly makes him smarter and better off than all other organisms. Bigotry, narcissism and narrow-mindedness brings man back down to the levels (or perhaps lower than that) of other organisms. But, back to it. Reason failed this time around. It's like Navroze Behramfram (aka Living Legend) always said: "No product appeals to all consumers".
So it isn't a big deal really, more so because I'm relieved that it's all finally over. But what was it that really really pushed that sigh of relief out of me? An acquaintance I had the misfortune of making recently established his intent to finally leave me alone in the following message:
"It would be better if you have a control over your language . It has run amock like your mind has.
Life is much about discipline....
Good Bye .... Have peace.....This is my last visit to this Blog....the blog whose author have Zero knowledge about a subject but would still care to be a master in that .
You did not deserve my time ...."
I certainly didn't deserve the time and energy you lavished upon me — all those beautiful comments, messages, tips, nuggets of advice and miscellaneous information. I really am flattered, touched and tickled that you saw fit to spend your precious time heaping all this upon me (would have rather that you didn't, but it's alright), when it's abundantly clear that you have so much earth-shaking work to be doing. *Sigh*
Right! Now that that's out of the way, let's move on to more important things...
Like Machine Head! I am not referring to the Deep Purple album here, although that's good as well, but the Robb Flynn-fronted, Adam Duce-bassed, Dave McClain-drummed and Phil Demmel-lead guitared band from Oakland, California. Six albums later — each replete with its own unique sound and vibe, it must be added — the band are finally getting their due as one of the most respected in their field.
And why not, blasting The Blackening, Through the Ashes of Empires and Burn My Eyes — or albums 6, 5 and 1 for simplicity sake — from my phones and into my ears all weekend, I rediscovered that propulsion effect their music has on me. In that, it literally propels me skyward, by enhancing whatever emotion I'm feeling at the time, be it agony, rage, ambivalence, unfettered joy, glee and indeed, every other entity on the spectrum of emotions.
There's just something about certain pieces of music, artistes or bands that do so much to a person, from sending a chill up one's spine to comforting one when one is down in the dumps. Heartbreak, stress and uncertainty become a thing of the past when that song (or artiste/band) is on and all is well with the world. For me, it's Machine Head who head the list of the few that can do that to me, with the vocals (that range from soothing to downright visceral), the drumming (tectonic plate-shift inducing), the guitars (silky smooth and piercingly quick coupled with slow meaty chugging) and the ever-present rumbling bass.
And it's listening to Machine Head after one of those mentally-exhausting experiences I mentioned above that sends the relief through my system, flooding it with wholesome goodness, contributing to my End-game Bliss.
- The winning runs being completed after Sachin slaps the ball through the covers off the last ball of a tight match and scampers up and down the pitch.
- The appearance of the black screen and credits sequence at the end of James Cameron's Titanic.
- A quick glance at one's academic exam results that reveal that one didn't do as badly as one initially thought.
- The sigh that one emits as one relieves oneself after sprinting out of the bus, into one's building, up the stairs, into one's home and then, the bathroom after holding it in for ever so long.
Essentially, I am a born-optimist. I've always been optimistic in my outlook to life, whether to do with interpersonal relationships, the weather or even about a film being good/better than the reviews suggest.
This week I found my optimism smashed to bits about a tiny and rather inconsequential matter that I thought reason held the answer to. Reason is and always has been touted as man's greatest gift and one that seemingly makes him smarter and better off than all other organisms. Bigotry, narcissism and narrow-mindedness brings man back down to the levels (or perhaps lower than that) of other organisms. But, back to it. Reason failed this time around. It's like Navroze Behramfram (aka Living Legend) always said: "No product appeals to all consumers".
So it isn't a big deal really, more so because I'm relieved that it's all finally over. But what was it that really really pushed that sigh of relief out of me? An acquaintance I had the misfortune of making recently established his intent to finally leave me alone in the following message:
"It would be better if you have a control over your language . It has run amock like your mind has.
Life is much about discipline....
Good Bye .... Have peace.....This is my last visit to this Blog....the blog whose author have Zero knowledge about a subject but would still care to be a master in that .
You did not deserve my time ...."
I certainly didn't deserve the time and energy you lavished upon me — all those beautiful comments, messages, tips, nuggets of advice and miscellaneous information. I really am flattered, touched and tickled that you saw fit to spend your precious time heaping all this upon me (would have rather that you didn't, but it's alright), when it's abundantly clear that you have so much earth-shaking work to be doing. *Sigh*
Right! Now that that's out of the way, let's move on to more important things...
Like Machine Head! I am not referring to the Deep Purple album here, although that's good as well, but the Robb Flynn-fronted, Adam Duce-bassed, Dave McClain-drummed and Phil Demmel-lead guitared band from Oakland, California. Six albums later — each replete with its own unique sound and vibe, it must be added — the band are finally getting their due as one of the most respected in their field.
And why not, blasting The Blackening, Through the Ashes of Empires and Burn My Eyes — or albums 6, 5 and 1 for simplicity sake — from my phones and into my ears all weekend, I rediscovered that propulsion effect their music has on me. In that, it literally propels me skyward, by enhancing whatever emotion I'm feeling at the time, be it agony, rage, ambivalence, unfettered joy, glee and indeed, every other entity on the spectrum of emotions.
There's just something about certain pieces of music, artistes or bands that do so much to a person, from sending a chill up one's spine to comforting one when one is down in the dumps. Heartbreak, stress and uncertainty become a thing of the past when that song (or artiste/band) is on and all is well with the world. For me, it's Machine Head who head the list of the few that can do that to me, with the vocals (that range from soothing to downright visceral), the drumming (tectonic plate-shift inducing), the guitars (silky smooth and piercingly quick coupled with slow meaty chugging) and the ever-present rumbling bass.
And it's listening to Machine Head after one of those mentally-exhausting experiences I mentioned above that sends the relief through my system, flooding it with wholesome goodness, contributing to my End-game Bliss.
Friday, July 13, 2007
And you never will be!
Funny story — "A guy walks up to me and asks 'What's Punk?'. So I kick over a garbage can and say 'That's punk!'. So he kicks over the garbage can and says 'That's Punk?', and I say 'No that's trendy!'". Yup, straight from the mouth of Billie Joe Armstrong and into my ears and out onto this hallowed cultural text or palimpsest, if you prefer.
I bet you're wondering what it is that's got me so riled up this time; enough to start off this latest post with an obscure story that has little to no relevance to anything apart from the fact that the Greenday of today are an absolutely turgid musical act, peddling consumer-oriented tripe like Boulevard of Broken Dreams. It beggars belief how a band that spat out such rabid albums as Kerplunk, Dookie and Nimrod could have degenerated into this horribly manufactured-sounding, made-for-radio, play-it-safe, eat-your-vitamins, say-your-prayers excuse for what once was a punk band.
Punk, you say? "As in black t-shirts and safety pins?", I hear some of you ask? And I answer, "no, pay attention!". That word scratched crudely across t-shirts worn by preppy and trendy girls with their Levi jeans, Prada or Louis Vuitton bags and odd hairstyles — all of which change with each passing season? They wouldn't know punk if it came up and bit them in the ass. Neither it would seem would a certain singer who mistakes punks for hippies!! Honestly, what self-respecting punk would have flowers in their hair?
But enough of what it isn't. What punk was — and I do mean it in the past tense because I honestly believe that punk is well and truly dead or on its last legs at the very least — was a movement, not a genre of music or a fashion statement. It stood for the anti-establishment, rebellion, wrecked-beyond-belief tape players belching out the sounds of The Clash or Sex Pistols and for once, standing dead in one's tracks with one's middle finger held high in the air to say, "No, I will not comply". Punk was never about drugs, alcohol, tattoos or torn clothes. For its part, punk certainly had its fair share of idiots who were hell-bent on ruining it for everyone else with violence, vandalism and wanton destruction. Very understandably, the scene had its detractors who branded everyone associated with the word punk as being hoodlums, louts, yobs yada yada yada. Who gives a crap? That was the romance of punk — You and me against the world, baby!
You think any of these trendy little pre-pubescent fools have a clue about that when they carefully spin the spinny thing on their iPods and press the middle button to start the whiny cribbings of Good Charlotte or Avril Lavigne and weep about how the world is so unfair, their friends don't like them and Mom and Dad just don't understand that homework sucks. That's why I said punk is dead or nearly there and from the looks of things, it ain't making a miraculous recovery anytime soon. As for the idiots who think they're punk, the less said the better.
I bet you're wondering what it is that's got me so riled up this time; enough to start off this latest post with an obscure story that has little to no relevance to anything apart from the fact that the Greenday of today are an absolutely turgid musical act, peddling consumer-oriented tripe like Boulevard of Broken Dreams. It beggars belief how a band that spat out such rabid albums as Kerplunk, Dookie and Nimrod could have degenerated into this horribly manufactured-sounding, made-for-radio, play-it-safe, eat-your-vitamins, say-your-prayers excuse for what once was a punk band.
Punk, you say? "As in black t-shirts and safety pins?", I hear some of you ask? And I answer, "no, pay attention!". That word scratched crudely across t-shirts worn by preppy and trendy girls with their Levi jeans, Prada or Louis Vuitton bags and odd hairstyles — all of which change with each passing season? They wouldn't know punk if it came up and bit them in the ass. Neither it would seem would a certain singer who mistakes punks for hippies!! Honestly, what self-respecting punk would have flowers in their hair?
But enough of what it isn't. What punk was — and I do mean it in the past tense because I honestly believe that punk is well and truly dead or on its last legs at the very least — was a movement, not a genre of music or a fashion statement. It stood for the anti-establishment, rebellion, wrecked-beyond-belief tape players belching out the sounds of The Clash or Sex Pistols and for once, standing dead in one's tracks with one's middle finger held high in the air to say, "No, I will not comply". Punk was never about drugs, alcohol, tattoos or torn clothes. For its part, punk certainly had its fair share of idiots who were hell-bent on ruining it for everyone else with violence, vandalism and wanton destruction. Very understandably, the scene had its detractors who branded everyone associated with the word punk as being hoodlums, louts, yobs yada yada yada. Who gives a crap? That was the romance of punk — You and me against the world, baby!
You think any of these trendy little pre-pubescent fools have a clue about that when they carefully spin the spinny thing on their iPods and press the middle button to start the whiny cribbings of Good Charlotte or Avril Lavigne and weep about how the world is so unfair, their friends don't like them and Mom and Dad just don't understand that homework sucks. That's why I said punk is dead or nearly there and from the looks of things, it ain't making a miraculous recovery anytime soon. As for the idiots who think they're punk, the less said the better.
Friday, June 15, 2007
It's all Rock 'n' Roll, baby!! Is it?
The answer, sadly, is no. It's not all rock 'n' roll and in fact, a lot of the tripe on the airwaves comes nowhere near being rock 'n' roll. In fact, a neatly curled arrangement of excrement is closer to being a computer than most of that "music" (excrement is a word that fits better) is to being rock 'n' roll. If the sounds of Curtis Jackson's illiterate babblings about how many times he's been shot or how women think he's the man is music, or pre-pubescent wailings about how alluring various parts of a singer's body are and how truthful they are is music, then call me a philistine, because I wish to have nothing to do with any of it.
Which is why I was so pleasantly surprised last night, when flicking through channels, only to stumble upon VH1 and Headbangers' Ball. Imagine my glee then as Rage Against the Machine's Guerrilla Radio started up. And it didn't stop there!! Through the acerbic blasts of Sepultura, the breakneck speed of Morbid Angel, the crushing Cowboys from Hell and the weirdness of Megadeth's Sweating Bullets, I was re-energised, re-enlivened and recharged after a week that took plenty out of me. And that got me musing about what exactly it is about music with a punch that makes me so happy, content and at ease with the world.
And I discovered, it isn't just that it's REAL music, made from the heart and with instruments. It isn't just that it's actually written by the artistes themselves and not by some "producer" whose idea of production is looping the same sample over and over, song after song and punctuating the "song" with a "jyeah jyeah jyeah" or "c'mon now" or something equally redundant. Neither is it just the fact that it's music designed to reach inside the soul of the listener and strike a chord with them, as opposed to turning them into writhing masses of overstimulated testosterone looking to grind their crotches onto whatever female backside they can locate and vice versa with females. And it isn't just the fact that unlike the aforementioned tripe, music that kicks you in the gut doesn't cause you to lose IQ points everytime you listen to it.
What it is, is that the rock community comprises people who listen to all types of music, are from all walks of life, have hair of different lengths, skin of different colours and beliefs and ideologies stemming from different schools of thought. What does unite them however, generally speaking of course (there are always exceptions), is that sense of oneness stemming from the fact that their music is their music! It's not commercial and it sure as hell isn't acceptable at most social occassions. Imagine a wedding party where you are treated to Machinehead's Davidian. Not too likely, is it? However, how often have you seen degrading songs about objectification and the glamourisation of being a general moron playing at weddings and children's parties? Don't tell me you've never heard Eminem, Sean Paul and their similar breed of degenerates blaring out of the stereo as kids play catch at a party or as little girls grind their bodies on a makeshift stage at malls to the sounds of pointless beeps, whirrs and orgasmic sounds, packaged as music.
The rock community in general is also more humane, decent and less likely to "pop a cap in the ass" of people who disagree with them. Look at Bangalore for an example. When someone falls down in the moshpit at a rockshow, the crowd will converge immediately to help him/her up. If someone loses their belongings, the rest help out and spread out so as to be able to spot it on the ground. Of course, there are exceptions, but these are generally aberrations and not the rule. Try finding that at a club, where you are more likely to find someone studying the contours of your bottom as you bend over to look for a missing belonging, than helping you look for it.
I guess, what I'm trying to say without being too preachy and sermonising is, it's important to be open-minded, it's important to be tolerant but most importantly, it's CRITICAL to bring false music to an end! And now, if you'll excuse me, Maynard awaits. It appears he wants to tell me something about the rains washing away all the bloated garbage (hip gangster wannabes, insecure actresses, smiley gladhands with hidden agendas) that makes up our metropolitan cities.
Which is why I was so pleasantly surprised last night, when flicking through channels, only to stumble upon VH1 and Headbangers' Ball. Imagine my glee then as Rage Against the Machine's Guerrilla Radio started up. And it didn't stop there!! Through the acerbic blasts of Sepultura, the breakneck speed of Morbid Angel, the crushing Cowboys from Hell and the weirdness of Megadeth's Sweating Bullets, I was re-energised, re-enlivened and recharged after a week that took plenty out of me. And that got me musing about what exactly it is about music with a punch that makes me so happy, content and at ease with the world.
And I discovered, it isn't just that it's REAL music, made from the heart and with instruments. It isn't just that it's actually written by the artistes themselves and not by some "producer" whose idea of production is looping the same sample over and over, song after song and punctuating the "song" with a "jyeah jyeah jyeah" or "c'mon now" or something equally redundant. Neither is it just the fact that it's music designed to reach inside the soul of the listener and strike a chord with them, as opposed to turning them into writhing masses of overstimulated testosterone looking to grind their crotches onto whatever female backside they can locate and vice versa with females. And it isn't just the fact that unlike the aforementioned tripe, music that kicks you in the gut doesn't cause you to lose IQ points everytime you listen to it.
What it is, is that the rock community comprises people who listen to all types of music, are from all walks of life, have hair of different lengths, skin of different colours and beliefs and ideologies stemming from different schools of thought. What does unite them however, generally speaking of course (there are always exceptions), is that sense of oneness stemming from the fact that their music is their music! It's not commercial and it sure as hell isn't acceptable at most social occassions. Imagine a wedding party where you are treated to Machinehead's Davidian. Not too likely, is it? However, how often have you seen degrading songs about objectification and the glamourisation of being a general moron playing at weddings and children's parties? Don't tell me you've never heard Eminem, Sean Paul and their similar breed of degenerates blaring out of the stereo as kids play catch at a party or as little girls grind their bodies on a makeshift stage at malls to the sounds of pointless beeps, whirrs and orgasmic sounds, packaged as music.
The rock community in general is also more humane, decent and less likely to "pop a cap in the ass" of people who disagree with them. Look at Bangalore for an example. When someone falls down in the moshpit at a rockshow, the crowd will converge immediately to help him/her up. If someone loses their belongings, the rest help out and spread out so as to be able to spot it on the ground. Of course, there are exceptions, but these are generally aberrations and not the rule. Try finding that at a club, where you are more likely to find someone studying the contours of your bottom as you bend over to look for a missing belonging, than helping you look for it.
I guess, what I'm trying to say without being too preachy and sermonising is, it's important to be open-minded, it's important to be tolerant but most importantly, it's CRITICAL to bring false music to an end! And now, if you'll excuse me, Maynard awaits. It appears he wants to tell me something about the rains washing away all the bloated garbage (hip gangster wannabes, insecure actresses, smiley gladhands with hidden agendas) that makes up our metropolitan cities.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Stupid Bangalore!!
Yep, it's official... Aerosmith have confirmed a venue and city change from Mumbai to Bangalore for the 2nd of June 2007 show. It would in no way surprise me if I were to find out that the cause for venue change was the asphyxiating red tape that we, the common citizens encounter everyday!
"Yeh form bharo"
"Yahaan jaa kar 100 rupaiye bharo"
"Chalan le kar aao"
... and other assorted bullshit of that sort.
That being said, I wonder how people in oh let's say... Nashville, Tennessee would react if they were to discover that a show was being shifted all the way to New York City? We wouldn't have to find out because no one would actually do something like that!
Does it then become okay to jerk around with Indian fans?
"Yeh form bharo"
"Yahaan jaa kar 100 rupaiye bharo"
"Chalan le kar aao"
... and other assorted bullshit of that sort.
That being said, I wonder how people in oh let's say... Nashville, Tennessee would react if they were to discover that a show was being shifted all the way to New York City? We wouldn't have to find out because no one would actually do something like that!
Does it then become okay to jerk around with Indian fans?
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