The Memory Remains

Sometimes even before it begins you know it’s going to be great. And then the only worry is what if it isn’t, because it usually never is. Metallica was different. It only got better.

We walked in at 7. The gates had opened at 3, but “you have to get there when the band starts,” Francis had said.

It was half past six and pouring. We were in a cab on the way to the show cursing the weather. Saurav had been drenched before waiting for Cradle of Filth to perform. This time he had a change of clothes with him in the car and a cover for his mobile phone.
“Just imagine those poor fuckers who got here at 3pm,” he said. “I heard the line was already a half kilometre line at 11 in the morning!” I told him.

I had been part of such a line before when Iron Maiden played at the MMRDA Grounds and for Aerosmith. The Iron Maiden wait resulted in one of the best concerts ever with an added bonus of a cameo on the Flight 666 video and possibly a 2% loss of hearing. Aerosmith was crowded and sweaty right through with a view of the stage that was almost as big a let down as the concert itself.

This time was different. Francis and Saurav had hired the car for the day and I was lucky to be around and enjoy their hospitality.

That day, everyone was a friend. Right from lunch time at Guzzlers, Francis had been high fiving and hugging random people in Metallica t-shirts. It only got friendlier. And it wasn’t just Francis being himself. “Hi, I’m Leena, by the way,” said a girl standing next to me. She declared her love for Metallica, headbanged her way through the concert, cried once and took care of me when Francis was away for a few minutes.

That day, I found out that Metallica has a surprisingly large female fan base.

I also found out that knowing the lyrics to most of the songs gives you an edge, but knowing them with certainty and refusing to sing along to Nothing Else Matters proves that you truly love the band.

I found out that phone lines get jammed during a large show. So you better coordinate with your driver otherwise you’ll be waiting at the side of the road for at least an hour later without water or food, but with thousands of others in black t-shirts humming bits of the show and re-living the best part of their evening as they walk past you in single file.

I found out that a drinking binge before the event can cause even the best prepared (with a ziplock protected mobile, change of clothes and an ID proof) to be stranded without money, looking for their friends for a large part of the evening, all for a roll (non-veg and “not even that great”).

I found out that it’s never ok to wear a John Lennon t-shirt to a Metallica show, even if it is black.

But it is ok to bring your kids along. There was a 13-year-old girl next to me singing along to Enter Sandman. Earlier in the evening, her father had head banged to Ride the Lightening.

And it doesn’t matter if you can’t see the stage because you’ll never again be in a crowd of 40,000 singing the guitar solo of Memory Remains even louder than Metallica could play it.

Koshkin in Kolkata

I met Nikita Koshkin in Calcutta. He stood outside the gate of the ICCR smoking a cigarette. I smiled, he nodded back. The next day I managed to say Hi and tried to start a conversation. All I could think of asking was what he thought of Indian classical guitarists. So I did.

And then I regretted not asking all the other things I wanted to know. Alexei Khorev had appeared, smoking another cigarette and talking rapidly in Russian. They already knew each other. Alexei’s father, also Alexei, was a famous guitar teacher in Russia and Alexei had grown up playing on stage, giving concerts with the family guitar ensemble and now he taught in Paris.

Alexei was staying across the landing from me and all night we’d hear Koshkin pieces coming out of his room. Alexei was participating in the Calcutta International Classical Guitar Competition. His entire competition repertoire was Koshkin and it was beautiful. He later won a special prize for the best Koshkin interpretation.

For an instrument that hasn’t many composers, Nikita Koshkin is a contemporary hero. Much of the music played on the classical guitar wasn’t originally written for the instrument and was transposed for it. A lot of other guitar music is composed by non-guitarists, on the request of performers. Koshkin is both - he’s a guitarist who writes for the guitar and knows how to exploit the possibilities and limitations of it. The world celebrates him. The world of classical guitar, that is.

It’s always difficult to explain what the classical guitar sounds like. It’s most difficult while talking, standing face-to-face even though Vicky Christina Barcelona has made it easier. The easiest way to explain is online, with an instant messanger. You can send over a few links. Albeniz of course (there’s a reason why Asturias is a classical cliche). Then probably a Bach transcription, but not always. But you must always link explanations with The Usher Waltz.

I discovered The Usher Waltz because of Kuldeep Barve. Kuldeep introduced me to a lot of music. I was just beginning to discover the joys of unlimited internet between 2 and 8am that my exciting new broadband connection gave me. South Park seemed more important to acquire than Julian Bream recordings. But Kuldeep gave me mp3s, links and videos, DVDs full of music, happy to share what he had with another person who played classical guitar. One CD had Elena Papandreou playing Koshkin. Another was John William’s Seville Concert which at 29”30 features The Usher Waltz. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w3ulenPf_II)

I googled the piece and found it was a Koshkin work referencing Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, Fall of the House of Usher. That year I discovered Edgar Allen Poe, memorised The Raven and realised I was hooked to Koshkin. I’d listen to The Usher Waltz over and over, imagine the story playing out and imagine myself playing it some day.

When I saw Alexei on the morning of the competition, he looked pale and there were bags under his eyes from all those nights of guitar playing. He was sitting on a stool away from everyone else, still practising. “You look like Usher!” I told him. He gave me a glazed smile but didn’t stop playing.

Alexei practises before the competition

Nikita Koshkin was in Calcutta in December as cheif guest of the Calcutta International Classical Guitar Festival. He came with his wife, Asya Selyutina. Asya would debut his newest works, the first part of a series of 24 preludes and fugues. And at the end of that concert the Kolkatta audience would get to their feet, clapping long and hard after the music was over.

Months later, the rest of the world is still discovering these pieces. The score will be published only after the premiere recording is out. But one by one, Nikita Koshkin uploads videos of them - one set of prelude and fugue at a time - on Facebook. Each is black-and-white and shot by Roman Gurochkin. Asya plays the guitar. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=45-o8NxFIX0)

Each time he uploads a new piece, I feel lucky I’m able to listen to it again. I feel happy he came to India and that I didn’t hesitate to ask for friendship on Facebook. I thank the Calcutta Classical Guitar Society for making his visit possible.

And each time he uploads a piece, I wonder whether I should resign myself to the fact that I may never be able to play it.

Bouncing back

The city had a resilient spirit. It went back to work right away. Some of it never even stopped working, pausing only to type out messages to friends and relatives wondering if they were ok. Blasts always worried everyone outside of the city. 17 died, 130 injured and friends of 12 million wondered if they knew anyone. Most of them didn’t. Most of them saw images on TV and read reports off their computers and ranted on status updates. They ranted about national security, about politics, about friendship and being taken for granted. And people in the city went back to work. It didn’t matter that how they felt and there was no time to mourn. There never was. They needed their jobs.

To Uma who turned 5 on Friday

The pictures were chosen from Getty.

A very bad poem with inappropriate Shakespeare references written in a hurry for the sickly Basu

Ahana Basu was down with a flu

from where it attacked, no one really knew [1]

All day she spent indoors, weeping and sighing

and thinking up last words, just in case she was dying [2]

She listened to music to get inspired

But all it did was make her more tired. [3]

She tried not to scratch and she tried not to curse [4]

Her brother might overhear - things could get worse.

So, she logged on and browsed, remaining invisible [5]

In hiding, she knew so much more was possible

Sometimes she’d be down and start feeling all alone

Then she’d get up and dab on some eu de cologne[6].

And she'd tell herself, each time she felt like a spotted toad
"Just a few more days and then the chicken will cross the road."

---

[1] But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,. What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,. I am to learn. (Antonio, act I, scene I MoV)

[2] I am dying, Egypt, dying; only I here impórtune death a while, until Of many thousand kisses the poor last I lay upon thy lips. (Antony, act IV, scene XV, A&C)

[3] I am never merry when I hear sweet music. (Jessica, act V, scene I)

[4] A pox o' both the houses! (Mercutio, act III, scene I, R&J)

[5] O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil! (Cassio, act II, scene III, Othello)

[6] All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh! (Lady Macbeth, act V, scene I, Macbeth)

Fast forward

The country is going to the dogs, they used to say, They had wished it would get better but believed that it probably wouldn’t happen. This needs to stop, they said now. They wished it would happen soon and believed that somebody just needed to do something.

And somebody did something, the same something he had been doing for years. This time everyone else stopped and took notice. We’ll join in, they said, agreeing to be part of a list signatures that would be passed on until it became too heavy to travel.

They began talking about it on tv, in newspapers, over the dining table, applauding limited characters and even more agreed to join in the something for real. They’d protest in the same way - not till death, but just a day - to show support.

Then it was Friday. They were excited, knowing they’d have a ball. Tomorrow is Saturday, they said. And Sunday came afterwards.

Or so Yada would say.

Arghya

I never knew Bhimsen Joshi. I never met him and I never sat for any of his concerts. But he was a part of my life. Every morning, at breakfast he’d sing for us. There were a few cassettes my mother loved that travelled with us on road trips and later were converted to CD an then mp3s.

When he died, my mother sent me an SMS. We were at Jaipur. Chimananda Adichie was on stage talking about she grew up in the house that had once belong to Chinua Achebe.

I felt nothing. Bhimsen Joshi was almost 90 and very sick. None of us expected him to live much longer. I thought of Nidheesh Tyagi. Even before Pune Mirror had launched, Nidheesh knew what kind of coverage the paper would give. “The entire edition should be black and white,” he said, drawing the layout of the first few pages on a rough sheet of paper.

He made us keep archival photos ready and contact numbers close. When the time came, we’d know whom to call and what to do. But Nidheesh was no longer the editor of Pune Mirror. He’s in Chandigarh where he wrote a piece for the Tribune.

For the last 3 days, each evening I was at the Pt. Bhimsen Joshi Smriti Concert, Arghya.It was at New English School Ramanbaug, the same place at which the Sawai Gandharva Sangeet Mahotsav is held.

“Please don’t ask for encores,” said Anand Deshmukh at the start. Just enjoy the music and that would be a tribute to Pandit Bhimsen Joshi.

Anand Deshmukh is the compere for Sawai Gandharva and it would have felt incomplete without him. Almost everything was the same as a Sawai Gandharva concert. The format was the same, there was similar seating arrangment, the same organisers, the same people who provided the sound system and the same PR company doing media rounds. And like Tushar Joshi, the PR head, most of them turned up and did what they could voluntarily.

But it felt different.

Passes were given away free and the best seats on the floor, right in front of the stage were available to anyone who came early. And in the audience fewer people jostled, fewer people stood at the back near the food stalls and fewer people talked. There were claps and discerning sighs, but unlike at the Sawai, there was a patient silence while the stage was being adjusted and even between pieces. Nitin Gadkari showed up and only the press seemed excited. It was the same with Supriya Sule.

Each day, the first artiste was a disciple who’d sing a rendition of a raag or bhajan or abhanga made famous by Bhimsen Joshi.

Everyone had a story about Bhimsenji. How he called Parveen Sultana to Pune when she was just 14, and later, how he made her sing a Marathi song. How he loved cars and would pick up Rashid Khan in his Mercedes. My parents had stories about him and so did the rest of my family and almost everyone I knew who’d attended a concert.

And at the end of the last day, after everyone had sang and there was 15 minutes left before the loudspeaker deadline, Anand Deshmukh asked us to stay back. “Every Sawai Gandharva Sangeet Mahotsav is ended with Bhairavi. We’d like to end this concert series with a Bhairavi sung by Pandit Bhimsen Joshi.”

People adjusted their seats to get a better view of the screen. No one talked.

And then Bhimsen Joshi sang. He was younger than I’d ever seen him in black and white. He sat with his legs folded and sang with his whole body. And when it was over people clapped, got up, adjusted their clothes and left.

I remembered my mother once telling us to bring binoculars to get a closer look at his face. I was 7 and it was a concert at which he was to sing and either we left early or he didn’t. The binoculars were never used. That was the closest I had ever gotten to seeing him sing live. Until yesterday.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RGykJ0pymM8&playnext=1&list=PLCAC9AA901CC604A9

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/pune/Three-day-musical-tribute-for-Bhimsen/articleshow/7471216.cms

Let's make a night to remember (and other #1 Bryan Adams hits)

When we got out of the car last evening Bryan Adams was already singing Here I Am. Work, traffic and a last minute decision meant we had missed quite a bit.

Earlier that day, I had found a way to get the cheapest tickets at half price. And suddenly, the concert was affordable – I’d paid more for at a cinema the previous weekend. That’s when I decided to go.

The reason I like large concerts is that music becomes more than just sound. My feet move without me noticing it. When I stand still the beat moves up from my toes and becomes a pulse. Part of it is because it’s loud. But it’s also the excitement.

There’s a peculiar nervous energy at each show that heightens just before a few songs, sometimes just one. This is the song that makes the band. Everyone knows all the words. It’s the reason why everyone’s here in the first place. It’s what drew them to the rest of the music, made them buy all the other albums and give the B Side a listen.

Even before that song begins I know I’m going to be part of something great. Most of the time, the highlight of the evening is decided the next day over the phone. It's different at a concert. A riff will announces it. Everyone knows it’s happening. Everyone’s part of that moment. And everyone's always a little sad when it’s over. Like the cry for “Once more” right after Summer of ’69.

I always imagined that 18 Till I Die would be the anthem for my 18th birthday. But I was done listening to Bryan Adams much before that. By then I had learned to play Summer of ’69 and found an acoustic arrangement that did great things for me in school lunch breaks. I knew all the words to most of his songs and had heard everything he’d released.

But these were his earlier hits. And all the while we were driving there I wondered what I’d do if he sang something from after 1998. It turns out that I didn’t need to carry printed lyrics from his newer albums. We got there only after that bit was over.

When we finally got there, we could only find place right at the back. As far away from Bryan Adams without being actually outside the venue. (I later found that outside did have a better view!) And all I could see was other people. The stage was hidden by thousands of heads who had got there earlier and paid more than me.

There were no speakers in our section. I could hear the concert, but I couldn’t feel it. The couple standing next to us singing was as clear as what was happening on stage. They looked happy to be there.

I looked around and found that almost everyone was happy to be there. I was in a crowd of over 20,000, most of whom knew the words to lesser-known Bryan Adams hits. And all of a sudden that’s all that mattered. I stopped caring that I had to jump to see the top of Bryan Adams’ head and that the front of the crowd far enough for us to hear a cheer delay. People around me weren’t complaining. They weren’t even talking. They were singing.

Veda goes to Jaipur

After the first half hour, I knew something was wrong. I could feel it, but couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t a guilt-ridden feeling, the kind that makes your tongue slightly dry so that you have to swallow every so often to convince yourself and your body that you’re not to blame. All that I knew was that something wasn’t quite right, and it was bothering me, but only a little.

The session was titled ‘1857’, moderated by William Dalrymple (There were three others equally interesting to choose from but “You can’t go wrong with Dalrymple and 1857,” I told myself, and anyone else who asked.). I had reached a few minutes late but assumed I was on time. I wasn’t.

It was only later while talking about it to a friend that I realized what it was. No cell phones went off. No one talked, whispered or mouthed silently.

And once I realized, I started finding other things almost normal but not quite.

Everyone was on their best behavior – as though on a trip abroad for the first time and desperate to not to reveal their less-privileged origins. Yes, there was a crowd and yes, I did get jostled a bit, but now that a hypothesis was taking shape, I assumed it was by those to whom the names Coetze and Pamuk meant nothing and Kiran Desai sounded vaguely familiar. And of course it was alright that they didn’t know who Coetze and Pamuk were. But that weekend they’d find out and maybe buy themselves a personally inscribed book. Or so I thought.

There were no reserved seats and conversations (even lunches) with heroes were possible – sometimes without the pressure of saying something clever.

Conversations seemed to break out everywhere. They began with smiles and were propelled with the conviction that everyone present was part of the same club. I caught someone’s eye in the middle of a crowded session. We were both standing with several people between us, but we knew we were friends. We had both chuckled to ourselves, one of few to who found humour in that particular discussion.

Each day I’d read accounts of the festival full of with quotes and mugshots of people, important enough to be quoted, with whom I’d shared a coffee with and (hopefully) a witty punchline.

And at the end I thought about how, if not for Jaipur Literature Festival, Chimamanda Adichie’s Nigerian riot victims and Irvine Welsh’s Skag Boys would continue to sound exactly the same in my head.