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.