Two years I worked as a business journalist. Then one weekend, I packed my bag, headed home (Poona), flicked my dad's videocam and headed for the much-talked about NH7 Weekender Music Fest. Had been planning to write something equities-unrelated for a long time, and this was it...my high-point at Reuters.
Everyone loves you when you're media. Though I'd have been much happier being on some small stage somewhere playing music, this was a memorable experience...my 13 minutes (which I've compressed somehow for your viewing pleasure) with Imogen Heap.
The previous night, she'd performed at the Dewarists Stage, bouncing about in a Black and White Satya Paul saree. I'm not sure I paid much attention to her performance, most of it I watched on the stupid little screen of my camera, but it's always overwhelming when there's a huge crowd and celebrated anticipation.
Then the next day, the kindhearted Bacardi gang granted me a one-on-one. I was ecstatic...happily devising ways to include this in my CV. Well, she was warm, funny, animated and quite open and clearly still thrilled about last night's performance...what can I say, I's media!
La Blogotheque aka the Take Away Show is full of sweet surprises. A month ago, they put up a session with Lianna La Havas, this 22-year-old from south London, with her singing her song "No Room For Doubt" on the streets of Paris.
Sweet melancholic lyrics, dreamy guitar playing, and a marshmellow voice -- aaaah, here I go sinking...into the fluffy down of a young Peyroux-esque dream.
Chryde & Vincent Moon's Take Away is, as I said, full of surprise artists, and the sessions are warm and spontaneous. Can't comment on the cinematography, but all I can say is, I love what I see -- fuzzy and feel good.
Here's another song from the Black Cab Sessions by Ms. Havas.
Havas is currently working on her debut album due 2012, and is signed to Warner Bros Records, with a host of "sold-out" concerts scheduled for Nov-March. For more about her, you know what to do (psst...G****E)....ummm...or just go here
Just bought myself a pair of shocking pink gumboots from a snooty little shop - they were selling it on discount, and then, quite belatedly stumbled upon the Gumboot Dancers of South Africa.
Wiki says "Gumboot dancing was conceived by black miners in South Africa as an alternative to drumming—which authorities restricted. The boots were a solution to a problem of often flooded gold mines in which men otherwise stood in knee-deep water toiling at their work stations." Found a popular video on Youtube. Pretty cool, their raw and spontaneous performance.
And checked out some gigs by Black Umfolosi, a popular acapella and dance group from Zimbabwe. Guess they get their name from the Umfolozi River in KwaZulu-Natal, a province of South Africa.
Very endearing and warm sounds, and somehow melancholic too.
Weekend was busy busy busy. These million little things I had to get done, then a song which I had to get out of my system, and then, I had to had to had to somehow quell my tutu thirst. I have been obsessing with Tutus, and it's all over the Internet. Tempting D.I.Y instructions on how to make a beeeyoooteefool net/tulle tutu.
So I set out with afro-haired partner-in-crime from downstairs on a tutu cloth hunt. After a day and a half of extensive search, found net fabric in Commercial Street at Subbaya and Sons, a wholesale cloth shop...it wasn't THAT wholesale anyhow. Never knew cloth was this expensive!
The cloth was priced between Rs. 65-90 per meter with my bargaining prowess (or the lack of it), and an adult tutu, a real puffed up one, might take about 12 meters.
Tutu essentials: 1) Lots and lots of net fabric - at least 12 meters. If you find Tulle fabric, even better. But it's not easily available in Bangalore. 2) Elastic - Deduct about 2 inches off your waist size from the elastic strip, and stitch it up nice and tight. 3) Scissors - a steady pair can make a world of difference 4) Needle and thread, to stitch up your elastic
Hmm. 1) Now, I used up nearly 10 meters of my fabric. 2) First cut 10 meters of your cloth into 5 equal squarish/rectangularish sheets. 3) Roll up each sheet like you'd roll up posters. 4) Once rolled, slice up the rolls into 3-4 inch wide strips. 5) The strips should be about double the length you want on your skirt. 6) Place your elastic over a fat roll of tissue paper, or something circular, like a small plastic flower pot, or whatever. I used the back-rest of a chair, but that's bad for your elastic. 7) Now, take a strip, fold it in half, and place the folded part over your elastic. With the fold held over the elastic, bring together the end of your strips from behind the elastic in through the fold and pull it down nice and tight. Basically, tie the strip in a knot against the waistband. Here's a diagram I found on the internet. You should knot your strips the way it's shown below.
8) Knot all your strips right next to each other, till your waistband is entirely covered. Make sure when you stretch out the tutu, no gaps are seen. It should be ALL COVERED.
9) Now, trim the edges of your tutu to whatever length you choose. 10) Voila! Your TUTU is ready to be worn!
I chose a turquoise green net fabric, and a black satin ribbon to tie around the waist. Will upload pics soon, but if you're eagerschmeager to see how it looks, I've posted a song video, and I'm wearing the tutu in the video. Couldn't resist. Now for the song.
The song that sounds like another/Tutu song
Well, what can I say about this song that's not obvious? It was shot in my dining room by Madhatter
Perhaps lyrics.
And, the flowers are all falling And, the warm, summer breeze is gone, I, I kissed a stranger, Until, another...came along
I Keep living in circles, yeah but it's the same old same old same old same and done
I took the road less travelled as you told me to I walked a mile Wondered why feeling lonely like I do
Look over yonder I see you Hand in hand
Living, laughing, loving with a shadow I left behind
I Keep living in circles, yeah but it's the same old same old same old same and done.
Soundcheck, I met Arnab SenGupta, a musician from the city. Woody Walden acoustic, elastic vocals, and Ninja for seasoning, a refreshing and infectious brew of George Michaels, Led Zepps, Billy Joels with original compositions. I know all of us (me and cronies/cronies and I) thoroughly enjoyed it.
Then monkey and I went home, and then it rained, and when it rains for me, it pours...then scuttled about looking for rickshaws, then reached just a little after my scheduled time to perform.
So monkey, aka Jukebox Ani aka Anirudh, decided to join me for a few songs. We wrote a song on Friday night, Siamese Cat, quite impromptu, quite sudden, and quite my current favourite. I forgot the lyrics to some of my older songs, but not this one, this one went smooth as butter.
Oooh that reminds me. Forgetting lyrics to songs is my new gimmick, helps me connect with other flawed creatures, makes them feel better...I promise...it works.
So Ani is a quirky songwriter, and his songs The Creature/Goblin Song, Caffeine Woman, and Mister Sunshine, should soon be up somewhere on the internet, and when they do debut somewhere on the internet, I'll make sure I share them with you.
His songs are funky and very stickable. I keep humming them long after the moment has passed.
And finally, I played a longish instrumental of mine -- Eclipse -- whose video I shall borrow from a friend and upload soonly. Typical response. Forks, spoons, plates, clunkaclunketyclunk, and yabababayabachompiddychomp.
But I expected that.
Sunday So the next day at Sunday Soul Sante on Palace Grounds -- a huge hippieish market with colourful, whimsical stalls n all, but I don't know why they call themselves a 'flea' market, nothing's really that cheap, but like I said, the things on sale were colourful, whimsical and delicious to look at -- Ani and I played again, at the CounterCulture stage.
And this little girl became my no.1 Fan. She danced, she hugged, she kissed, she laughed...I loved her for loving me.
And there was Kavyanjali with Piyush, Meenakshi and Arpita from work, who made it even more memorable. And three cameras for the four of them. Will seek Kavy's permission and send you links to her images, she's quite the clicker.
The gig itself was wishy washyish...an otherwise good sound was ruptured by the neighbouring Udaya award ceremony...but overall...it was fun having Jukebox Ani play with me.
Hang in there for his songs...they're on their way...
I always get a kick out of jamming with Stefan and gang. By the time I reached Stefan's cozy lil hole in Green Park, Tony, Stef and Nikhil were rehearsing with the raspy-voiced Suguna Sridhar (yes, the littler but just as powerful version of the incredibly sexy Suman Sridhar), and Aditi -- she plays the saxophone, and has a singing voice so sweet and free-flowing that...anyhow -- while I bummed around.
No, actually, I just sat and felt my nerves do a lil tap dance beneath my skin, reminding me of a voice which could once sing, but weathered with smoke and what not, prefers now to speak...rhythmically.
Then we jammed, I forced Stefan to stay put on his precious keyboard stool, while we worked on a couple of songs, for the show in the evening at Zook, Saket.
Zook is your regular club-slash-venue promoting yadayadayada.
What I liked about Zook was its space, just right to make a small crowd look gargantuan. And you are allowed to smoke indoor.
And I liked the guy doing the sound. I have a lot of respect for live music venues that don't just yap, but actually invest in sound. There's only so much a musician can do in delivering the art, but if the setting's right, and the artist is aware of this glorious setting, the performance just escalates into something far more intimate and warm...and that happened at Zook.
And I loved the lil poster outside the loo...kinda pleased the voyeur in me. Will upload pics of that poster, as soon as I take them. It's everything you oughta fear while going to pee/poop/pose in the restroom of a public space...like...CAMERAS! The loo itself wasn't particularly...ummm... impressive.
The best thing about Delhi is, after so many years, someone from the past always shows up, and this time, two of my school friends and my cronies from Mumbai were there, and then i had that feeling...that ass kickin' feeling!
So the Jass B'stards, I love their energy, Stefan's over-the-top quirkiness, Tony's goofaloof bassplaying, and drummer Nikhil's manic AND understated (yes, it's AND, and not YET or BUT) playing...they are just a lot of fun, and let's not forget, flexible, versatile, technically sound...very sound, and mad.
So I won't say much more about that gig. Instead, just watch the videos. One was a feature on the Jass B'stards, and accidentally, I fell into the video frame...it's true...almost....and I made a complete spazzo fool of myself...but chalta hai.
Above's a song about monkeys and mangoes, but i don't actually say the word Monkey. Kinda messy, but now that it's out there, might as well share it with my abundant blog audience.
A spread of sausages, bacon, fried eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and baked beans, and a basket of bread and butter – all for Rs 150—makes this little hole in the wall a home away from home.
All the fuzzy homeliness at this tiny, couple-run brekker joint comes from the simplicity of its prices and menu, which also features waffles with homemade syrup, a choice of egg omelets and fresh fruit juice.
Watching Galeej Gurus’ vocalist Nathan Lee Harris and partner-in-crime Lynn D’Costa whisk and toss the contents of your would-be spread in the open kitchen, while two helpers scuttle about with dirty dishes and orders, could tease the voyeur in you on a not-so-crowded weekday.
But on a sunny Sunday morning, with limited seating space and a rushed stream of orders, you’ve got to keep a close watch on what’s missing on your plate, as the couple tends to get forgetful.
The sausages are juicy and well-cooked, and unless specified, the eggs tend to be runny. You can amuse yourself with an array of board games, music, and a wall crowded with messages and artwork from loyal customers, while you wait to be fed.
The smoker’s space, which overlooks the street, has limited tables, and hence, is ideal for a coffee and perhaps, a brownie. But a breakfast over coffee and cigarettes could get messy.
Nestled amidst the staccato bungalows of Koramangla, it is easy to miss the Hole in the Wall, but it’s better if you didn’t. # 61, 1st 'A' Main, S.T. Bed, Koramangala 4th Block, Bangalore
It's far, far away, isolated and looks like a huge fuckin' warehouse. It's got Marilyn Monroe tattooed on the door to the ladies' room, and Che Guevara on the guys' loo.
The walls, a canvas for graffiti amateurs.
Then there's posters of Robert Johnson, and a huge flat screen, which PCRC did justice to.
And the sound, these guys spend a bomb on getting the right acoustics with Acoustic Control.
Bottomline, I like CounterCulture.
I played there once, hope to play there again.
Guru, an event manager of sorts, convinced me that the band I would open for is unique, and it would be a great way to wake up from my year-long unmusical slumber, and open up to Bangalore.
And 200 people showed up. And paid an entry each. And they all turned up just for the music. Not for food, not to yap over blaring music, they came for the show.
Not to say CounterCulture's food isn't worth the long drive. From what I hear, their food's delectable.
But for the first time in a long time, this felt like a genuine place that supports original music. Will it last? I should like it to...
And I should hope this isn't just a one-time euphoric outburst, stemming from my musical inactivity.
Now for the cherry on top -- I got paid right after the show. Transparent as transparent can be. And I got a sweet little poster as a takeaway. I was pleased. And when I did the math in my head, they really did not make that much, or anything at all from this gig.
The band got paid and I got paid.
And they took lovely videos, recorded the whole concert (top notch production), and have promised me a CD this weekend.
Maybe there really is something to this place that makes it worth the journey.
“I’m going to count to three, and if you don’t jump, I’ll push.”
What the hell am I doing...here?
Standing on a flimsy square plank that's jutting out of the dangling suspension footbridge of Swiss design, some 500 feet above the Bhote Koshi river in Nepal, I have a suicidal vision of the unblemished fall.
“The fun is in the fear Miss,” the bungee jumping instructor at the Last Resort chuckles, as he steadies my harness and readies me for the freefall into the phlegmy gorge.
Troubled lovers, a dull job, and an impulsive lunacy augmented by the aforementioned, have driven me to this point, and I’m at the Last Resort, where other loons gather to celebrate such masochism.
A three-hour ride from Kathmandu through the famous Arniko highway (Kathmandu/Lhasa), the Last Resort is a Shangri la for adventure junkies from across the world.
Hidden beneath the lush forest canopy on a hill overlooking the gorge, the Last Resort is also a relaxing getaway with comfy safari tents and hammocks, good food, friendly staff and a warm, woody bar to lounge about in.
With a hand tucked between my harness and hip, that bungee guy pushes me inch by inch, till my toes stick out of the plank up above the gorge. Right at the edge, cold wind gushes up and intrudes my nasal, aural and mental cavities.
“Three”
I take a deep breath and stretch my arms out to get that impeccable posture I have been advised to adopt.
“Lean forward with your arms out like the wings of an eagle, bend your knees, protrude that lovely bum, and dive into the sky and flyyyy,” were the sinful words that I fell prey to.
“Two”
“I am GOD,” I rehearse in my head. That’s a line I’ve always imagined saying.
This is it.
“Miss. Turn around and say Hello to the lens,” says another bungee veteran who has been sizing up the canyon, the bridge and the constipation in my eyes with a camera, since forever!
“Wait for my count and jump, if you don’t…”
But I jump before my cue … what a pain!
I lose my voice and plummet into the canyon all jerky and clumsy, versus the graceful eagle-like swoop I had planned.
As the cable shudders to an end, I tumble and swirl and bounce mid-air, and my cheeks, belly and double chin jiggle and flap about. The jet of wind, pressure, and water droplets knead and bully my respectable cellulite.
A measly "fuck" is all that I can manage.
By the time I’m pulled into the banks of a far less intimidating gorge (now that we're at the same level), I am floating in my head, with illusions of being a demi-goddess or catwoman or some such magnificent, brave creature. Feeling exulted, the perfect moment could only get better with a hammock, sweet spirits and sweeter music, I imagine.
Alas! Instead of my fantasy of perfection, I have to climb all the way to the top of the hill back to the resort, via a steep, annoyingly slippery, wild trail. I huff and puff and finally reach the resort in about 50 minutes, just twice the amount of time all the other bungee victims take.
The “no more cigarettes” chant uphill vaporizes as soon as I reach the gates of Eden, where I cannot help but light up in jubilation.
After a lovely buffet lunch brimming with colourful fruits and veggies, there’s a video presentation of every jump from that session. I buy a DVD featuring my bungee jump at a small price.
I am also awarded the “I did it” card, which entitles me to a free fourth jump, once I get through the 2nd and 3rd ones.
I know I’m going back to the Last Resort. But first, the Macau Tower…
Two years I worked as a business journalist. Then one weekend, I packed my bag, headed home (Poona), flicked my dad's videocam and headed for the much-talked about NH7 Weekender Music Fest. Had been planning to write something equities-unrelated for a long time, and this was it...my high-point at Reuters.
