The “fascinating article” (by Arjun S Ravi on MTV Iggy) that Cicatrix speaks of in Sepia Mutiny reads like ‘The Best of RSJ (1992-1999), with Notable Exceptions’. It’s all been documented before with elan and sincerity by Amit Saigal. Today, it’s dated. Because it casually ignores a significant slice of Indian rock history — the independent music scene in Bangalore, which was where the really surprising stuff started to emerge from the mothballed closet in the late 1990s. In businesspeak, this era was when Indian rock music sought to “differentiate” itself. Not through marketing strategy (a la Parikrama et al which still have nothing to offer the discerning music fan) but through inventiveness, performance and startling creative energy. Ergo, I am not sure if Ravi’s omission stems from ignorance (which is unforgivable) or from personal bias (which is charlatan). . . . → Read More: Why MTV can never befriend Indian indie rock
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 39 comments  bands, bangalore, journalism, music, musicians  alms for shanti, amit saigal, bangalore, bollywood, chakraview, Chennai, colourblind, delhi, Frank Zappa, galeej gurus, India, indian rock music, indie, indie bands, indie music, jupiter cafe, kolkata, krazzy 4, kryptos, laila rouass, MTV, MTV Iggy, Mumbai, myndsnare, plan b, ram sampath, rediff.com, RSJ, sepia mutiny, taaq, Thermal And A Quarter, uday benegal, zebediah plush Just when Bangalore, and other parts of the world that had earned a chance to experience them, had grown immensely fond of this lovable brat pack, Zebediah Plush, like those that marry too young, followed its destiny to disband, but sans acrimony or bad blood. After bringing out one studio album, Afterlaughs (2005), the members of Plush decided it was time to go their separate ways — to university, into careers, and perhaps even to explore oblivion. But their way of going away was not to peter out but to explode, supernova-esque, in one last gasp of glory. . . . → Read More: Remembering Zebediah Plush Just when Bangalore, and other parts of the world that had earned a chance to experience them, had grown immensely fond of this lovable brat pack, Zebediah Plush, like those that marry too young, followed its destiny to disband, but sans acrimony or bad blood. After bringing out one studio album, Afterlaughs (2005), the members of Plush decided it was time to go their separate ways — to university, into careers, and perhaps even to explore oblivion. But their way of going away was not to peter out but to explode, supernova-esque, in one last gasp of glory. . . . → Read More: Remembering Zebediah Plush In Kodungallur and Latur and Dibrugarh, they don’t know of Van Halen or U2, Beyonce or Bobby McFerrin, Bob Dylan or John McLaughlin, John Denver or Kid Rock. Heck, they don’t even know the Beatles. But they know Michael Jackson. And, as of this morning on this side of the world, they know he is dead. It is the day we were afraid to wait for. It is the day we thought would never come. Or if it did, that it would go away without bothering us. It is the day the music died. It is the day the Internet almost died. It is the day that has completely washed away the tears that are being wept for Farrah Fawcett. Hacks have been ready with MJ’s obit for nearly a decade. Which explains why the ones you read in The New York Times and The Washington Post are so meaty. All they needed to add was a paragraph on the day and time of his death, and whisk up a soapy ending. Around the world, radio stations have not stopped playing MJ since the news of his death. Even in death, it is a festival like never before for the pop icon who blurred the boundaries of everything society has struggled to define demographically – gender, colour, religion, age, crime, morality… He was the most hunted celebrity of all time – in fact he demonstrated, with his life, the glory and the anguish of celebrity. His life had no private moments – his life was the original Truman Show. But, because he is gone, we shall not remember MJ for his foibles – for the black skin turned white with wilful vitiligo, for the prosthetic nose that slipped off during an interview with one of many media vampires, for his uncomfortable marriages and his alleged paedophilia, or for his escapades around Bahrain in a burqa. Those shenanigans will soon be forgotten, for MJ was a rarity among celebrities – he was the soul of innocence, a child all the way. As NYT put it, he was “the Peter Pan of pop music.” It is only a matter of technicality that he died at 50. And, most of all, we will remember him for his music. And for being a performer without parallel or peer in mediated history. Proof, apart from everything else in his life, lies in the musical legacy he leaves behind – ten albums, of which six were bestsellers from the moment they hit the shelves. Many a child growing up in the 1980s has attempted the moonwalk and blanched at the urban legend that Jackson broke a few ribs just dancing. And many of us, now with more grey hair showing than Jackson ever did, may still feel a hot flash of adolescent adrenalin coursing through our tired veins when we listen to Thriller, or Bad, or Beat It. As with the great legends of music who never die, Michael Jackson shall live on. MJ can never be mourned, only celebrated. May he go in grace. And we, for our part, shall remember the time when we fell in love. . . . → Read More: The day the music died, Michael Jackson lives on Autorickshaw is a reasonably well-known Indo-Canadian Carnatic Jazz outfit. That’s a lot of hyphenated identities there, and (since I was employed with an Indian-American paper) I was primarily interested in the story of the singer Suba Sankaran, daughter of mridangam maestro Trichy Sankaran. Raised in Canada, she had trained in Carnatic and adapted her lovely, trained voice to jazz. Autorickshaw at that time was just one album old (the eponymous Autorickshaw – 2003), and the lineup was Sankaran, tabla player Ed Hanley, bassist Rich Brown and percussionist Patrick Graham. Since, they have cut two more albums – Four Higher (2004) and So the Journey Goes (2007). Four Higher, incidentally, is a play on the words ‘For Hire’ seen at the back of autorickshaws in India. I have with me Autorickshaw and a demo CD that Sankaran had sent me, and I still play both whenever I am allowed. Sankaran’s voice is not heavy on body (the way Susheela Raman’s does) but she handles her scales well and her phrasing is quite interesting. Some Carnatic purists I know, however, have been parsimonious with praise for it, but I like it nonetheless. As for the domain of jazz, I’m not sure where exactly Autorickshaw the band fits in. Or how their journey has placed them on the global canvas. Yes, they have a whole lot of gigs lined up, and that’s always nice for any band. I observed, with some disappointment, that Sankaran’s vocals have not matured with the music as much as I would have expected them to. I thought the title track of So the Journey Goes was rather tedious. But for memory’s sake, I shall treasure the early Autorickshaw I knew. Thumbing through my archives the other night, I came across an interview that never made it to print, or the web. The responses are unabridged, and I have retained Suba’s spellings for Carnatic (Karnatak) and mridangam (mrdangam) among other idiosyncrasies. The second part of the interview iss more about Suba the artist, and some questions may seem pedestrian. But hey, I’m no arty-farticulate music critic! . . . → Read More: Suba Sankaran’s Autorickshaw – circa 2004 Thermal And A Quarter has just released its video ‘One Small Love’ on YouTube. The song was first played live on NDTV’s ‘We The People’ show on the theme ‘Culture Wars’. The song was subsequently used in the credits of the show. The band released the single shortly after. The music video, the band’s first, has been created by Happy along with director Ashvin Naidu (Avakkai Films). . . . → Read More: Melt away the hate with One Small Love It’s curtains for India Coffee House on MG Road. Like all things, this too must pass. Into the history we are prone to forget. Into the homogeneity we are loath to welcome. . . . → Read More: On MG Road, coffee is homeless Atlanta punk rockers Black Lips exits India tour after their Chennai gig ends in striptease, stage sex and shame. Maybe the lads needed a taste of Indian prison hospitality? . . . → Read More: Black Lips and the Chennai shitfest When I met Susheela Raman in 2002, she was not yet a star. But everything that would make her one was written on her face and in her demeanour. She wore an honest, direct gaze. Her husky, slinky voice wrapped itself around you like a convivial boa constrictor. And when she spoke, she spoke the words of her heart. . . . → Read More: Susheela Raman redux |
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