The plot thickens......

A month back, I was whining on this blog about the absence of people to play with, carefully masking (or so I thought) my irritation. I think God heard me.
As it happened, we had arranged for the 'audition' (that's D's idea) of two guitar players on Thursday. Now, we knew one of the guys, and absolutely NO clue about the other: except his name and the fact that he stammered a little. But then again, he was the one Amytda had recommended. The other fellow is a bit of a smart-ass, and has been sending felers to us through P that he wants in. Naive as he is, P cannot talk him off, and so we decided for the two of 'em auditioning on the same day.
Well, new-guitar-player-in-question stood waiting for me in front of a cinema hall the other day. And I had a deja vu when we said "hi". Simple guy in a shirt and a half-sleeve sweater (no one wears half-sleeve sweaters anymore, at least the style pack). He reminded me of a scruffy, unshaven dear friend and beautiful musician; one whose melodeis would literally make me cry. I immediately warmed to him. The sense of this grew stronger when this guy plugged in and played. 10 minutes into the 'audition', he was in, no questions asked. He played clean, by the way: didn't even plug in his Korg effects rack.
On the other hand, the smartass plugged through a Morley wah and still managed to sound like a cocky 8-year-old with no sense of history. The tough job of saying 'No' fell upon me, and I did it.
But here's something even more interesting. Every night, around 8.30 when I finish practising by myself, the boy next door — now a college kid, I think — plays REALLY loud music. It isn't as if he tries to show me how loud his stereo can get vis-a-vis my really loud drumset, it is as if he tries to make me listen to his kind of music. Which is a lot of classic rock and blues. No, not nu-metal: but Purple, and Led Zep, and blues. I liked it in a 19-year-old.
The practice got cancelled today because P had some rather pressing social engagement from his wife's side of the family. However, D called me and gave me a bit of news that made me suspicious of God 'actually' taking note of my whining.
The new keyboardist is the kid next door.

Tom heads, 8" and 10"; a kick drum head 20", claws. Hm. Bring snare and stands everyday to pad. Hmmm. Guitar players not really into this music. Hmmmmm.
I am going back to school days, he he, what with all the elaborate planning. The only difference is that now I know my instrument, and I have a little more money than I used to. Otherwise, it's all the same. I love the mad rush of a band being born.

The big O

I went out with A after almost a decade today, and to my surprise, she asked the driver to drive to a Park Street bar. Wow. A going to a bar to DRINK, even if it is a Breezer, and then suggesting a visit to Someplace Else! Quite a surprise, I must say.
Women faking orgasms...our Breezer-table chat. I loved meeting up with A. She says I still look the same, that I've put on a little weight (wow, the gymming's taking effect:)). Actually she went on to say that I'm looking 'handsome'. Was it me or was it the Breezer??
A few days back, one of my friends said that women fake orgasms 95% of the time. Is that really it? I am intrigued: now how do they fake it? Surely, the female orgasm is quite a process, and takes time for two people to achieve some a course of time. So do they fake it then, as well? I am confused now.

The media shite

Does work shape character? At some point of time, I presume. And sometimes with funny results.
I was reading a fellow-journalist's (do I have the right to use that term anymore?) blog the other day. I realised, yet again, that the journalist is God. A megalomaniac God, more often.
Last week, I came across an interesting review of an indie band from the Capital. I say interesting, because the reviewer in question doesn't pussyfoot around with his choice of music (mostly Rolling Stones) and claims he's been a thoroughbred rocker all his life. Imagine my surprise, then, when he spoke well of a garage/alterna act.
However, he had much to say about the, I quote, 'cool pedal-playing', going on in the record, and wanted more searing guitar solos.
The point remains, while our respected critics croak sour on bands that DON'T play their own music, when some of them even DO that, their HAS to be comparisons with the Stones. Or the Joe Satrani band. Or Dream Theater. Why can't we accept the fact that we are Indian, and we play the guitars like we would, like what's intrinsic to our nature, and might NOT call for burnin' all the time? Isn't that a bias that we nurture as music journalists? On the flipside, isn't it a little unfair to expect the Jonas Hellborg Trio to play like Ravi Shankar's classical ensemble?
Incidentally, I'd like to know how much guitar has this hallowed name on the Delhi print circuit played in his entire life, as of today. I have not come across a record out in his name on the store shelves.
Putting forth opinions.
Things happen in this world despite the media's opinions and suggestions; things that are beautiful, horrific, immensely creative or ruinous?

Ps: I finished reading The Devil and Miss Prym. And now have issues with concepts of 'good' and 'bad'.

Here's to life's little moments......

I took a moment from my day
Wrapped it up in things you say
Mailed it off to your address
You'll get it pretty soon, unless
The packaging begins to break
And all the points I try to make
Are tossed with thoughts into a bin
Time leaks out my life leaks in

Not enough time

I need to go get my PF from my ex-ex office, my final dues from my last place of work, make drum cases, buy starter-line cymbals, and hire a kick drum to start practice with the band, properly. I also need to call 50 different people in a day. And practice by myself.
I thought I'll have enough time in 24 hours. He pleased otherwise.

Just a perfect day

Sundays are lazy. I wish I could get back all the lazy Sundays of the past five years, my past 5 glorious working years that matter more to other people than to me, when I missed the morning game at the YMCA, the first milky tea at the Maidan, the first chill setting in. And sleep getting more comforting.
Sundays, over time, have become symbolic of the small but extremely important things in life. Keys to peace of mind, happiness and creation. Not contentment, mind you; THAT can spell death, but happiness, yeah.
So I had a lazy Sunday today, waking up late, savouring Ma's luchi-alur dam, sitting through a reading of all the newspapers while my brother taught his students in the drawing room. I took time for a bath — even reached for the olive oil bottle, very uncharacteristic of me — and bathed Bhuchu. I shared the table at lunch with Dida and Ma, I guess after, what, 7-8 years? I had a great lunch replete with mutton and mishti doi. And I hit my bed for a siesta thereafter. And I played some music with two of my best friends later in the evening.
Considering that I'm totally idle (read 'jobless') at the moment, I'd say that's a nice way of spending a day. I remember wondering what my life has come to, after the pages went, looking at the same road and the same streetlights and the same skyline at 10.30 at night, with no sense of self-worth at all. I was being a robot, just another screw in a machine that is also generally useless in everyday, common sense life.
Does all this come with staying clean? I don't know. But the miracles are just beginning to happen. Maybe, just maybe, I'll listen to 'Perfect Day' with a different interpretation in my head, someday.

Jam Junky

Pearl Jam start their South America tour on November 22. And Eddie is looking like he used to when Ten came out. The new music is also supposed to be very raw and aggressive, which means not the stuff like Love Boat Captain. I am excited.

Death by Water

I am sorry about what happened in Jordan.
Making the World pages back in Pune, I used to wonder about the daily mass slaughter in Iraq, you know; car bombs, shootouts, mortar, the works. Our deputy editor was the one in charge on Saturdays, and he'd always look at the bodycount to even place news on Iraq on the page — which is normal in most newspapers; I remember our RE in Calcutta talking excitedly on the night of the Rajdhani derailment, asking for the bodycount every 5 minutes. Unless at least a hundred people died, it was not to be considered worthy of being on Page 1.
Is that what it has come to: just the bodycount? Like Sachin scoring a century?

Miracle 4

So we had a talk, me and Doi, and our band seems to be shaping up alright. I always wanted to play with Doi and Pupu again, primarly because the three of us know where we are musically. And that's on the same page. This much I know: it's gonna be a soul band. We kinda always wanted to play this music. Well, the day seems to have arrived.
Now we have to find the RIGHT guitar player and the RIGHT keyboard player. Man, that's a tough job. Especially searching for the latter, who'd keep his John Lord/Rick Wright influences at bay and agree to play just three tones: the piano, the Fender Rhodes organ, and the clavinet. As for guitar players, the influences, and their consequent effect on a guy's playing.....I'd rather not be talking about it.
We agreed about playing Marvin Gaye, Asha Puthli, the Neville Brothers, and, oh yeah, Seal.

Letterhead

I talked to Barbara for over an hour in the evening, which was 6 am in the morning for her.
I have finished reading four volumes of Sharadindu in the past two months, including the historical novels. My grandmother got turned on to the Byomkesh stories, which is a great thing.
I also finished reading Maximum City, and for some reason, started Prozac Nation. Don't really know whether I'll be able to go through with it, though.
Has anyone ever realised how much time we spend sleeping? Is this happening to me because I'm waking up till dawn every morning to finally prepare to roll up the blinds, till the letters on the page themselves seem of some strange, blurry shape?
I used to read The Old Man and the Sea when I couldn't concentrate on anything because I was angry.

Play

For the past few weeks, I have been so down in the dumps that I almost gave up hope of creating any music with anyone, anywhere, at any time. Okay that's a bit too harsh: maybe musicians from this city. But whoa! I get a call at 8 in the morning from a good friend and an excellent vocalist/percussionist, and he wanted to meet me about a project in the evening. Two hours later, S called me, just to say Hi and confirm whether I'll meet him later on. Another half-an-hour later, I get a call from my friend the bass player, and he asks me: "Do you wanna jam?" (And now I just have a jam block and an old ride to play with!)
Is this God's handiwork? I guess. Mysterious ways, alright.
I decided to call up G and just tell her that I'd like to speak to her, once in a while, at least. Haven't done that yet. Let's see. Gabloo must be having a fabulous time at the Dhanaulti Rock Festival. I am proud of him.

SLAM junk

"This is the place where all the junkies go,
Where time goes fast and everything gets slow……."

'It has been a hard day, for strange faces swam by in my dreams tonight. Known, yet distorted faces, broken with some pain or another, weeping faces, angry faces — and faces with eyes that don't speak, dead-fish eyes. Eyes that are smacked out, eyes on heroin.
The light of a matchstick, and the coiled silver foil pipe — discoloured through use — turns into a tunnel of pleasure. Thoughts calmed, the body slacks down to take in this moment. Through the rolled blinds, I see a tiny girder of the morning light kiss the edges of the worn-out divan.
This morning, the weather looks better. Another day. These days that thought translates, straight away, into the number of hits, and more importantly, the money to buy them. Plans are hatched on the shitpot.
This morning, the weather looks better.'

(I wrote this in NOVEMBER 2004, just before hitting the Delhi convention. Almost a year down, I should stop bothering about the Freudian interpretations of a storyline about using, and let it be that: just a storyline.)
This reminds me: the shots of the dissolving scag inside the syringe in Requiem were very cool. Quite an editor.
{Boring aside}: I also visited the all-important 'work office' to offer a CV, after five days short of two months in my jobless stint. I was telling this to Sujoy the other day, but I've kinda developed a hatred of coporate offices. The smooth-talking types instantly begin to tick me off! There's not much I can do about it, though. Practising powelressness on a daily basis in real life is a fucking difficult job!

All About You

I heard a simple McFly song the other day on the telly. Sometimes, simple things can make you relise the deepest truths. Well, this one just goes: "It's all about you,/It's all about you baby".
So yeah, it is all about you. But you're too angry to even answer.