Hmmmmm....

I thought I'd have a lot to write on before sitting down to face this damn screen. Seems I don't: hmmmm...
Watching Mandu Sarara perform was a real delight; they're one brilliant bunch of musicians. In fact, I think they were the best gig at the Congo Square Jazz Fest this year. Kenny Garett wowed the crowd, but know what? We fell in love with the Brazilians, yet again. They played one of the best versions of Brazil and Girl From Ipanema that I, for one, have heard.
I also loved the Eric Lohrer quartet; they threw in a surprise playing Cissy Strut, stringing it up with a Dave Holland tune. I loved the drummer.
And then there was Kenny Garett. I donno whether he was angry because his band wasn't introduced properly, but he just said 'Hi' and his quartet launched into really loud hard bop! No time to sit down, man! Which is all very good, and me and Doi watched the drummer up close and started laughing, because he was doing stuff that was straight out of a Dennis Chambers video: cross-sticking, lightning-ass one-handed fills, one-handed 32-nd-note hat patterns, blinding rack-floor-bass flams etc etc, and VERY loud at that. Clearly, he loved to show off his flash. Which is all very good: just not always to my liking.

Maatir gaan

Oh well, I'm back to blogging, as the previous entry shows, after 14 fucking days. Feels good to write shit down, though.
It kinda seems surreal: I went to the biggest Baul-fakiri mela and came back without a whiff of pot! But hey, that's the way, ah-huh, ah-huh, /We like it.
Lots of Bangla band wannabes, though; kills the spirit of the place. My friend almost had a fistfight with a guy who was recording gigs on a dictaphone. "Are you recording this to return to Kolkata and quietly share a moment of spiritual physicality with your wife?" was, loosely translated, his exact question. The dude was visibly fuming.
We had lovely dinner, by the way: one of the best musur daal preparations I've ever had.
We heard two excellent renditions of Barir Pashey Aarshi Nagar, by Shraddhananda, a 16-year old kid with killer dotara technique and an amazing voice; and a version of Hridi Majhare by Sarajit Khyapa that blew me away.
As my HP would have it, we came back to Kolkata AND managed to procure guest passes for the Congo Square Jazz Fest. More on that later.

Mela kotha

We are going to Kenduli!!! We are going to Kenduli!!!! After seven years at that!

It's cooking

The music's cooking! I'm glad!

Living my life....

We were just wasting time,
Let the hours roll by
Doing nothing for the fun
A little taste of the good life,
Whether right or wrong,
Makes us want to stay, stay, stay, stay, stay here for awhile

I am living my life. I was just talking to D about this in the afternoon: seems we are enjoying living. After a long while at that.
Thank you.

More funky MUSIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIC!

Between me and D, we have ALL the James Brown recordings, all the P-Funk albums, the Fishbone collection, everything from the Isley Brothers, Bill Withers and Marvin Gaye. AND some Average White Band!
Yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What? Christmas?

I donno whether it's Christmas eve or whatever, my Mom said I need to wear leather gloves when I drive/ride. I'm not entirely sure which one she meant, because she just said 'gaari chalanor samay'. Hmmm.
This time last year, Sabir went all the way to Bombay to get a leather jacket sewn from the world-famed tailors at Dharavi. He wanted a B-52 bomber jacket (for anyone wondering what that is, Google's gonna be handy. I like clothes, but not that much to actually take printouts to show my tailor.) As it happens, the tailors fucked it up: made something that looked straight outta Govinda's wardrobe.
So Sabir went to Bombay again. This time, with the assurance of his uncle, who's a big businessman in that big boomy city. And this time, the tailors gor it right.
He had also got those leather gloves from Dharavi on that trip: a pair for Shweta, him, and myself. Very cool gloves. But it's not that cold in Calcutta. Yet.

For real?

Why do people bother to hide their real selves so much? What's with all the niceties, when all they are is jealous of another?

Back to basics

I picked up my hardware and snare from the band's pad yesterday, and set up my kit this morning. I tuned up properly, except for the 16" floor tom, which eternally seems to have an unwanted, added ring in all kits I've played. I guess it's time to think of some muffling with cotton and duct tape.
I was long planning to reschedule my practice discipline, and it seems things are falling into place. Apart from the Virgil Donati lessons, I've also picked up a few groove lessons from Weckl's video. Then there are always the conga patterns and drumset interpretations of the cascaras that Kochuda gives us, and right now, we are working out the rumba/guagauanco cascara, and it simply is an amazing groove. And Herman Matthews Jr: SO funky!
I also played to Living Colour's Love Rears its Ugly Head. Man, Will Calhoun just NAILS that groove! So much space, SO much groooooooove!
I'm getting back to rudiments, single and double strokes, and paradiddles. The difference is that I used to play these previously only on the snare; now I can play them more or less all over the kit, and with both my hands and feet. That is helping in opening up my playing.

PS: 'Serious Moves' by Dennis Chambers: that's some seriously different shit altogether. Some of the stuff is plain blinding-speed-and-precision. A very funky alien thang!

Bhuchu died

Bhuchu died. At 5.40 pm, just a little while after I made the blog entry about her being sick. She died in my mother's arms.
I could take everything, but I couldn't handle it when I had to give her over to the guy standing at the edge of her grave, layered with a bucketful of salt, and she was laid down. and she didn't budge: contrary to my hope against hope, she DIDN'T budge. I had to put the soil back on her limp body, her face, and her EYES. I was trying to be strong, but the tears just burst out then, you know. I am sorry.
I hope you rest in peace, and being the great daughter you were, I know you are in heaven.

A daughter and the family

My dog is sick. She's 14 years old, and she hasn't eaten one piece of bread in the past 17 days. For the last seven days, Bhuchu has to be carried: coz she doesn't have any strength to stand on her feet. She's on saline, and the doc diagnosed a liver infection. She is sleeping on my mom's lap, like she used to day when she was a month old and she didn't like dogs, but grew to love her like a daughter. Heck, she is the daughter in our house.
She has also not barked or even cried in the last 15 days.
My father wants to put her to sleep. I can't do that. My mother will not let that happen either.

Roggae

I listened to nothing but A Twist of Marley for the last three days. And it's showing on my playing.
There was some serious discussion about maintaining the band 'brand' if we do land up in Goa to play the gig for rich NRB people. Not that I mind a separate name, but the point is, when will we come to the point when language is no longer a barrier anymore for the music, and we can play Rajasthani folk songs with a reggae tinge or an Afrikaans folk ballad or lullaby arranged on the lines of a slick R'n'B song?
I will eventually do it, and right here in this city, in this country o'mine.
Good groovin'!

The Big Easy Beat

The Wikipedia provides seven sub-genres for soul music:

a) Blue-eyed soul
b) Detroit (Motown) soul and Northern soul
c) Southern soul
d) Memphis soul
e) Neo soul
f) Philadelphia soul
g) Psychedelic soul

And this is what it says of a different genre:

"Bauls are a group of mystic minstrels from the Bengal region, now divided into Bangladesh and West Bengal. Bauls are a part of the culture of rural Bengal. They are thought to have been influenced greatly by the Hindu tantric sect of the Kartabhajas. Bauls travel in search of the internal ideal, Maner Manush (Man of the Heart). ....it is widely agreed that is comes either from Sanskrit 'batul', meaning 'divinely inspired insanity' or 'byakul', meaning fervently eager."
"Baul music celebrates celestial love, but does this in very earthy terms, as in declarations of love by the baul for his 'boshtomi' or lifemate. With such a liberal interpretation of love, it is only natural that Baul devotional music transcends religion, and some of the most famous baul composers (sic), such as Lalon Fakir have been of Muslim birth."
I should start contributing.

Lately....

Peace out. Long chain. Too many considerations. Bong song.

Repeat Effort

Okay I just lost an entire page of a post here coz my fucking connection snapped!
We saw 5 gigs in 7 days. And I was writing about that. And I don't feel like posting AGAIN now!

Work On Sale and other stuff

"The editorial staff of the Western Daily Press are offering the services of journalists about to be made redundant by owner Northcliffe up for auction on eBay.
Staff are facing the loss of a fifth of their number - around 36 posts - and are offering eBay bidders "one entire multi award winning regional newspaper team".

By 4pm today the online auction had attracted 14 bidders and the price offered for the Western Daily Press journalists had reached £22.

Wow.
Deepa mailed this to me, taken from the Guardian's site. So this is what it comes to, aye. Whatever.

In associated news about my life in general, I talked to Debu and Chiro as well. Debu was excited about my kit, but said he didn't buy anything to do with the natural finish because it is very difficult to maintain and keep dirt off the lacquer finishes. His Yamaha stage custom is a golden sparkle wrap.
I was supposed to call Chiro today at 10, but I simply woke up late. I hope the telephone conversation can be a little postponed.
D also contacted one of our old buddies from college about the Bella Fleck albums. I am psyched about the Beat Pharmacie record: being the rhythm section of the Black Eyed Peas must be a fun job!!
Oh, we also watched about five concerts in the last seven days: Pandit Debashis Bhattacharya and his brother at a private gig, the first. I was dumbstruck. Then on Thursday, we saw Jeff Sipe and Lew Hilt with guitarman Alex Macachek (this guy has a record with Terry Bozzio) and later on in the evening at the same gig, Tanmoy Bose, for whom I lost all respect because he played like a jealous kid instead of the tabla maestro that he is. We also watched Skinny Alley yesterday, who played some kick-ass music of their own despite the fucked-up sound, and threw in some Dan and even a suprise Screaming Headless Torsoes cover. And we visited Someplace Else to catch Orange Street. The polite gentleman that he is, Kaustav stood patiently for 15 minutes without budging, and was even mouthing out substituions to the guitar player's lines. After what seemed like an eternity trapped in rap-metal hell, he finally said, "Do you think we can walk out a little early from this show?" Funny kid!

Dashboard Confessional

My Greek friend mailed after almost 6 months. AND I finally sent my article to DRUM!
Ah...incidentally, boy-next-door was chucked. Seems he smokes too much weed, and is too into John Lord when all we wanted was chordal playing, let's say, like Bitches Brew.
I also picked up parts of Shout and Aida from Man with The Horn. Man, that thick, loose groove of Mr. Al Foster! Makes you wanna laze around an be stylish, all day. D also scooped out an old copy of You Are Under Arrest. Good for me!

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.