Spool's out and in again

A little box in a translucent black, white or grey with blank strips across its dual faces to fill in neat minute hand-writing is probably my earliest visual memory of music. (I remember my father's LP and EP collections, especially the broad and colourful covers, but that was something which was strictly out of bounds for inquisitive yet destructive toddlers) A black magnetic tape (with immense powers to attract one) hangs loosely between two spools. A light tap on the side to make sure there are no loose loops - a pen rotated around one of the spools to doubly make sure - locked into the safe cavernous desk of a National Panasonic mono-speaker - just push play. Scratchy sounds greet you as the ticker starts to count like a very slow slot machine minus the fruit pictures, before the music emanates and envelopes you.

The National Panasonic was sold to my mother's tailor (it presumably still entertains him and his troupe) and a BPL Stereo came in. Later everyone was talking about the quality of sound and the experience of a CD and that was something we audiophiles cannot resist. So out went the black BPL with plain dual speakers and in came a silver hulky looking Philips with a CD/DVD and of course the cassette player. Over the last few years music has predominantly been of the downloaded variety which is played over the computer system or on the move on my phone.

One reason - convenience,better sound quality and other technicalities apart - for the cassette player being ignored was the squeaky heads of the dual cassette desks that were running faulty or so we were led to believe by the local technician. Our repeated cleaning of the head unit with cotton and a tinge of after shave did not solve the problem. A month or so later the squeaky sounds magically vanished, but not for long. Months of dust gathering by the cassette unit later we called the Philips service centre who immediately sent home a uniformed technician with a huge bag of tools. After opening the bag much like a doctor from the Victorian times visiting a home to attend to a delivery, the uniformed man deftly located a pair of pincers, some cotton and demanded any kind of spirit available in the house. Aftershave being the only available spirit was promptly handed over which was used to douse the small cotton wad. Soon he was wrist deep into the cassette player deck, twisting and prodding, teasing out what looked like dust and grime from when Knopfler had sailed to Philadelphia. Half an hour of such sound dusting and 200 bucks richer the technician left, a bright, resuscitated cassette player in our midst.

As I mentioned over the last few years it has been only listening to music online or offline after downloading it. Thats easy. Playing music too, is easy and mechanical. Ctrl F and run through albums, enqueue songs and press play. Cassettes on the other hand involve a lot more, hand-eye-mind coordination. It takes a while in hunting down the exact song you want to listen to especially if you have nearly a thousand cassettes to burrow through to find that epiphanic album. Cassettes have the romantic ability to escape your scanning eyes for a long while and then sticking out just a bit on that left corner of the highest shelf almost out of reach. But only almost...

Cassettes also have that immensely pleasure giving quality of jumping at you point blank when you are least expecting them. Thats exactly what happened earlier this morning. While searching for a recorded version of Zappa's "Joe's Garage", the Saint
manifested himself, eyes meditatively closed, leaning slightly forward, fingers taut, lips pursed around the reed with Giant Steps. After that it was pure bliss...A Spiral.

Image via David Airey

For more magnetic tape memories go here.

These are the days that must happen to you

I work currently in Electronics City. My cab leaves at 8 in the morning. Promptly as soon as the window is opened I plug in earphones and turn oblivious to the cacophony of Radio One RJs(when one hears their Kannada influenced English and Hindi one automatically tends to switch off if not for reactions like condemning them for life to boiling oil vats, cleaning lavatories/pigeon poop outside window sills and other violently belittling things) , their repetitive Bollywood numbers (mostly rehashed words which talk about love, heart break/ache, and other emotions interspersed with the latest techno beats and scratches)and small talk about what was the undoing of a participant in a particular reality show where they challenge you against a psychophysiological detector of deception. One hour, the ears remain plugged; a book poised in front of the eyes, fingers occupied every few minutes to flick the pages. While Fugazi (currently) kicks into a blitzkrieg of fuzzy guitaring and berserk drumming I open my book to 'To be born again,' sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, 'first you have to die. Ho ji! Ho ji! To land upon the bosomy earth, first one needs to fly. Tat-taa! Taka-thun! How to ever smile again, if first you won't cry? How to win the darling's love, mister without a sigh? Baba, if you want to get born again...'(again currently). Apart from occasionally staring out of the windscreen of the Tempo Traveller to make sure no one is hurt when the vehicle lurches to a halt at signals, I dont move or utter much.

Duties complete at office it is time for a repeat show of the mornings actions in the 12 seater vehicle. The book is shut at just about the time we near the Koramangala National Games Village complex, daylight fails from this point onward. Attention shifted to hoardings and the backs of autorickshaws spouting gems of messages like "I date only models", this from a god-fearing,khufi wearing,devout, khol eyed driver. Also contemplate on the posible brand equity Jim Beam could generate out of sponsoring the Horanadu Bar and Restaurant at the Ejipura junction. Think its highly unlikely that the Horanadu's patrons'preferred poison would be a Kentucky Bourbon.

And so on and so forth 10 months have passed travelling up and down from the E-City. The routine is as numb as people who file within the campuses in E-City, tags around their necks summarising their personalities.

Today however has been rather different. At about 12:50 PM we decided to drive to Bangalore (as soon as I exit E-City there is a road sign welcoming one to the city of Bangalore and the distance to be traversed), Koramangala specifically. We lunched at The Jukebox. Unhurried, music from the 70's in the background, pretty ladies strutting outside the window, general buzz of conversation and peals of laughter from slightly beery drunk office goers, long forgotten LPs and sleeves hanging on fading walls, Elvis and James Dean staring down at your table, the sweet smell and smoke of a grill, a portion of garlic toast and perfect mayo to spread it on and a huge platter of smoky beef, ham, sausages, chicken, fries and rice staring up at you. These are the days that must happen to you.

In the Middle of the Night and Death

Having wrongly read a news report of an electronica music show at the Max Muller Bhavan by Mouse on Mars a descendant of Kraftwerk and having also wrongly informed a friend M about the show, at about 22:00 hrs last night I felt it was only right that I make up for having brought her all the way from Koramangala to CMH Road. After downing a hot chocolate, a cappuccino and a rosemary chicken quiche at Gloria Jean's cafe and knowing she had traveled the distance to capture the electronic colours and hues on her Nikon I suggested that we go down the road to the Lakshmipuram Hindu Cemetery. A cemetery in the night time being one of the bullet points on her "To Capture" list.

A silence intermittently broken by the barks of dogs and ever excited, ubiquitous crickets welcomed us as we crossed the open gates. The quintessential cemetery, stood in the stark yellow light of street lamps throwing an occasional shadow which required a furtive second glance to make sure no mysterious characters were lurking in them. Having set up the tripod M got shutter happy and I just looked around, n stick glowering.

Knowing the area from childhood I was aware we were being observed by a couple of inquisitive characters. Ignoring them for a while didnt quite please them as one of them walked in and started questioning us in Hindi first followed by Kannada. On explaining that M was just taking a couple of snaps and not disturbing the environment or creating a ruckus the ruffled inquisitor inquired if we had permission from the gatekeeper who I assumed to be tucked in bed. The time being past 23:30hrs I contested his suggestion believing the gatekeeper didnt want to be disturbed and the fact that I rather didnt want to disturb him right now. On that repartee the inquisitor took the onus of knocking the door of the gatekeeper's ramshackle hut and after repeated knockings and pleas the lady of the house stepped. Much like Helga, wife of Hagar the Horrible in appearance, the rumpled lady was not in much too a friendly mood to have a chat on what we were doing there and our exact purposes. We explained that we were here just to take some photos of the cemetery in the night time and we would not create any issues natural or supernatural. The inquisitor tried convincing that we were upto no good and had to be evicted from the property immediately. "Helga", rubbing sleepy eyes thought otherwise, warned us not to venture into the crepier looking areas and promptly went back to bed. Inquisitor in question slightly ashamed, slunk away after threatening that we should not disturb the peace of the people in their final rest..supernatural blah...supernatural blah...

We moved ahead. M capturing gravestones, trees, the crescent, inquisitive(apparently our man was not the only one) dogs, smoke from my n stick (quite unsuccessfully though), boards advertising coffin and undertaking services. By about 00:30hrs we decided to head back home. On the way back there was another stop to capture the traffic below, on and beyond the flyover connecting the Inner Ring Road and 100 Feet Road. Some beautiful snaps later I saw M off at her home and called it a rather early Saturday morning.

10:30 hrs or so there was some commotion heard from my neighbour's house. On investigating I found that the purohit who had performed the annual death observance ceremonies had uttered the final ritual incantations and had himself collapsed. Further investigation led me to conclude from a body already quite cold as well as any visible lack of breathing that the man was dead. However to reassure the neighbour that such was not the case and that there could be hope I quickly put the man into the car and drove him to the nearest nursing home. The doctor on duty presumably shared my sentiments explaining that she could not feel a pulse and advised us to rush to Chinmaya Mission Hospital. After weaving in and out of traffic for about 15 minutes we reached the hospital only to be confirmed that the purohit had indeed died. Tight lipped the neighbour and I waited for the purohit's son and daughter in law to arrive, complete the necessary formalities and then returned home.

It was only at home when it struck me that I had a near reverse chronological experience of visiting the cemetery first and then the death, all in less than a span of half a day.
Its a funny thing how after a life of division; from birth through caste, creed, sex, wealth, knowledge, position, health; a life of being ahead or being beaten by someone; a life of compromises, competition, celebration, confusion; everyone meets the same end-Death. Death is the ultimate leveler.

Where is the love?

Black Eyed Peas performed here sometime back. Though I am not a great fan of theirs, the mix of funk and hip hop do add a certain spice to any playlist. I believe they would be better to listen on the radio or CD than a live show. Live shows are for more mature artistes, like Led Zeppelin who is reuniting with Jason Bonham stepping into his father's shoes(bless his vodka filled soul). Vir Sanghvi explores his Led Zep experiences here. I unfortunately do not at this moment have any such tales.
The only story closest to this kind would be the one where I cycled down to Palace Grounds for the first Deep Purple concert when I was in the 10th. This was prior to the days when my father would trust me with his two wheeler. BMTC would not exist once the concert was over and micro economics worked against me paying an exorbitant figure to the auto guy. So my faithful Avon Montage, a brand of cycles which had eluded most other cyclists in Bangalore was the only go. Company was restricted to drunken Northy guys running around in circles through the crowds and felt that it was their birthright to do the Bhangra to Blacknight. Most of the moments are still quite clear in my mind especially the sing along with Ian Gillan for Smoke on the Water and 1000s of completely out of tune voices. Jon Lord fired from his hammond at will. And Paice was bull dozering through us with his unending drum solos.

More recently I had attended the Sepultura show. Though much of the concert eludes me for various reasons, the highlight for the show was probably a rendition of a famous metal number which I fail to remember. Gosh, what was I doing there?! If someone reading this was at the show please do jog my over strained memory.

In the meantime last month I had been to Pondicherry. I intended to write a travel blog about it, but reconsidered the thought once I realised that it wouldn't look like a travel blog once I look at the whole event from a couple of weeks time gap. The freshness to the whole trip would be missing. The essence of travel writing is to capture the real flavour of the place at that particular moment and engrave it for future reference instantly, not to go on a trip somewhere, return to base, wait for a couple of weeks, contemplate the incident and then decide "Oh lets put it on paper!". Thats why I prefer photos, because they capture moments instantaneously and remain the same for a long time to come unless it is attacked by Photoshop and suchlike. Words can always be meandered your way at any point of time.
And in a couple of days I shall be of to Ooty, Kodaikanal and the rest of the hills for four days. Prime reasons for the trip being listed below:

1. It gets too noisy around here during Deepavali. My ears are of the sensitive type. I am almost deaf as most people who have interacted with me might have experienced. (Though I have noticed that it does not happen at work but only when socialising with friends).
   
2. We have bought a new car, a Zen Estilo. So lets go...Wrong one I guess.
   
3. Thursday is an optional holiday and Friday is a holiday, so no question of leave from work.
   

My only gripe right now is I might not be sanctioned leave in December when the gang ably led by Mr A is heading to Goa. If I miss that "trip" there can be only one comment made, again in the words of the most noble Mr A, "Oh, what a tragedy?".

PS The date of posting this appears to be the day when I started it and left it as a draft till today, November 6th 2007. What have I been doing all this while?

The Week So Far....

Its been quite a hectic week so far, with a new fund offer(World Gold Fund) closing tomorrow. The high point of course would be the rains yesterday I think. The topic of conversation for most people I met today was "Where were you stuck?". They made it sound like it was the great deluge or something. As for me I was below a scaffold near Bangalore Central, being subject to conversations like, why a certain pair of trousers had to be returned without being altered as the bill for the aforementioned trousers were not in order. This from an employee of Central most probably part of the Merchandise Altering Dept. to a colleague from a different Dept. who gave him an exasperated look as if, "Oh I know, the nerve they had to ask you?!". Inane might just be my middle name.

Monday was a good day though. Had attended a kutchery at Odakkathur Mutt near Ulsoor lake. T M Krishna had a delightful voice which deftly wove through various ragas. Though I am not a specialist on the subject of Carnatic music(i cannot identify ragas or anything, except for Hamsadhwani),I enjoy carnatic music, especially the thaniavartanam (percussive duel should loosely describe the word). A rather sad thing I noticed was that quite a number of the elder people find the best time to break for a leak or anything else is during the thaniavartanam. Rather discouraging for the artistes I feel. Anyway a good, rather divine two hours were spent in the Mutt.

Tuesday was the day of the rains. And it was quite heavy to say the least. Three hours stranded near Central and not an acquaintance in sight. Heavy on the legs, not to mention the boredom. The torrents in the silver and gold lights falling on the hoardings did break the monotony though.

Just saw Woody Allen's The Purple Rose of Cairo. Truly a treat. A wonderful work of absurdity. Its about a girl who lives a sad real life during the great Depression and longs for the reel life. And out of the blue, the star from the movie she is seeing in a theatre, walks out of the screen abandoning his reel life for the real life. Among the various adventures that they share including the girl's(Mia Farrow, she does a brilliant job as the small town girl forever in awe of starry Hollywood) trip into tinsel town on the black and white screen, dark comedy blends with absurdity seamlessly weaving a magical world, leaving you very warm at the end of it all.