I'm a Modern Man by George Carlin.

Ah! What a self-intro!

“I’m a modern man, a man for the millennium. Digital and smoke free. A diversified multi-cultural, post-modern deconstruction that is anatomically and ecologically incorrect. 

I’ve been up linked and downloaded, I’ve been inputted and outsourced, I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading. I’m a high-tech low-life. A cutting edge, state-of-the-art bi-coastal multi-tasker and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond! 

I’m new wave, but I’m old school and my inner child is outward bound. I’m a hot-wired, heat seeking, warm-hearted cool customer, voice activated and bio-degradable. I interface with my database, my database is in cyberspace, so I’m interactive, I’m hyperactive and from time to time I’m radioactive.

Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin the wave, dodgin the bullet and pushin the envelope. I’m on-point, on-task, on-message and off drugs. I’ve got no need for coke and speed. I’ve got no urge to binge and purge. I’m in-the-moment, on-the-edge, over-the-top and under-the-radar. A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistic missionary. A street-wise smart bomb. A top-gun bottom feeder. 

I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps and run victory laps. I’m a totally ongoing big-foot, slam-dunk, rainmaker with a pro-active outreach. A raging workaholic. A working rageaholic. Out of rehab and in denial! 

I’ve got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant and a personal agenda. You can’t shut me up. You can’t dumb me down because I’m tireless and I’m wireless, I’m an alpha male on beta-blockers. I’m a non-believer and an over-achiever, laid-back but fashion-forward. Up-front, down-home, low-rent, high-maintenance. Super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built-to-last! 

I’m a hands-on, foot-loose, knee-jerk head case pretty maturely post-traumatic and I’ve got a love-child that sends me hate mail. But, I’m feeling, I’m caring, I’m healing, I’m sharing– a supportive, bonding, nurturing primary care-giver. 

My output is down, but my income is up. I took a short position on the long bond and my revenue stream has its own cash-flow. I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds and I watch trash sports! I’m gender specific, capital intensive, user-friendly and lactose intolerant. 

I like rough sex. I like tough love. I use the “F” word in my emails and the software on my hard-drive is hardcore–no soft porn. I bought a microwave at a mini-mall; I bought a mini-van at a mega-store. I eat fast-food in the slow lane. I’m toll-free, bite-sized, ready-to-wear and I come in all sizes. A fully-equipped, factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clinically-proven, scientifically- formulated medical miracle. 

I’ve been pre-wash, pre-cooked, pre-heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double-wrapped, vacuum-packed and, I have an unlimited broadband capacity. I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal. Lean and mean! 

Cocked, locked and ready-to-rock. Rough, tough and hard to bluff. I take it slow, I go with the flow, I ride with the tide. I’ve got glide in my stride. Drivin’ and movin’, sailin’ and spinin’, jiving and groovin’, wailin’ and winnin’. I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hearty and lunch time is crunch time. I’m hangin’ in, there ain’t no doubt and I’m hangin’ tough, over and out!”

Fire in Babylon: Movie Review

In a cricketing world where batsmen are as protected from head to toe-nail as Samurai warriors with Katina Blades (read cricket bats), the West Indians no longer remain a force they used to be for a little over two decades from the 70s. And it’s a cruel 157 Km/h beamer of an irony hurled at bowlers today, West Indian or otherwise, that the best of their ilk were responsible for the movement that protected the batsman, which has led to fast bowlers becoming an endangered species. This documentary called Fire in Babylon is made to inspire the kind of people who are up against preponderance today – Fast Bowlers, Faster Bowlers and Batsmen who look a bit like healthy cross of Romesh Powar and Fred Flinstone.

Much like Indian Cricket teams till the late 1990s, the Men from the Caribbean were known to be entertaining visitors, who lost games but won hearts for their stylish attitude towards the game. Barring a handful legends whose names now grace the cricketing stands and trophies around the world, the rest were supposedly as competitive as cows grazing on fields of hemp. But one fine day, when they couldn’t take Caucasian taunts anymore, these very cows turned into raging bulls that were desperate for action on the field(mating season or otherwise). Fire in Babylon begins at that precipice of transition in the minds of Caribbean Cricketers. Never again, would they only play and not compete, said captain courageous Clive Lloyd.

The journey begins with Lloyd choosing his men wisely and encouraging them to make a statement on the field with their talent. As a result, the batsmen scored more runs, bowlers took more wickets, fielders took sharper catches, and Jamaican fans scored more pot. It’s really a simple story of pretty boys becoming poster boys of brute force. But where Fire in Babylon really scores is in its re-narration of Ugly Duckling into one that inspires movie audiences to do a Mexican wave.

Underlying their cricketing achievements, was a lot that happened off the field in their respective island nations – political strife, with casual racism, the legacy of colonial exploitation, and a burning desire to be acknowledged as an equal. It was cricket that united several nations under the West Indies flag. It was no longer the pride of playing for your country alone, but it was the pride of representing a significant population of mankind.

Switching between archival footage and present day interviews with the stars of the 70s-80s including Clive Lloyd, Gordon Greenidge, Desmond Haynes, Viv Richards, Andy Roberts, Joel Garner, Collin Croft and Michael Holding, the film takes you through a fascinating journey that weaves socio-political and sporting elements into a narrative that's compelling even for those who don’t know their Sidebottoms from their elbows.

This movie helps you get a global perspective in a cricketing context. It opens your eyes to double standards that had emerged when the West Indian Bowlers ruled cricket with intimidating pace. It also helps you understand what really motivates a champion side to go far beyond what is expected of them. Fire in Babylon is a story of controlled rage with a healthy dose of Reggae. And above anything else, it’s a grand tribute to one of the greatest and the most dignified cricket teams ever to grace the field. Which is what makes it a spectacular viewing for any cricketing fan worth his Cricinfo addiction.

George Carlin: My Favourite Philosopher

The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider Freeways , but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer space but not inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things.

We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can actually spread wisdom, even in this form, but cannot get you to read this piece.

Some Dog is a Millionaire!

Slumdog Millionaire is the story of a slum-dweller who was born and brought up in what is depicted as the crap-pit of the world. But he’s like no other. He decides to grab the world by its crack, and beat the crap out of it. He’s the kind who takes all the shit that the world doles out at him, only to emerge a victor, eventually. The only difference between this movie and several Indian movies which celebrated the underdog’s life in the 50s is the fact that Danny Boyle, the director of SM, focused on the “crappy” part of slum life with details that went to tasteless proportions.

But why has it elicited praise and accolades from western critics, while it continues to face the wrath of various sections of the Indian public. The answer, I believe, lies in the differing perspectives of Indians and the rest of the world about abject poverty.

Danny Boyle’s SM was a bullet which shattered the Kevlar that protected me from the knowledge of life in Mumbai’s Slums. Has he or any of the members of SM’s Team experienced life in Mumbai’s Slums, you ask. I cannot say for sure, because I never wanted to know what lies beyond whatever little I saw of Dharavi, from the window of a local train. Honestly, I’d turn away from the stench and avoid the ghastly sight. I’d never even mention this place when I spoke of the city I loved dearly. Never had I thought Dharavi could actually inspire a thought, leave alone poetry, songs, music, a story, romance or anything with a remote semblance of a good life. This is where we should draw a line with our cynicism and appreciate Boyle, Rehman and everyone involved with the fairy tale that is – Slumdog Millionaire.

While Bollywood Directors spend millions of dollars to fund their “dream” projects in “dream” locales, here’s a Brit who found his latest “love story” in the most disowned area of Mumbai, in the labyrinthine lanes of Dharavi. I’ve not read Vikas Swaroop’s book to use it as a parameter to judge the screenplay, so I’ll just speak of everything else.

Firstly, if we had a scale which would have artsy and masala on the two ends, SM would be inclined towards the latter end. It is neither a Bicycle Thief that would inspire Ray to make Pather Panchali, nor is it a DDLJ that would inspire every production house to make movies with larger-than-life NRI storylines, which would relegate Laxmi Mittal’s opulent lifestyle to modesty. Slumdog’s different.

SM narrates the life of a slum-dweller, who turns into a renegade, fighting all the norms of a “slumdog” – a term that has offended many. It is Jamal’s pursuit of love against all odds – poverty, religious vandalism, child abuse, fraud, the underworld, prostitution, organized crime, violence, economic and social disparity, corruption, and everything else that every Indian would turn their head away from in shame. And yet, he emerges a victor. “Larger than Life”, did I hear you say? But why “dwell” so much on all these ills, you ask. It is because we have simply refused to do so ourselves, “dwell” on the subject that is, that we are not able to digest Boyle’s bold portrayal. How much can a vilayati possibly sugarcoat the crap, which is life in the slums?

Now coming to the direction and editing. Brilliant! Each answer on the TV show becoming a key that unlocks the pandora’s box of Jamal’s past, a narrative device kept from cliche by deft direction and slick edits. And SM is certainly not without its share of inspiration. Black Friday and Satya probably had a big role in shaping Boyle’s directorial route, but that’s taking no credit away from the chase sequence early in the movie. Lathi-laden Havaldars chasing a bunch of brats all over Dharavi, with “Oh Saya” is the background is undoubtedly a directorial masterpiece.

There is also a powerful visual interpretation of Mumbai. The movie, much like the city itself, overflows with opposites. Paradoxical collisions were never known to make a memorable cocktail - horror and joy, colourful fantasy and grimy reality, history and hyper-modernity. Through SM, we find that there are rich hues in the homes of the poor, beauty in the grotesque, music in noise, happiness in sad living conditions, and poetry in poverty. Haven’t we been guilty of turning our aristocratic heads away from Dharavi, because it inspired little? Hasn’t this westerner just exposed our myopic outlook of cinema, and life in general?

As for Rehman’s original background score, which may win him a maximum of two Oscars, though being far from his best, it was apt, definitely worthy of an Oscar if it wins one. Rehman composed music that fit the mood of the film like a glove, much like the soundtrack of Atonement or American Beauty did for their respective movies. And I reiterate, “Oh Saya” rocks!

Another debate doing the rounds among the intellectual circles in India is if SM really deserved 10 nominations. In response, I’ll say Slumdog will only compete with movies that have been released in 2008. It’s not competing with a Life is Beautiful or a Schindler’s List. So either we celebrate the production of a well-executed movie, or a fall in the standard of movies competing for the Oscars. If it wins an Oscar for the best movie, Bollywood will proudly flaunt her Digitus Impedicus to her glamorous sister in LA.

To sum it up, Slumdog Millionaire is a feel-good movie. You’ll be glued to your seats, just like the time when you cheered Harshvardhan Navathe, who went on to become the first Crorepati on KBC. You’ll rejoice the triumph of Jamal at the denouement, just as you jumped with joy when Shreeshant held on to a skier, which brought India the first T20 World Cup. And you’ll even be implored into dancing in the very streets where this movie was shot, or sing “Jai Ho!” at CST (I thought it looked like Victoria Terminus, but correct me if I’m wrong). Alright, maybe that’s pushing it too far. Probably that’s sending reality into a different Space-Time coordinate. But then, isn’t it what we come to expect from movies?

Dangling Conversations

I've gone through an ABBA phase, and then a Beatles phase. This followed a Bob Dylan phase. And a Frank Sinatra phase. And preceding all this was a Simon and Garfunkel phase. So why does one go through these phases over and over again. It's definitely not a passe, and I believe it, as a subject, deserves some pondering on my part.

So why does a Frank Sinatra tune run in my head. Why is it that when I try my hand at poetry, my muses are straight out of Bob Dylan's verses. Or why does Paul Simon's lyrics inspire me to write, when Robert Frost's poems fail to do the same? Why do I sing "With a little help from my friends" at a karaoke bar, or tap my feet to "Take a chance on me"? Why is it that the more we listen to their music, the more indelible our mental image, of these artists, becomes? The answer lies in the astonishing detail in every note, in every lyric, in every emotion.

The aforementioned "phase" is a time when all the emotions that an artist's song elicits somehow chimes with our own thoughts. And the artist's ability to express only highlights our own inability to do the same.



Its a still life water color,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.

And you read your emily dickinson,
And I my robert frost,
And we note our place with bookmarkers
That measure what weve lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm,
Couplets out of rhyme,
In syncopated time
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.

Yes, we speak of things that matter,
With words that must be said,
Can analysis be worthwhile?
Is the theater really dead?
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow,
I cannot feel your hand,
Youre a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation.
And the superficial sighs,
In the borders of our lives.

Harmonic Progression

I’ve always enjoyed sorting out my music on the computer. I don’t even need an excuse to get started. Every track on my computer has some sentiment attached. Every album sends me to unique imaginary realms. There are some tracks that are preserved only for the nostalgic value it provides, even though over the years my musical tastes have changed as drastically as I have as a person. Which is why this vocation (sorting out music and compiling play lists) turns out to be as refreshing as a vacation.
Last month I decided to organize my Hard disk and, it was an impulsive decision. July was particularly characterized by some anxiety and loneliness. My books and my music were my only bedfellows. Once while discussing my music collection with precocious perf(a friend whose name is not to be revealed), I began this odyssey which lasted nearly a month. As various songs played, they formed a soundtrack to the memories they invoked. It was a photo album for my ears; certain songs are inextricably attached to events in my past and when I listen to them, memories return.
My Columbine Voyage to the Newer world of music began with ABBA and Boney M. My sis plainly dismissed these as silly nursery rhymes when I played some of these numbers. She wouldn’t have guessed. I used to hum these tunes even before she was born. “Ring Ring ”, “Super trooper”, “ Another Town Another Train”, “Hasta manana” “Belfast”, “ Rasputin”….
Never understood the lyrics then, but loved the tunes. I subconsciously attached these tunes to all those days spent in Matunga, Bombay. And I’d sing those as any four-year old would.
“ I’m nothing special, in fact I’m a bit of a bore
If I tell a joke, you’ve probably heard it before
But I have a talent, a wonderful thing
coz everyone listens when I start to sing
I’m so grateful and proud
All I want is to sing it out loud”
Circa 1989.Those were the days of the tape recorder. Most Indians in their post-colonial hangover would say “You don’t have to pay at Spenser’s to meet your needs”. As Indians, we’d always found cheaper and more convenient ways to indulge in luxuries. Now, we didn’t need to buy album tapes for just a couple of good songs. We could always record our favourite numbers on blank audio tapes, and pretty good quality tapes ( the red cover Sony tapes) at that. So the music I listened to were not labeled. I had all these songs memorized on School bus trips between Chembur and Ghatkopar in Bombay (if you wondering how, my school bus was one of the very few that had a audio system). Only many years later would I make a serendipitous discovery of the name of the artist. When I listen to these tracks I’m often amused at the fact that as a six year old, the subjects that these numbers addressed were obviously beyond my comprehension, and yet we’d have a careless bus driver playing these in a school bus. “Papa don’t preach” and “la isa bonita” by Madonna, “I just called” and “part time lover” by Stevie Wonder, “Notorious” by Duran Duran, and a few by Foreigner, Boston, Tina Turner, USA for Africa, Berlin to name a few. Music and I were inseparable, and it was beyond my imagination that there is a whole world of music awaiting me. It was heavenly!
“Such a feelings coming over me
There is wonder in most everything I see
Not a cloud in the sky
Got the sun in my eyes
And I wont be surprised if its a dream
Everything I want the world to be
Is now coming true especially for me
And the reason is clear
Its because you are here
You’re the nearest thing to heaven that I’ve seen”
The '90s were mostly disappointing. Some excellent music completely overshadowed by syrupy shit! What I never realized then was the fact that my only source of music was MTV, and understandably music was sold based on visual appeal. This was the time I was starting to be really disillusioned with music. I did find some uplifting moments though.
“I get knocked down
But I get up again
You’re never going to
Keep me down”
I never really deciphered the “uplifting” pun in most songs and never figured out the drug or sexual connotations in the songs. I guess innocence and blissful ignorance did go hand in hand in my adolescence.
In the late 90’s I’d reached a point of giving up on music. Thought it’d just not be the same. I was probably one of those misguided by what music channels had to offer.
“I ain't saying you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right”
Napster was a boon. It restored hope for a better tomorrow. I started discovering some new music, or some music that was lost in the sands of time. Suddenly my relationship with music took a more philosophical turn. Started believing I’d already missed out on some really good music but thanks to the internet, I did have some access to it.
“I was twenty-one years when I wrote this song.
I’m twenty-two now but I wont be for long
Time hurries on.
And the leaves that are green turn to brown”
And we now have torrents. So my musical tastes start traveling on auto pilot. First there’s metal, then all genres of classic rock, some rock and roll, then some world music and more blues, and even more jazz…I could probably write a book on all the music I’ve listened to ever since.
Some love stories never end. This one has just begun.
So dear bloggers, I implore you to check out your collection and enjoy the trip.
“So I say
Thank you for the music, the songs I’m singing
Thanks for all the joy they’re bringing
Who can live without it, I ask in all honesty
What would life be?
Without a song or a dance what are we?
So I say thank you for the music
For giving it to me”

Chura liya....

27th June 2007 happens to be the 68th birth anniversary of the late R.D Burman or Pancham da as he was affectionally called by his collegues and friends.The title for this entry shares it name with what remains my favourite Bollywood number. The title, however is also apt because of what I discovered a few months back. Today may not be the best day for an expose, it being his birth anniversary. What prompted me to post this entry today was this tribute in the newspaper.
When Bhumikak wrote "bringing world music to our ears through hindi films, words are'nt enough to describe what burman did", I interpreted it literally.I do realise that a statement like this would be nothing short of blasphamy. Afterall, Pancham da occupies a sacroscant space in the heart of every hindi-movie lover.I am not trying to question the talents of the maestro,I only doubt his creativity as a music composer. It turns out some of his best numbers were "inspired" from the works of artists whose background varied from the Americas to the far east.
I turned out to be a huge RD Burman fan after the release of what is now remembered as his swansong - "1942,A Love Story". It piqued my curiosity as it did for many who had had the better fortune of growing up to his melodious tunes in the 70's and in the following decades.I followed his works after his unfortunate demise in 1994 and was forced to listen to his works in the reverse order of chronology.His works were path breaking compared to all his contemporaries. But as I was exposed to western pop in my adolescent years, I realised Burman owed much to the likes of ABBA, Chubby Checker, Elvis, The Carpenters, The Beach Boys, The Beatles, Cliff Richards and Frank Sinatra to name a few. My own inclination towards jazz music more recently however led me to this serendipitous discovery, which really blew my mind away. Readers please check out Demis Roussos’ "Say you love me" and you'll know what I mean.Roussos' third album, released in 1974, inspired Sholay's "Mehbooba Mehbooba", which was released the following year. Till I discovered this fact, I'd listed down this song as my favourite bollywood track as it was so ahead of its times. I'd imagined that it as a song inspired many a musician to explore new realms of creativity. Suddenly I felt a little betrayed.
Now as I look at it dispassionately and objectively, it did probably spawn a breed of pseudos with great musical tastes to try out a hand at composing music.Afterall, We must remember "Akele Hum Akele Tum", Anu Malik's magnum opus till then as probably bollywoods best tribute to Wham,Deep Purple and the Godfather. Burman however should be remembered as an individual who revolutionised the Indian music industry by his sheer talents.By featuring in Jose Flores' Pantera, he did put India on the world music map. Creativity or the lack of it notwithstanding, I'd still list down the folling as my favourites:
1. Monica, oh my darling (caravan)
2. Hare Krishna Hare Ram ( movie of the same name)
3. Chingari koi badkhe ( amar prem)
4. Kati patang ( movie of the same name)
5. Chura liya ( yaadon ki baarat)
6. Tere bina zindagi se koi ( andhi)
7. Tumse naraz nahi ( masoom)
If any of these have been "inspired", i'd just overlook any such info and say "Ignorance is bliss".

Remembering Shakti

Critics believed John McLaughlin had committed commercial harakiri by abandoning electric instruments and Western sensibilities of mahavishnu orchestra in favor of an all-acoustic group with Indian musicians. In fact, record sales for this group, Shakti, were quite disappointing. Sometimes though, a musician has to follow his muse. In this case, McLaughlin was led to create a very fertile groundbreaking group in the form of Shakti. Shakti's dependence on Eastern musical models infused with Western jazz-like improvisation made for an exciting and influential stew.

Formed in 1975, Shakti pioneered a groundbreaking east-meets-west collaborative approach. The group, whose name means creative intelligence, beauty and power, consisted of legendary British jazz guitarist John McLaughlin, North Indian tabla master Zakir Hussain and violinist L. Shankar and ghatam player T.H. "Vikku" Vinayakram. Together, they created a harmony that managed to successfully combine seemingly incompatible traditions. However, with the exception of a few music aficionados, not many were open enough to accept the genesis of Shakti. McLaughlin’s fans were still recuperating from the irredeemable loss of his absence. It reflected in the dismal sales of Shakti.

"What happens is sometimes you have a vision and an urge to go forward and do something unique at a time when people are still tied to what is, as opposed to what should be or what can be," explained Hussain of the resistance to Shakti's early days. "One must also realize that John had just disconnected himself from the Mahavishnu Orchestra, a very, very commercially popular [jazz-rock] group. In many ways, John made the big sacrifice because he lost a lot of fans who were into his electrical experience and they faded away."

How ironic that 20 years later, a band different from the original Shakti but born from its spirit should emerge to find commercial success. And how ironic that McLaughlin should now turn to the timbres of an electric guitar and forego the sublime sounds of his acoustic approach.

Remember Shakti is the name of the new group as well as its first live album. The 2 CD set recorded over four nights in England in the fall of 1997 features the two founding fathers of the original Shakti, McLaughlin and the tabla master Zakir Hussain. One of India's most respected musicians, flautist Hariprasad Chaurasia, provides an integral voice as a member of this group for these several concerts. Most enjoyably, Shakti's original ghatam player “Vikku” Vinayakram helps to serve the rhythm.

The tunes here tend to be very long and require attentive listening. Two McLaughlin standards, “Lotus Feet” and “Zakir,” are present. My personal favourite is the one in which Chaurasia appears, sans McLaughlin, on the opening self-penned tune ”Chandrakauns” . Check it out !