vikkuji

Sweating as if I were in Chennai, I laid the receiver down gingerly. Out of reverence for the person at the other end. More out of relief, actually. I had just conducted my first interview completely in Tamil. This was the only language that my late maternal grandmum could speak and I speak it everyday with various people. With my flawed grammar and laugh out loud pronounciation I'm more than a source of amusement for these people. But I never thought my broken sentences and stuttering phrases would have to reach the ears of T.S. 'Vikku' Vinayakaram.


I've heard his fingers drum an unflinching tattoo on the ghatam too many times to count, solo, with Shakti and others. I've been held in thrall as he raced through the most unforgiving time signatures with the same noncholance that the rest of us channel surf. All those times I never dreamed I'd one day speak to him, let alone in Tamil.



He was every bit as affable as I had imagined. Carnatic musicians usually are in comparison to their Hindustani cousins, with exceptions of course. He even refrained from laughing at my more feeble attempts at translating my questions.


A few years later as I sat, almost at his feet, taking photos of his flying fingers and his characteristic ghatam toss finale, the events of that interview rushed through my brain. Luckily, this time, I didn't have to say a word.
:)

The Big Chill - Insane in the membrane

As the tell-tale plumes of smoke dissipated in the 'green' tent, The Mad Professor was warming to the idea of being interviewed. He had just got off stage, after a set that got the groove going on the afternoon of day one. Dub, trip-hop, rap, reggae all mixed and mingled as the Professor spun his stuff with panache bordering on the disdainful as slightly distorted silhouettes of palm trees danced on the giant screen behind him. But he wasn't as he recalled his Indian connection in hometown Guyana, sneaking out of school with his buddies to watch Amitabh uncle's films. Neil Fraser got his moniker when he was a young lad, preferring to take apart radio sets rather than play a game of cricket on the beach. It was a quite an experience, chilling with the grand vizier of dub.

The Big Chill - Smarmy Mami

Sheila Chandra is an anachronism. She spouts sarci tales about her life in her clipped British accent, while singing songs that are 400 hundred years old. Her modern jazz and pop sensibilities are strangely swirled with Indian classical and traditional Brit folk. The background music is wispy and floaty but her strong sensuous voice gives it weight, momentum and direction. After a couple of songs I noticed that all the men in the audience(me included) were gaping, mouths ajar, not the least bit salaciously but the way you would look at Audrey Hepburn, in abject admiration. She had this quality about her that transcended her genres or even her voice. It was magnetic. It was magical. It was Sheila Chandra.

where do the children play?

At the Big Chill in Asvem, Goa, of course. More on this later.