Ain't that a bitch

I think I expected too much. I had grand visions of a huge stadium era stage setup, with Steven Tyler and Joe Perry prancing around like demi-Gods, resurrecting memories of Zeppelinsque proportions. Well, at least they pranced.


Though the sound was a little murky, the rhythm section comprising Joel Kramer on drums, Tom Hamilton on bass and Brad Witford on guitars were tighter than Devdas or atleast Amitabh Bachchan in Sharabi. And while this held the show and sound together, it also laid bare all the mistakes that were strewn around by the two frontmen. It was this rift that also led to a
very worrying vibe from the band. Then there was the strained sarcastic jibes being exchanged between Tyler and Perry, prompting the former to keep screaming, "Joe F**king Perry, Joe F**king Perry," ad nauseum and the latter to make some sharp jabs with his elbow.


Disturbingly, the photo pit was arranged in such a way that we had NO angles to shoot the the other three guys. Co-incidence? I think not.


Even given all those shenanigans, it would be a mistake for me to completely write off the performance. At least it wasn't Sir Elton John struggling to keep our eyes open as his plink plonked his way, all alone on stage, through a 2 hour set. When the formerly toxic twins let loose and surrendered themselves at the temple of rock, they created the kind of magic few musicians can summon with ease bordering on disdain. While Eat The Rich, Living On The Edge and Dream On evoked the bouncing headbanging hormones of my *ahem* younger days, it was the short blues set, featuring Baby Please Don't Go and Messin' Around sung by Perry after a token tribute to the Kamasutra (yes, they seemed to have imbibed our rich cultural heritage) that
really clinched it for me.

After listening to their last album, Honkin' On Bobo, I think these guys need to immerse themselves in the blues to be washed clean of shite like Just Push Play and Jaded. The song of the evening was a no-brainer. Living up to its name, Sweet Emotion dredged up just about any feeling possible for humans. Loud, lush and deliciously Aerosmith, with a trademark Perry vocoder solo, it could do no wrong. Missing in action were tracks like Rag Doll, Toys In The Attic, The Farm and teenybopper staples Crazy, Jamie's Got A Gun and Angel.


But it was still a fan's dream realised. Even if they did close with I Don't Want To Miss A Thing. And I almost licked Joe Perry's shoe.

FOR MORE AEROSMITH PHOTOS CLICK HERE

say whaa???

Ever wanted to hear the voice of Che Guevara or Winston Churchill? Ever wanted to hear Neil Armstrong uttering his most famous words? It's all here for download - Free info society

They're all short clips that can be downloaded. Great for folks who like to do a little bit of mixing and electronica. Actually it's fun to listen to either way. Enjoy.

Hearts and Crafts

Two songs from two brinks of our country still ring in my head. The first, a Bengali song was sung by a woman pointing at an ever unravelling roll of canvas, releasing a riot of colours and folk art, of personified fish, semi-humans and demi-Gods. The second, in namma Kannada, was sung by a man staring pensively at his work depicting the yearly tug of the divine chariot. Art and song brewed together to serve up some manna for the soul.


Kala Madhyam decided to provide the plates. By bridging folk artists (most of whom practice dying ancient art forms) and urban society, KM manages to provide a source of income to these gifted but sometimes hapless poor artists. 70% of their earnings from providing paintings, handicrafts, bric-a-bracs, clothes and murals go to the artists. Of the remaining 30% KM pays for the travel, stay and raw materials of the artists. The remaining goes back into the machine. Think you can help?

Check out the details at KALA MADHYAM

Thirsty?

Darkness their veil
The thirst their bane
Shadows and silhouettes
Murmurs of regret
For shunning death
A taste of immortality
Is all it takes
To grab the chalice
Of ruby red
And drink
Insatiable.

Watch your thoughts
Keep sharp your eyes
As the shadow draws near
You won't know what hit you
Or whence it came
Greedy glint from the darkness
Then the pain
Sharp, then dull
Until the realisation
That it won't come again
Then you'll pray
For death
The release
From this curse
Until the smell of blood
Crosses your nostrils again.

geet mala

Even after the advent of the idiot box in the early 80s, there was one radio show that my folks would never miss. Once a week the familiar glow would be replaced by a familiar crackle, followed by that voice we knew so well saying, "Halooooo, main hoon Ameen Sayani aur aap sun rahe hain Cibaca Geet Mala." When that voice suddenly has a face, clothes, polished shoes, white hair, huge frames for thick glasses and a neatly clipped moustache, it suddenly starts feeling like the twilight zone. But it wasn't. Here was the voice of Radio Ceylon, the voice of Vividh Bharathi, the voice of AIR, the voice of India. His humility is disarming, his accent flawless and he writes his own endorsement scripts in a scrawled mixture of Hindi, Urdu and English. A part of me fell in love with this charming man. The part that grew up listening to him.

group dynamics

Chanda Mama

Speckles, faces, shadows
Bursts, spiders, sighs
Glory, reflected
Shine on.

every young man's dream

While the dreaded but plebeian influenza virus wreaked havoc on my sinuses, I chanced upon a photograph taken on my birthday 5 years ago. This was one day after my appendics was yanked out of my left side, supposedly moments before it decided to screw it all and burst. As you can see, one of the side effects was inadvertently drawing a bevy of beautiful women to my side. Unfortunately, this was painfully temporary. Truthfully, the girls arrived just before the guys because they (the guys) were too busy taking a walk around the corner. As my gleeful expression has no doubt conveyed, for once in my life, I was glad I wasn't taking that walk with them. :)

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.

basket case

It's 2am. A car purrs up to the pavement furtively and doors are shut rather frantically. A man carries a little cradle, with a 6 month old baby. She is painfully tiny and rather sickly. His wife gone, he can't deal with this anymore. He opens the gate, trying not to cause a stir, lowers the infant into a swinging basket and rings the bell. There's no turning back now. He slinks away into the darkness, an engine is given life and that's that. For him.

For the baby, it has just begun. And this is just one story. There are hundreds more, behind each wistful smile, each stifled giggle, each lost gaze. The law doesn't permit me to put up my photos of the children, so I hope that those who chance by this are willing to imagine.

Ashraya's Children's Home has been responsible for turning many lost gazes into stifled giggles. Maybe someone out there can help them out in their tireless, happy endeavour. By visiting, passing on the information or contributing more. Read on at HUMANS FOR HUMANITY

young old man

The man resides within the man
Inside a strong armour, cylinder shaped,
Made of the five elements, designed of eight lotuses.

The power of yoga is his ornament,
He resides in the muladhara;
He journeys upward, he lights all the seven lights
He illuminates the secret room within the man.
--Gopla Khapa

Narayan Chandra Adhikari is 74 years old. He has been practising the art of Baul even before my parents were born. And yet, he still sings with as much gusto, still stalks the stage like a panther and still dances, the sound of his Nupurs dogging his every step. Here he's playing a version of the dotara that hails from the Bangladesh border.

27 and counting

Exactly 27 years ago my mom went out to get the morning paper and never set foot in her father's house as an unmarried woman again. My father, the slightly scruffy looking lad (look who's talking), was waiting in an ancient fiat with his friend to whisk her away into wedded bliss. The marriage took place at a close friend's house, while my mom's dad warmed up his shotgun (hot blooded army type with a heart of gold).


Well, that was long ago but they did celebrate their anniversary 2 days ago.
Amma and Baba, a very happy anniversary to you and a saluation to your patient love. Keep smiling always.

More sighs

From the terrace....

Street Walkin'

Scarred
Wise
The Memory Remains

Bubble, bubble
Toil and trouble
Fire burn and cauldron bubble

Hunt for the red Veembur
Our man in Kunming

Intense reflection
Flashes of saffron
The old man of the street

Push-me pull-you
Bengali babu

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.

the master

Pandit Kumar Gandharva.
He is THE man. One lung. Full power. nuff said.

family photos :)

Mai

Aaji

Raghav & Rishabh

Madness, True and Fake

I couldn't find true madness,
So I didn't become mad;
I saw fake madness all over,
I couldn't find a real one.

Some are mad for wealth,
Some others for glory;
Some turn mad with poverty,
Some others for aesthetic forms.

Siva, the maddest of the mad,
He, the one Who drinks poison;
Rejects elixir,
Leaving a palace of gold,
Enjoys abode in a Shamshan.

----Author Unknown

Shyam Sunder Das Baul, ever so soaring on the Anandalahari, Ghunguru and vocals.