Forza Arsenal

A Tale of a Towel

Hello! I’m Dry-you-up-in-a-jiffy and welcome to my autobiography. This, as you will find out, isn’t the autobiography of any ordinary bath towel. Speaking of the word ordinary just incase you are drooling with anticipation of magic wands, mythical creatures, geriatric wizards and the answer to that all important question – ‘Does Hogwarts supply their students with toilet paper?’ - You would be on the wrong track. No, I do not promise you those answers, however I do present before you a snippet of time that is the highlight of my career as a bath towel.

I was manufactured in the UK, using the finest Raw Indian Cotton. As per tradition I was tagged, packaged and then exported to Calcutta as the finished product to be sold at a profit. My long journey culminated in bliss when I found myself wrapped around the waist of my beloved master Tea-Pot-Tummy. That is when I knew this was a special relationship.

Life had become a well-balanced cycle of drying the master and haggling with the day’s wash for adequate clothesline space while the Sun still shone. Occasionally I’d listen to our neighbours loudly conducting Latin classes. After a couple of years I’ve managed to learn a few things including ‘Estne volumen in toga, an solum tibi libet me videre?’ which means ‘Is that a scroll in your toga, or are you just happy to see me?’ and also ‘Macdonaldus Senex fundum habuit. E-I-E-I-O. Et in hot fundo nonnullas boves domesticas habuitt. E-I-E-O. Cum moo moo hic, et cum moo moo ibi. Hic una moo, ibi una moo, ubique una moo moo. Macdonaldus Senex fundum habuit. E-I-E-I-O’. I’m guessing you know the nursery rhyme. However, I would’ve never guessed things were about to change.

Come spring 2004 and Tea-Pot-Tummy decided to accompany his college friends Gorilla Man, Podo Mach, Pharmacist and Possessed Locks for some fest in Bangalore. I overheard it was being hosted by the IIM and that the prize money was summing up to 2 lakhs! I was petrified. Do you know how many towels can be bought with that amount? This was terrible. I’d have to share him with someone new. Or worse, I could be replaced never to touch his sizzling belly again! Some of you might disagree here but a belly is answer to every towel’s unraveling nightmare.

Now it is a well-known fact that all towels are claustrophobic, however I’m an exception. I never complained even when I was crammed into the bag along with the rest of Tea-Pot-Tummy’s stuff. With the gentle rocking of the bag I presumed we were on our way. The journey to Bangalore was rather eventless. I spent my time either snoozing or getting to know Tea-Pot-Tummy’s new Jockey underwear. He’s a fine chap that Jock and was a definite improvement over that nasty piece of work – the VIP Brat. ‘Jockey or nothing’ was apparently his motto. So I suggested he change it to something more fun. Perhaps ‘Semper ubi ubi in caput tuum’ or ‘Always were underwear on your head’. He didn’t seem amused.

When the bag was finally opened I could see the love and affection shining in the master’s eyes. He grabbed me and flew into the bathroom to relieve himself after his feat of sheer determination over the past two days. I later learnt that we were staying with Tea-Pot-Tummy’s school friend Naryal. No one seemed to notice that Possessed Locks was missing. Maybe she fell off along the way but I guess then again these things do happen.
In Naryal’s house I got to know Gorilla Man’s towel. He had a rather interesting name - Burn-All-Bloody-Ass-Wipers! Methinks he’d change his mind if I introduced him to Tea-Pot-Tummy’s bottom! At times he was rather abusive, pessimistic and perhaps suicidal as well. I think all this negativity was the result of him having to wipe Gorilla Man’s hairy body dry right after staying cooped up in a suitcase for 2 days. Honestly, who wouldn’t be cranky?

Burn-All-Bloody-Ass-Wipers started telling me some of his horror stories. All his stories centered around shedding of excessive body hair. Apparently he was the victim of Gorilla Man’s body hair loss. Arrgh!! Little did I know of what was in store for me.

Hanging on that line I realized that I didn’t even know the Bangalore Towel dialect. That cute pink hand towel hanging opposite me had been fluttering at me for a while now and I didn’t know what to say next. Just my luck! I tried to impress her with some Latin. ‘Caterva carissima mea est Cimictus’ – ‘My favorite group is the Beatles’. Maybe she wasn’t a fan. Eventually we were dry. But then my heart cracked into a million pieces as Naryal’s cockeyed servant threw my abusive friend onto my pink fantasy! All I could hear now were torturous words like ‘Oooh I feel your softness brush against me…your sweet fragrance dilutes my acquired manly odour. Damn horny towel let go of her! You’re shedding all that fur all over her!’ As fate would have it Gorilla Man left behind his towel in Naryal’s house as we proceeded to IIM to meet up with the others.

That evening we learnt that Podo Mach and Pharmacist had managed to acquire a set of twins and another girl as their dates. I wasn’t as surprised as the others as I knew that the Pharmacist had a tablet for any eventuality. They remained occupied in a their fivesome over the next few days, occasionally spilling over into the nights and we didn’t see much of them. Pharmacist however thought he should leave something for us to remember him by. So he took his shoes off and grinned as we held our breath. Even with his shoes locked in a cupboard outside the stench somehow found a way out. That cupboard was now a mini World War II Gas chamber. Its potency was so great that the neighbouring IIMBian hurriedly emptied the opposite room, complete with his bag and baggage.

I somehow survived that smelly ordeal only to find myself conveniently borrowed by Gorilla Man the next morning. Those horrific images described by Burn-All-Bloody-Ass-Wipers began to take their ghastly form before me. I was now officially in hell. 3 days in a row I did overtime. Drying man and bear each day drained the last bit of energy out of each and every thread. I was driven to the edge Gorilla Man must pay for this blatant towel abuse! I made up my mind to unwind from his waist the minute he stepped out of the loo in full public view. Is my plan brilliant or what? Muhuhahahahhaahaha!! Come to think of it - I’m slowly losing it. Now I sympathize with Burn-All-Bloody-Ass-Wipers.

My master plan was unfortunately interrupted when some smelly kid (not as smelly as Pharmacist’s shoes…they are a class apart) walked into the room and picked me up one day while everyone had gone off. I got the feeling that I was being stolen. I must admit it was a thrilling experience and I did my best to conceal my excitement. In retrospect I think I should’ve tried to trip him or something. At the moment I find myself on sale in a shop in Burma Bazaar next to Majestic bus stand. Ironically enough I’m currently watching Tea-Pot-Tummy and his friends walk straight past this shop on their way to the station. Not once did they look my way and I must admit I’m a little hurt.
I’m doomed to wipe charcoal-black South Indian asses in the twilight of my life. I always knew this towel business is unforgiving. Tea-Pot-Tummy is now far far away and I guess all good things must come to an end. Seriously, jokes apart, I must admit that he was the highlight of my towel career. What’s ahead you ask? I now plan to pick up the local towel dialect. Who knows? Maybe pink hand towel and I are destined to meet again! ‘Sit vis nobiscum’ (May the force be with you).

Are You Prince Harry?!?

Today, kids, the Hermit was confronted by a strange, North-Eastern, middle-aged woman at Westside, Camac St. I'm often approached by various strange(JUDE standards) and eccentric(Also JUDE standards) people who are searching for answers or some of whom are lost. (It becomes an ugly sight when they demand too many appointments...then its the block them out policy...refer to the picture.)

Unlike other days...today was unique...simply because I, the Hermit, was left clueless by her question...which went along the lines of

"Are you Prince Harry?*Beaming Smile*"
"Huh...excuse me?"
"Are you Prince Harry?*Bicco toothpaste smile*"
"Er...no.*Colgate Gel smile*"

In hindsight, I wonder...what could I have replied to this distressed soul? Methinks I should've taken the avatar of my good friend and confidante Ray Mcooney who according to my calculations would've replied,"Maybe I am and maybe I'm not!"

Incase of an identity crisis he suggests that we all should carry a flute in a back pockets...why?...we could answer these questions through the medium of music!

My conclusion is that this woman suffers from Imnevagonameetnewoncool syndrome...well...if she does meet me again on a Wednesday between the hours of 3pm and 7pm I might be able to arrange for her to meet Prince Harry(Free of charge). If you do read my blog...please respond.

Till Kingdom Come

Cloudless, blue-sky overhead; a serene, sparse field occupies the eye below. The horizon is not very far; the edge of the field is lined with trees. The right corner has the edge of a large building with red brickwork, possibly a school building. A slow, breeze disturbs the grass; details such as temperature don’t bother me. A haze continues to frame this imagery. There are three silhouettes of grown men to my left shading their eyes and pointing to the heavens. My naïve eyes follow their fingers and end in a pair of parallel, wispy clouds…they could almost be jet streams…but not quite. A slow mumble in the distance is growing louder as I watch the lines change shape. A triangle slowly evolved, now a square and eventually terminating in a circle. Growing larger at a constant rate. The sky in the middle begins to melt as the approaching noise is deafening in this soundproof world. I lift myself off the ground, dust my pants off and stand enthralled by the sight of a sky gradually vanishing. Was I waiting for something to happen? Do I belong here? Who am I? These are the questions I’ve asked myself now that it is over.
I might have seen it in some movie at this proximity, or read such an account in some sci-fi novel. But the power of the mind can destroy all illusions of danger. Reality is our faith and unlike religion - we all perceive it in the same way.
The sky gradually began getting eaten away as a bright, golden mass slowly approached through the focus. I watch. I need to know. Curiosity drives the spirit. Through the smoke and ash that began to rain down upon the grass, I saw it come towards us. Us? I believe now that it had come once more, just like it did before - with purpose as always - to breathe new life into the world of course. The magnificent destruction of our monopoly over this planet; my seat is in the front row, and its value is the cold sweat of wakefulness. There is a wind that blinds the defiant yet I stare on unfazed and unharmed. No one bothered to count the years, but the approaching lover awaited his kiss eagerly. Was he wanted? Was he about to be used? Consumed? He’d scar her like others have before, but he wasn’t here to destroy her legacy…he couldn’t even if he tried…could he? He was the forgotten lover, the one who waited and watched her so many times before. And it was her azure twinkle that brought him back all those times. What did he really want? Darting between the stars, leading a life of perpetual disintegration, blazing a trail of frozen shrapnel, a destiny of spectacular destruction yet the destination unknown, an anonymous existence yet potency unquestionable. A wary eye stared at him and he seemed to stare back. A moment later they know their prayers have been answered, as a path ahead is now free of any obstruction. As the sand continued to flow and he watched her hue fade with a disease consuming beauty. There was one like her before. He hadn’t forgotten her or how another had stolen her in fiery consummation before his eyes. She never looked the same again. Maybe it was his bitterness that drove him to say this. Or maybe her bleak, charred skin was testament of his memory.
This moment of passion would arrive, if not the prophets, science did teach us this. The events played themselves out in slow motion as I turned to run. My kith and kin demonstrate their will to survive as fear drives its stake through the frame the infestation. The consistency of the world grew thick as my limbs froze; I hang in suspended animation in the shade of the building. It could never shield me, but it proves that I’m only human – survival riddles every inch of my flesh and bone. I brace for the shockwave that would prove ominous to our existence. Staring back at the red brickwork - deceptively sturdy, it never arrived.

Coldplay - Till Kingdom Come

Steal my heart and hold my tongue
I feel my time my time has come
Let me in unlock the door
I never felt this way before

And the wheels just keep on turning
The drummer begins to drum
I don't know which way I'm going
I don't know which way I've come

Hold my head inside your hands
I need someone who understands
I need someone someone who hears
For you I've waited all these years

For you I'd wait 'Til Kingdom Come
Until my day my day is done
and say you'll come and set me free
just say you'll wait you'll wait for me

In your tears and in your blood
In your fire and in your flood
I hear you laugh I heard you sing
I wouldn't change a single thing

And the wheels just keep on turning
The drummers begin to drum
I don't know which way I'm going
I don't know what I've become

For you I'd wait 'Til kingdom come
Until my days my days are done
Say you'll come and set me free
Just say you'll wait you'll wait for me

Just say you'll wait you'll wait for me

Just say you'll wait you'll wait for me

28 Days Later

Dear Jim,

With endless love, we left you sleeping.

Now we're sleeping with you.

Don't wake up.

X

The Thin Imaginary Line

!

I had another article half way through and on its way. But something else came up…was on my way to bed and I just thought I’d check the invisible girl’s blog. (Well…rimi…you got your death-wish…you’re probably next on srikar’s list…whether photography is your thing or not.). If any of you have bothered reading her thoughts…congratulations…those who haven’t…step one to this post would be for you to read that post first. (PS - If this is srikar reading…her post has nothing to do with photography…not on any level.)
Coming back…what rimi says makes sense on many a level. I feel that her voice is not alone…it exists elsewhere…suppressed perhaps. The fact that she speaks of the docile Indian woman along the way which reminds me of something else that happens to strike me about my generation. Women of our generation have watched their mothers and other women drowned out by the voices of their male counterparts. Somehow this point burns ever so slowly leaving a scar within their minds. It is something that eventually emerges and it can come with a raw and untamed emotion attached. I congratulate rimi for finding her voice. I would probably be accepted when I say that women’s issues have touched each one of us on some level or the other…however remote. So…going to the extent of calling this is a well-known social evil makes some sense.
I’d like to examine the flip side. In order to do so…there is something I’d like to know…how many of you have encountered eve teasing on a mode of public transportation? How many of you have seen a man thrashed because he supposedly touched this woman? How many of you have joined in? How many of you have tried to stop the violence? I think awareness has been taken to extremes…today a woman is probably anticipating an attack rather than being mentally prepared to deal with one. You become like a cornered animal ready to lash out at anything invading your space either with intent or accidentally. Sometimes the identity of the victim is lost. For every serious offence in the world there are possible 2 or more false alarms…justice is meted out regardless of anyone having witnessed this act or not. The world is no longer a safe place, even more so if you are a woman. I agree with this, but there are times when people take things a little too far.
If you could probably tabulate the statistics, it would be plain to see how many more women, as opposed to men, speak up about their oppression. Why is this so? The answer lies in being able to identify with a person of the same sex…in realizing that someone has endure a nightmare that has haunted you for so many years. It is unfortunate to see educated men and women blowing each other away with their words focusing on such topics. These can often be seen at debates conducted on TV or even within your classrooms. This is a waste of time in my opinion. These women have never themselves experienced anything remotely close to what they are standing for. As for the men, they have no intentions of actually physically harming their counterparts. So I’m wondering who’s permitting the mudslinging? And more importantly…why do we watch these debates? Well…valid points are raised…points are presented in the fancy packaging of the English language which reaches the ears of the empowered elements of our nation and the world. But isn’t the intensity of the voice of the victim lost? Wouldn’t you and I be paying more attention to the scrambled image of a victim telling her tale in a series of subtitles rather than hearing it come from some chick with a fake American accent all dolled up for her first appearance on TV?

Rimi mentioned female infanticide along the way. I for one would be all for switching the sex ratio around. I figure that most straight men reading this would agree as well…we’d just love to be marooned on the Isle of Lesbos for example, just for the sheer amount of eye candy. Rider Haggard’s She suddenly comes to mind…but that doesn’t seem to go exactly to plan somehow. ;-) Well…I feel that if the sex ratio is reversed…the world would be in a state of turmoil. Why you ask? Because the ‘=’ operator is now overrun by the dreaded ‘?’. *What the hell is he talking about?* Ah…yes…the majority of men take words the way they were delivered. ‘Where is the pencil?’ = ‘He wants to know where the pencil is.’ When a woman speaks to another woman the interpretation is very different. ‘Where is the pencil?’ = ‘She’s accusing me of stealing her pencil.’ I think the world has conclusively proved to men that when you do speak to women…anything can and is taken to be a loaded statement. There is a large amount of unnecessary unhappiness emitted from an innocent question such as this. Hang on a second…before you crucify me…I’d definitely support a balance of the sexes. Anything in excess cannot be good…at present the scales are tilted in favour of us…tilted a little too much. Women are justified by creating a ruckus about this issue…they have every right to be.


The male sphere of interest lies largely outside the walls of the house…such at the open fields – whether it be gunning down Bambi or playing some football. A woman is similarly hypnotically drawn to the various soaps that air each night on Star Plus and other channels. Men don’t understand women…and neither do women understand men. ‘What are all these grown men doing running after one stupid ball?’ And yet…we’re not so different. Women love to dance…well the majority do. If you remove the ball from a picture and examine the body movements of a man dribbling a ball and a woman with some fancy footwork…is it that different? I presume most of you have watched Bend it like Beckham…did anyone woman feel that the protagonist was just another idiot running after a ball? I think not. Its simply because she a girl transporting the female icon into a male dominated sphere…and she’s doing great!

Taking another example of a woman surrounded by a male world, this time I shall refer to Top Gear. Jeremy Clarkson and his mum were testing this Peugeot…with his mum doing the driving. Quite obviously the 70yr old lady was quite apprehensive while driving something completely different to her regular Honda Jazz. Here is a woman engulfed in a universally accepted all male domain – test-driving a vehicle.

Mrs.Clarkson : Am I going fast enough?

Jeremy : Mum, this test track is safe enough, you can go as fast as you want.

Mrs.Clarkson : What if there is traffic coming from the other end? What then?

Jeremy : Its quite simple really…this car comes with every feature imaginable. I suggest you use the steering wheel!

I think you see my point. Incase anyone got the wrong idea…I’m not here to draw lines between the sexes. I’m here to point out that there is this line…and it does exist…because men and women choose to draw it. One of the reasons that the F.R.I.E.N.D.S series was such a success was because it provided a Utopian setting between the sexes. Especially those 6 individuals, none of them were particularly inhibited because of the other’s sexual identity. Being male is possibly influencing me to point the accusatory finger at women for the gap between the sexes. Testosterone would take me to the extent of saying that if that Utopia did exist…women would be the ones bringing it down.

This divide is the first hurdle…all that follows is created by both parties be it religion, colour of skin or politics. The trouble with the system that exists is that it is based on a host of decisions; not making one is also a decision. All decisions are interlinked and lead to chain reactions. Religion was one such decision a long time ago.

Maybe it is time to break down these walls that exist. These walls can begin to crumble within the educated fractions…this is the most conducive environment for this. It is time for all those conservative parents to stop inhibiting their sons and daughters…if they do not mingled with both sexes they shall remain apprehensive for the rest of their lives. Hmm…there also remains the possibility of having this conversation over a cup of Koffee… ‘Mum…Dad…I’m Gay…here is your future son in law – Karan. We love each other very much.*They hold hands* *Mother faints*’

So where does the solution lie? Well…I wouldn’t really know…but I think we need to be a lot more sensitive to the rest of this planet rather than concentrating on the plight of the human race. Something drastic needs to be done to curb the population explosion. This is my problem with the world. It is not enough to curb the number of children one has to one. Why? Because for every family that makes this sacrifice…there is another Shobha De.


"In Germany, they first came for the communists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a communist. Then they came for the Jews, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist. Then they came for the Catholics and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Catholic. Then they came for me -- and by that time there was nobody left to speak up." - Pastor Martin Niemoller, 1945


"You are not your job. You are not how much you have in the bank. You are not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking Khakis. You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world." - Tyler Durden(Fight Club)

"We were raised on television to believe that we'd all be millionares, movie gods, rock stars, but we won't. And we're starting to figure that out. And we're very, very pissed off." - Tyler Durden(Fight Club)

"You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else." - Tyler Durden(Fight Club)


Billy Joel - We Didn't Start The Fire (History)

1949 Harry Truman
Doris day
Red China
Johnnie Ray
South Pacific
Walter Winchell
Joe Di Maggio.
1950 Joe McCarthy
Richard Nixon
Studebaker
Television
North Korea
South Korea
Marilyn Monroe.
1951 Rosenbergs
H-Bomb
Sugar Ray
Panmunjom
Brando
The King And I and The Catcher In The Rye.
1952 Eisenhower
Vaccine
England's got a new queen
Marciano
Liberace
Santayana good-bye.
We didn't start the fire
It was always burning since the world's been turning.
We didn't start the fire
No
we didn't light it but we tried to fight it.
1953 Joseph Stalin
Malenkov
Nasser and Prokofiev
Rockefeller
Campanella
Communist Bloc.
1954 Roy Cohn
Juan Peron
Toscanini
Dacron
Dien Bien Phu falls
Rock Around The Clock.
1955 Einstein
James Dean
Brooklyn's got a winning team
David Crockett
Peter Pan
Elvis Presley
Disneyland.
1956 Bardot
Budapest
Alabama
Khrushchev
Princess grace
Peyton Place
Trouble in the Suez.
We didn't start the fire
...
1957 Little Rock
Pasternak
Mickey Mantle
Kerouac
Sputnik
Chou En-Lai
Bridge On The River Kwai.
1958 Lebanon
Charles de Gaulle
California baseball
Starkweather
Hoicide
Children of Thalidomide.
1959 Buddy Holly
Ben Hur
Space Monkey
Mafia
Hula Hoops
Castro
Edsel is a no-go.
1960 U 2
Syngman Rhee
Payola and Kennedy
Chubby Checker
Psycho
Belgians in the Congo.
We didn't start the fire
...
1961 Hemingway
Eichmann
Stranger In A Strange Land
Dylan
Berlin
Bay Of Pigs Invasion.
1962 Lawrence Of Arabia
British Beatlemania
Ole Miss
John Glenn
Liston beats Patterson.
1963 Pope Paul
Malcolm X.
British Politician Sex
J.F.K. blown away
what else do I have to say?
We didn't start the fire
...
64-89 Birth Control
Ho Chi Minh
Richard Nixon back again
Moonshot
Woodstock
Watergate
Punk Rock.
Begin
reagan
Palestine
Terror on the airline
Ayatollah's in Iran
Russians in Afghanistan.
Wheel Of Fortune
sally Ride
Heavy Metal
Suicide
Foreign debts
Homeless vets
AIDS
Crack
Bernie Goetz.
Hypodermics on the shores
China's under martial law
Rock and Roller
Cola Wars
I can't take it anymore.
We didn't start the fire
...
We didn't start the fire
...

Be Yourself...

Album Cover - Battle Of Los Angeles

Music to me explains the world. Good music is better than any high I’ve ever experienced…just a feel good factor that is a one-time investment. I feel it is the only positive output of an over populated world. The math is quite simple…more people…greater the fraction of musicians…greater the pie…greater the variety.

This is a cause and effect cycle. As a result of the explosion of our musical output, so expands the number of genres. Somehow, some idiot (in my opinion…not necessarily yours) somewhere invented, what I refer to as, ‘dingchak’. Its roughly similar to the combination of the sound dad pounding my door when a get a call and an orangutan playing with a Casio keyboard. Well…if anyone does personally know he-who-invented-trance, please ask him to contact me, would really like to know if he knows my dad and if possible I’d like to get my picture clicked with the ape. (PS – Leave out the finer details like how I refer to him as an idiot.)

Trance was like a ripple in a pond. Take a walk down Park Street in my city and all that stands sound you is the ‘MeDJ’ crowd. There are rules to enter the guild of MeDJ…I shall explain. Now imagine the voice you hear reading this out to you is that of Steve Irwin.

The average Indian MeDJ is rather ugly with bulging eyes that stay hidden behind dark glasses, even at night. This has led the government to invest crores in research on whether the Indian youth has other superior senses to account for the disparity. So far research has shown that the Indian youth spends the majority of his time in dingy nightclubs where the courtship display take place. These are not very elabourate, they can roughly be broken down into:

1. Get drunk.
2. Bump against the closest person of the opposite sex.
3. Get laid!
4. In the morning - For men and women – (if you used protection…) Brag
5. In the morning – For men (without protection) Go find a hole like Saddam and pray that she wasn’t related to Bush.
6. At whatever time – For women (without protection) Please contact Rimi.

Now quit the Steve Irvin voice…(PS if you’re wondering how he’d say Rimi…I wouldn’t know either but there is a 10buck award scheme I’m proposing to the person who comes closest to it.)

There are standard requirements to becoming MeDJ. Firstly you gotta be filthy rich. This means that you must have a set of wheels…either yours or borrowed/stolen (whatever works for you). Next, the look...this means that you need to invest in preferably industrial strength glue. Why? This would be for your hair…on your head. Anyway, I hear that gel or even wax provides a good styling substitute (however you now know what to use for the ideal weatherproof effect). As for the clothes…well…designer labels! Very very important! The cheaper alternative – buy a solid colour t-shirt and lend it to any construction worker or even a painter for a couple of days. If you do keep facial hair…style it sharp edges…something like Lovelace in Wild Wild West will do great. The results are roughly alike. All you now need is the software, this is easily available on the net…look no further than download.com. Start mixing.

Now remember the keyword I began with – dingchak. This is your mantra…what does it mean? Say it aloud…again…again…to a rhythm. There you go…so now you see…anyone can become MeDJ. An essential part of becoming MeDJ, yes this something they don’t teach you at DJ school…so listen up, you must get your own calling card with your name in the Indian font. Bas…now you’re set.

For those of you who are already yawning…I shall get back to what I set out to talk about. Since the Pie is ever increasing in size, it is also important to realize that good music is not a myth…but today it involves a lot of soul searching to find a sound that strikes the right chords within. Then suddenly while yours eyes were shut and your hands were gripping the head-phones you feel connected. Admittedly, you suddenly realize that you possibly are making a complete ass of yourself by singing really loud in a music store or even head banging. But hey, you’re celebrating! Then comes something called the Theory of Marginal Utility…a definition of which shall live with me for a long time to come thanks to the glorious voice in which it was recorded in my head – Deep’s. Well…the theory is quite simple…too much of anything is bad thing. It has its advantages of course like when people finally got sick of Celine Dion’s - My heart will go on. At this point I shall thank Weird Al for ‘My fart will go on’…however I don’t listen to that song cause I hate the tune!
As you can see, a person soon gets tired of listening to the same tune over and over, and then eagerly anticipates the next big album from his/her favourite artist. Sometimes that never happens again…you see in music, at times a phenomenon known as ‘disbanding’ occurs.

For Mr.Idunno and Ms.Imwithhim’s benefit I shall try and explain…‘band’ meaning ‘cohesive unit of elements producing rhythmic noise’ and ‘disbanding’ hence indicating a disruption in the balance of those elements terminating noise production.

When you hear about it, you’re suddenly faced by the fact that yet another good thing in your life has suddenly been taken away from you. Strangely, when I analyze the aftermath, I find that the biggest loser is their audience and arguably those musicians themselves. Several bands have been through this ordeal. The ones that come to mind at present are Floyd, Guns n’ Roses and more recently Savage Garden. The gauntlet laid before those band members intending to pursue their careers in music and hence this field in largely based on how accommodating their audience is. In the case of Savage Garden, it’s quite accurate to say they were a really good band before…and now Darren Hayes solo sounds like he’s being repeatedly kicked in the jewels. His voice could also be compared to the sound of a cartoon character who has inhaled too much helium.

Since I’ve actually rambled along this far…I plan to ramble along a little more…I’d like to speak about a band called Rage Against The Machine.


Rage Against The Machine

Their last concert was on the 13th of September, 2000 at the Grand Olympic Auditorium. The band comprised of …

Zack de la Rocha – Vocals
Tim Commerford – Bass
Brad Wilk – Drums
Tom Morello - Guitars

Their music was geared towards awareness amongst the youth. The name of the band would say it all. . I began listening to this band about a year ago knowing that there was nothing more to be expected from this particular band (sometimes you do things that you regret later…but its something like the blonde cheerleader who has got to find out what went bump in the middle of the night). They had a very raw sound, which might not be appreciated by all I must admit. You see I’m pretty much used to what my dad refers to as ‘Shut Up’ music (Chester Bennington on repeat doing the chorus for One Step Closer would be the reason). For those who were wondering…yes yes…my dad is my substitute for Tom Hank’s mom in Forrest Gump…if you’d like I could begin next time with…‘My Papa used to tell me…’.
The Rage Against The Machine music videos would make the Blair Witch Project proud in terms of its camera techniques. The great thing about the band was the fact that they weren’t driven by their videos but something that did speak louder were their lyrics. Unfortunately they disbanded and the vocalist went his own way.
I, being a very picky listener, am suddenly faced with the fact that there is only this much of music they have produced which I can listen to. The other problem faced by others and myself is the fact that they were one band that generated negative publicity in the eyes of the political machinery. A suppressed band if you please. They did the job rock was born for…they pasted the message loud and clear across a nation and now the world. Lets just say they’ve spent plenty of time in the cooler.
Ideally the largest music store in any city should provide access to any album. But, this being India, is not possible. I could buy Britney Spam or even the Backstreet Bums, however when it comes to this band…only their last live album is available. It is quite safe to say that a music store largely will reflect the choices made by the listeners of today. Yet one can find zillions of movies, t-shirts and computer games in a music store. Bizarre! Why not just call it a department store? What, in my opinion is even more strange, and is possibly an explanation is the fact that the music channel’s on offer today, including Channel V and MTV, have movie trailers with almost-naked-ugly-chicks-with-no-ability-to-dance playing on them constantly. There are more trailers being thrown at the viewer than ads! Sheesh…no wonder we have a generation full of MeDJ. An alternative called VH1 has showed up. However my cable operator has chosen to place the channel on a shitty frequency…the result…I can watch…but I hear static. May his testicles be provide a breeding ground to the fleas of a thousand camels!

Back to the jargon…Rage Against The Machine disbanded and so did Soundgarden (Black Hole Sun being among their hits). All of RATM excluding Zach de la Rocha joined the vocalist of Soundgarden - Chris Cornell.


Battle Of Los Angeles - Back Cover

The result happens to be this strange fusion of soul and traces of the raw sound that was once Rage Against The Machine. The target audience today would be different. The bass leads, for example, are largely entertainment driven now. The lyrics are no longer bare and in your face…but they allude to fragmented imagery and dissociated ideas. The vocals of the band sound like a combination of Everlast’s deepness and Dylan’s whining. The band will take a while to climb to their pinnacle…but they’re going the right way. I just wish Tim Commerford would let the listener know he’s that he’s not planning to take a step back and sacrifice his vision.
My articles shall continue to speak my mind against the world I live in…mano-a-mano. I probably shall continue infusing music to explain myself…and my microcosm…I shall leave you with a message I came upon today…Be Yourself.


Audioslave

Audioslave – Be Yourself

Someone falls to pieces
Sleepin’ all alone
Someone kills the pain
Spinning in the silence
To finally drift away
Someone gets excited
In a chapel yard
Catches a bouquet
Another lays a dozen
White roses on a grave

To be yourself is all that you can do
To be yourself is all that you can do

Someone finds salvation in everyone
And another only fame
Someone tries to hide themselves
Down inside their selfish brain
Someone swears his true love
Until the end of time
Another runs away
Separate or united?
Healthy or insane?

To be yourself is all that you can do
To be yourself is all that you can do
To be yourself is all that you can do
To be yourself is all that you can do

Even when you've paid enough
Been pulled apart or been held up
With every single memory of
the good or bad faces of love
Don’t lose any asleep tonight
I'm sure everything will end up alright
You may win love

But to be yourself is all that you can do
To be yourself is all that you can do

Billy Joel - Scenes From An Italian Restaurant

A bottle of white, a bottle of red
Perhaps a bottle of rose instead
We'll get a table near the street
In our old familiar place
You and I-face to face

A bottle of red, a bottle of white
It all depends on your appetite
I'll meet you any time you want
In our Italian Restaurant.

Things are okay with me these days
Got a good job, got a good office
Got a new wife, got a new life
And the family's fine
We lost touch long ago
You lost weight I did not know
You could ever look so good after
So much time.

I remember those days hanging out
At the village green
Engineer boots, leather jackets
And tight blue jeans
Drop a dime in the box play the
Song about New Orleans
Cold beer, hot lights
My sweet romantic teenage nights

Brenda and Eddie were the
Popular steadies
And the king and the queen
Of the prom
Riding around with the car top
Down and the radio on
Nobody looked any finer
Or was more of a hit at the
Parkway Diner
We never knew we could want more
Than that out of life
Surely Brenda and Eddie would
Always know how to survive.

Brenda and Eddy were still going
Steaday in the summer of '75
when they decided the marriage would
Be at the end of July
Everyone said they were crazy
"Brenda you know you're much too lazy
Eddie could never afford to live that
Kind of life."
But there we were wavin' Brenda and Eddie goodbye.

They got an apartment with deep
Pile carpet
And a couple of paintings from Sears
A big waterbed that they bought
With the bread
They had saved for a couple
Of years
They started to fight when the
Money got tight
And they just didn't count on
The tears.

They lived for a while in a
Very nice style
But it's always the same in the end
They got a divorce as a matter
Of course
And they parted the closest
Of friends
Then the king and the queen went
Back to the green
But you can never go back
There again.

Brenda and Eddie had had it
Already by the summer of '75
Fromhe high to the low to
The end of the show
For the rest of their lives
They couldn't go back to
The greasers
The best they could do was
Pick up the pieces
We always knew they would both
Find a way to get by
That's all I heard about
Brenda nd Eddie
Can't tell you more than I
Told you already
And here we are wavin' Brenda and Eddie goodbye.

A bottle of red, aa bottle of white
Whatever kind of mood you're in tonight
I'll meet you anytime you want
In our Italian Restaurant.

---------------------------------------------------------

Cluster A and Cluster B....EAT YOUR HEART OUT!!

Jeremy Clarkson: Rock is dead, long live rock'n'roll

Every Sunday evening 56m people in Britain find something better to do than watch Top Gear. So, statistically speaking, you almost certainly don’t know we’re currently staging a vote to find the country’s best driving song.
I assumed, because I know that the programme is watched by many children, that the list of nominations would be full of bands I’d never heard of and music that, if it came on my radio, would make me want to get out of the car.

But no. The top 10, as it stands at the moment, features AC/DC, Motörhead, Steppenwolf, Queen, Kenny Loggins, Golden Earring, and rather disturbingly, at number one, Meat Loaf’s appallingly pretentious Bat Out of Hell. In the whole of the top 20, there are only three acts from the 21st century.

This brings me on to Radio 2. We’re told the new-found popularity of Auntie’s Light Programme is because all the presenters are different, but that’s not it at all. It’s because the new music being played on Radio 1 is always irritating and can sometimes be harmful to your wellbeing. If the nanny puts Radio 1 on in the kitchen when I’m trying to write, I am often overwhelmed with a sudden and sometimes uncontrollable need to hit her over the head with a bag full of snooker balls.

Do you see where I’m going here? There’s much talk, especially as the festival season begins in earnest, about which of the new bands are any good. Even The Daily Telegraph devotes half a page to the relative merits of Coldplay. But the fact of the matter is that the pearls, and they are few, are drowned in an ocean of absolute rubbish.

I know I have something of a reputation for being a rock dinosaur but you should see my daughter’s record collection. Of course, it isn’t a record collection as such; it’s an assembly of ones and noughts on her computer, but anyway, being 10, she likes Maroon Five and Avril Somethingorother, but mostly her binary ballads are from Led Zep, which she thinks are so cool, and Bad Company.

This means, of course, she doesn’t mind at all when Mummy and Daddy go out at night to see artists you thought had gone west in a puddle of vomit and chemicals some time in 1976. In the past couple of years we’ve seen Roger Waters, Blondie, Yes, the Who (half of whom have actually gone west in a puddle of vomit and chemicals) and then last week, Roxy Music.

Bryan Ferry is a remarkable human specimen. He is a man for whom the ageing process has had no meaning. He may now be a hundred and twenty-twelve but there are no man breasts, no spread and no sign of a hair hole. And you should see him move. Be assured, his rebellious pro-hunting son Otis can never say to a mate: “Hey, you dance like my dad.” Because no one, no matter how athletic they be, is that good.

The man redefines anyone’s concept of cool. He even makes whistling cool, which is technically impossible. And what’s more, it’s rumoured he once ticked off a younger son for swearing while their hijacked jet was in the process of nose-diving. And this iciness comes through on stage as his band of real, proper, clever and talented musicians run through a set of songs that would leave any modern band open-mouthed in astonishment.

The best thing, though, is that the audience was also far cooler than anything you’ll find at a teenage rave. There were no football shirts, no spots and none of that awful greased-down hair that is so popular with tyre fitters. There were one or two rather strange-looking creatures whose barnet had been styled in 1974 and then left to thin out all by itself. I may have also seen some black T-shirts tucked into jeans, which also dated from the early Seventies. But for the most part it was bright-eyed, middle-aged people for whom time has been kind.

There was no unduly long queue for the lavatory cubicles, nobody was flogging bags of expensive aspirins, and in the ballads, instead of waving cigarette lighters around, everyone held up their mobile phones so their kids could hear the tunes too. Best of all, nobody was beaten up and murdered on the way out. Everyone just piled into their Range Rovers and went for something to eat.

Now, compare this with sharing a tent, in a field, having spent the day listening to a bunch of teenagers in spectacularly baggy trousers banging bits of garden furniture together. It doesn’t even get close.

Rock’n’roll, I’m beginning to suspect, is not a going concern. It’s not, as we have always thought, simply a means by which teenagers can annoy their parents but rather a one-off 30-year moment in the development of music. Like baroque and skiffle and oratorio.

Every attempt to change the original formula, be it hip-hop, garage, techno or rap, certainly grates with those older than 12, but that’s its only purpose. It’s not music to annoy the old. It’s just a noise to annoy the old. Which means that when its fans become old, it will not survive.

I can absolutely guarantee that 30 years from now, nobody will be going all the way to London to see P Diddly, or whatever he’s called this week. Whereas, my wife and I will be availing ourselves of cheap-rate rail fares and heading to Camden, again, to see Bryan Ferry, again. And you know what: he still won’t have any man breasts and he’ll still be dancing like a hard-bodied ballerina