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Entries categorized as ‘Concert in Mumbai’

Saree GaMa…

February 27, 2008 · 4 Comments

For once, I reached the venue early. I was at Chembur at 5.30 pm. And the 2 tickets found themselves in my clenched fist by 5.35 pm.

At 6.00 pm we were allowed inside the auditorium.

If you had read about the 5 Hour Torture prior to the TVS concert; you will know. If you have not, let me emphasize – I was indeed eager and I did expect and looked forward to a great experience at the concert.

But what I had not anticipated even faintly was an intense head-on, frontal, cultural assault.

For, at 6.05pm I had unwittingly entered a stronghold of Tambrams from Chembur, Matunga, Wadala, Thane, Dombivilli, Kalyan and other places . The average age was easily about 55. The average saree was silk. The average flower was jasmine. And the average male footwear was named after an island located on an archipelago in the central Pacific Ocean southwest of the continental United States, southeast of Japan, and northeast of Australia. As mentioned here.

Much as I had come with a single minded pursuit of a great TVSy experience, the ’stronghold’ nevertheless took over my fancy at some level. It simply was too loud, too overpowering, too in-your-face to overlook or even ignore. The hall had a capacity of 1300 and that was the size of the stronghold and that became the base of my armchair-research.

It seemed most of them knew most of the rest of them. Some of them had recently met some of the other at the Tambram wedding last week at Matunga. And everyone had a son in Los Angeles.

“Soukkyama?” Finea?

“Oh! Soukkyam! Paiyan California lendu vanduttana?” Oh fineum! Son came from Californiava?

“Adutha masam varan. Nangadan poittu vandom” Next month coming he is. We only went and came.

Silence.

Concerts outside Chennai are a little different from those in Chennai.  The underlying currents are different. The motives are different and the social compulsions are different. As the concert progressed, three distinct categories emerged from the audience -

I Levvvv Carnaticya (ILC)

These are die-hard connoisseurs of Carnatic music. While they love it from any artiste, they have their own sense of ‘evolved carnatic’ and artists who match their expectations.

Example: I spotted at least one Madurai Mani Iyer fan. You know a MM fan when you see one. When TVS was introduced as disciple of MM, few hands went up overhead in the air to clap! These are the first level fans of MM. The second level was eruption of delight when they hear the abrupt beginning of “ga mama rigapa riga sa…”  What was the really conclusive evidence of the third level fan to me was displaying delirious frenzy at certain parts  of  “Sarasa Sama Dhana…” (eg: at the vaaa of Parama Saambavaaa…) and “Eppo Varuvaro…” (eg: va aa aaa aaaaa roo of varuvaaa aaa ro”).

The Familiar-Face-Searcher(FFS)/SocialNetworker

Retired Maamas and Maamis who take season tickets and go for any concert at Shanmukananda, Fine Arts etc. If that uncle in the third row is leaning back over to the maami two rows behind and exchanging details of the visit of ‘Ramesh’ last week, he is your alpha FFS. At any given point in time, he is aware of the concert only at the outer periphery of his mind, never paying his total attention; keeps darting to the exit/entrance, gets alert when someone enters, or walks out. Typically the Maamis are prone to be more alpha FFS. Suddenly midway during the concert, you might notice a sort of an exodus towards the exit. If you are sure it is not because of the overactive air conditioning, then thats the FFS folk. The FFS just knows when the HOT SAMOSAAs are served in the canteen.

The ‘Feelgood’ Quester (FQ)

A variant of the FFS. These are your friendly, relatively new migrants to the city who aren’t quite networked well into the community here, but feel good just being under the same roof as so many others from the same community. A feeling of belonging and all that. This type is more connected with the actual concert and smiles warmly at anyone that makes eye contact. The FQs graduate into FFS after a few years – the cross-over process starts gathering momentum when their children cross adolescence and reach marriageable age.

The Snob(TS)

This is not a very common variety, but The Snob is a combination of a Reverse FFS and wannabe ILC.  TS throws heavy attitude and is very nose-in-the-air, doesn’t really go out of the way to connect with the rest of ‘them’. He is a sort of a ripened cynical FFS. He never says hello – unless hello’d at. Listens or pretends to pay complete attention to the concert. If the TS is a Maami, then she almost always whispers the raaga to the husband or whoever is sitting in the next chair. It may be totally off mark – the probability of getting the raaga right may be about 1 in 15. But she exudes authority and confidence, so the poor Maami next chair – perhaps an FFS would think ‘oh, is that Hamsanandi? I could have sworn it was Todi!‘ or just let it pass.

As for the concert, some tidbits if you are a fan too  -

T.V.Sankaranarayanan was at his best and his son – Shankara Mahadevan did sing well too. I think he had a nice voice – a little more treble in it that helped make his Alaapanas sound sharper. He sang the raag Hindolam rather well. TVS rendition of Sarasa Sama Dhana - raag Kaapi Narayaniwas excellent and very MMesque. Just that, Eppo Varuvaaro and of course, the Notes more than made my day!

Categories: Concert in Mumbai · Insight · Life In Mumbai · Music Concerts · Music Muse · T.V.Sankaranarayanan · TVS

The 5 Hour Torture

February 23, 2008 · 2 Comments

Every moment is painful. Every breath is bated. The mind is numb. Eyes darting to the clock repeatedly to check if some sudden unknown phenomenon of nature has pushed the time ahead faster.

Ah. No such luck.

Waiting till 6.30 pm today, I can see, is going to be very tough.

For, starting 6.30 pm is going to be an experience that will last for 2 hours  or so.

An experience that I have waited for more than 7 years. Consciously that is. I might have waited longer.

For at least over 2 years, I have been calling Shanmukananda Hall and Fine Arts on and off and scrutinising Bombay Times everyday with such expectation for this experience.

TVS. Yes, T.V.Sankaranarayanan is going to orchestrate that experience at Fine Arts today in Chembur. And I am going to soak myself in it.

The first concert I went to was when I was 5 years old at Upasi, near Coonoor where we lived then.  My father had organized that concert.

The last concert of his that I attended was at Thane in 2001.

When I went to meet him backstage after the concert I was still recovering from his electrifying “Notes” that he sang minutes before.

We spoke for a few minutes. “Appa kitta edavadu sollanuma?” he had asked.

With the “Notes” still buzzing in my head, I could only disconnectedly say “Bombaykku aduthadu eppo varapporel? Adikkadi Vaango”.tvs1.jpg

“Vandudaren!” he had said. And over the last few years I’m sure my ill-equipped radar has missed a few concerts.

It is rare you come across an incredible artist who is such an equally incredible person. TVS is such a man. You never know if his art is worthier than the man, or if the man is worthier than his art. They exemplify each other.

Another 4 hours and 40 minutes to go.

Sigh.  

Categories: Concert in Mumbai · Life · Music Concerts · Music Muse · Snatches of Memories · T.V.Sankaranarayanan · TVS

The Incident of A Born Again Tambram

February 18, 2008 · 5 Comments

Note: Read Stretched-goat-hide…., before this post

Thursday came and went rather peacefully.

The sky didn’t fall on anybody’s head. The clouds didn’t rumble. The earth didn’t crack open.

At the end of land in NCPA, a concert went on successfully as planned. Ustad Zakir Hussain and Ustad Amjad Ali Khan played with gusto, to an auditorium filled with over 1200 people, each of whom God had touched on the forehead. The the rest of the population  in Mumbai watched Little Champs on Zee and the peasants watched Kabhi Sauce bhi Bahut ti on the Kidiot box.

At about the same time when the two Ustads were enchanting 1200 nodding heads, back in the ‘burbs, a man was tossing and turning in bed, stuffing a pillow forcefully up his face in order to muffle the sound of his frustrated yells.

Jobi didn’t make it to the concert. For, I failed him.

The good part is that I am still alive. When he learned about my impotence when it came to organizing tickets, he made me a promise that he would kill me. Today, I was informed, was my last day on earth and if there was an afterlife, he would meet me after he dies and strangulate me there too. If there was rebirth, he would still chase me!

So when the bad news sunk in, he stood up from his chair in his cubicle, stretched his muscles, cracked his knuckles and left Lower Peril, walked across from Phoenix Mills all the way to Dadar station with both his arms outstretched preparing for a sordid murder by strangulation.

Eye witness and random reports of friends and acquaintances indicate that he was sitting in the cab fuming, with his arms outstretched and practicing the old strangulation. Later that evening, the cabbie had to scrub the upholstery really hard to take away the overpowering smell of uric acid from the driver’s seat, but that’s beside the point.

He reached my office, and shouted from the ground floor to me four floors up.

“Ai…..aamblaya irunda keela vaada!” which translates roughly into “Ai…If you are a being a Man, down comeda”

The glass behind my chair rattled from his booming voice and I ran down the stairs, three-at-a-time, gulping saliva anxiously at each leap.

Jobi was standing like a yoga trainer with his hand outstretched….and came rushing at me when I stepped off the building.

“Jobi! Jobi!!! Relax …don’t do anything stupid now! Machaan, calm downda”

His nostrils were flaring. His BP must have been irresponsibly high.

Before he could go for my neck, I thrust a ticket in his palm.

Now, it is not everyday that you see a miracle. In fact our city lives have become so routine and mundane and plastic that a miracle occurring in our boring lives is a miracle. The last miracle I remember happened in Lallu Bhai Park five years ago when I spotted a yellow butterfly. If you live in Mumbai, pause now and reflect for a brief moment. When was the last time you saw a butterfly?

That’s my point.

And given such acutely reluctant propensity of a city to throw up miracles on your face, watching Jobi I knew I was witness to a rare event. His face transformed from a menacingly aggressive, nostrils flaring, maniacal, testosterone overdosed man to looking like Sachin Tendulkar when he gave his thank-you speech after his first ‘man-of-the-match’ award, when he was what…16?

Meanwhile Jobi was so overcome with excitement, the simple act of pulling the ticket out of the envelop was becoming a big task.

“Zakir Hussain is performing today” I said, punctuating my words for effect.

“Today!?” said he, looking up at me slowly, his hands shaking.

“Yes, today. And Sivamani.”

Fumble fumble “Sivamani?!” he said gasping, his mouth open.

“Yes. And U. Srinivas”

“No. I am Jobi” He said in excitement, then looked up with a jerk, his eyes twinkling, “Oh!! U Srinivas!!!?” He was hyperventilating. His jaw dropped and if I had a torchlight, I could have seen his Gall Bladder.

“Yes. U Srinivas. And Selvaganesh”

His jaw was dropped further. He was about to foam from his mouth.

“Vikku Vinayakram”, I went on.

His hands were trembling now. His jaw dropped further. He looked up at me speechless.

A piece of stone on the ground poked his chin, breaking his revery. He pulled his chin back all the way up. The ticket finally broke free from the envelop.

“…and Shankar Mahadevan” he was barely audible.

And then I felt a botch of wetness on my right cheek. Jobi was overjoyed. He skipped all the way back to his car and sped off.

I pinched myself. I guess I could live my mundane, boring life a little longer.

Categories: Concert in Mumbai · Life In Mumbai · Music Concerts · Music Muse · Pathe-ology

Stretched Goat Hide and Strands Of Phosphor Bronze

February 13, 2008 · 10 Comments

If I ask you what could be a big deal about watching someone play with some Goat Hide and a few strands of malleable metal alloy, you’re gonna shrug and brush me aside and rush home before they find out you can’t speak Marathi. 

But pause to think about it.  Jobi here thinks it is, and has lost 6 sleepless nights; Rs.800/- in phone bills; and is damn near in the verge of losing two of his most cherished possessions – his sanity and a friend. Yes. That friend would be me.

As far as I know, Jobi has never wanted anything really bad. But that was until Thursday last week. For, now he has set his mind on something, and wants it bad. Very Bad.  Really very Bad. He is suddenly a transformed man. He has felt a desire. His focus is made. His target is locked. And trust me, for I know Jobi well, its wise to step back. All his experiences, learning and philosophies from his rather long and eventful life will now crystallize into two basic categories. Hook and crook. And he will do either or both to get what he wants. What’s worse, make accomplices out of close, well meaning friends.

But first, let’s rewind to Thursday.

Jobi sounded frantic when he had called. It was past midnight, and I, was just slipping in between the mattress and the cold quilt.

“I am worried” he said in almost a whisper. This sounded serious. I got into reverse motion and slipped out from under the quilt.

“Jobi! Whats the matter?”
“Bad scene machhan, where are you?”
“Home”
“Oh good. I’m at Bandra”, why did I detect a spot of relief? “Machaan can you come meet me?”
“What!” 10 second pause. “What is the matter? This better be serious enough!”

Jobi had a bad reputation when it came to objective assessments of situations. Oftentimes, he has excelled himself by misreading common situations and creating dramatic interpretations. And on many occasions he has categorized a situation as crisis and raised the red flag, causing widespread angst and BP among those around him, while in reality, all we may be dealing with is several notches low, if not out of scope altogether, on the emergency meter.

“What is the matter? Why don’t you tell me? Why can’t you take a cab?”

“Just come will you?” he muttered under his breath in a no-nonsense, edge of patience tone, hearing which you know immediately he means business.

The next minute I was biting my nails on the way to Bandra. Jobi was lighting a GFK at JustAround The Corner when I spotted his larger than normal head.

“Dude, what’s wrong? Why are you sitting here in JustAround The Corner at 12.55 am and lighting a cigarette?”

“Why, is this non-smoking?” He didn’t quite get it. He didn’t quite get what a supreme sleep-sacrifice I had made and what a superlative expression of camaraderie I had exhibited by showing up right there to sit in front of him at that hour to confront exhaust fumes spewing off his nostrils.

He let out a long stream of smoke and selected his words slowly. “I wanted this from the time I was 11 years old. And I’ve waited for…for…well I’ve waited for a chance since then”.

Did you notice that? That’s right; he is very touchy about his age. That’s Jobi for you. But the tone he used, makes me now reflect on the sorry state of my vocabulary. I don’t know a word to define it. It sounded bitter. It sounded fierce. It sounded sorrowful. Mournful. Angry. Helpless. Desperate.

The uncommon cold wind of Mumbai ruffled our hairs. And he now looked like a little boy lost in a fair, trying to put on a brave face.

I paced my words spreading them out over a minute. I had my palms open, facing each other and moved them up and down like Bharka Datt.

What, Jobi, is the problem?”

Jobi lit another cigarette, took a puff and placed it on the ash tray. And then fixed his eyes on mine.

A floodgate opened. Words and emotionally crafted sentences gushed out. He spoke for 15 minutes non stop. The ash of the cigarette lengthened and hung precariously.

Jobi went on. And on. And on. And on. None of it made sense to me yet. I knew he wanted to be heard and to be understood. But I didn’t know what the problem was yet. Here and there, I could make out words like Sindhubhairavi, Hindustani, rendering, 1982, sruthi, Violin, Subramaniam, and something about Amjad Ali Khan and Sarod, sole stirring (that’s what I heard) and about getting skin eruptions of geese and stuff.

Soon he paused to take a breath. He had stopped breathing a while back. I took advantage of the pause. I patted his arm.

“What do you want from me, Jobi. How can I help?”

“Ok….Tell me, have you heard V.G.Jog?” he asked like a court magistrate. And like any man accused, I became defensive instantly.

“Never! Where does he jog normally? Nana Nani Park, right?”

“Dude, don’t test me.” He shifted gears and spoke slowly like George Bush Sr. does to a deaf man. ”V.G.Jog! have you heard him play?”

“What?”

“The violin”. I could hear teeth grinding under great force. “Machhaan….” This time his tone sounded like an appeal.

“Ok Ok….No, I don’t. I haven’t. What about him?”

“Ok never mind Jog. How about Amjad Ali Khan?”

“He plays violin?”

“No. That’s L.Subramaniam”

“Didn’t you just say Amjad Ali Khan? You think I didn’t get the name of the artist right? I am not THAT tone deaf!”

“Dude! Dude! Stop! Are you making fun of me?”

“No, but would you mind very much coming to the point man! Its 1.20 am and you’re still wasting time warming me up for the shock”

“Ok. I;ll give it to you straight. Get me tickets to the concert on Thursday next. At NCPA, Zakir Hussain and Amjad Ali Khan are playing together! Do something. Do anything. Kill someone if you have to, I don’t care. But if you are a true friend, you will put a ticket here” he said pointing to his open palm.

My eyes rolled. The left eyeball which was closer to Jobi rolled more frantically, and threatened to pop out and roll about JustAround The Corner. What a terrible thing that would be! And what a spectacle – pardon the pun – I would make looking for it, groping the stony floor of JustAround The Corner. “Hey! Are you eyeing my wife?” “Oh! hahaha! in some funny way, I am afraid I already have! i spotted my left eyeball rolling under your wife’s chair out of the corner of my right eye!” “You want a black eye, pal?” “Huh? Err..sorry, just that my eye popped out! Oh no no no!!! I mean…heh heh..I am sorry. Ah there it is! just around the corner over there!” “Ok, you asked for it….!” PAM!!!! PIFF!!!!

A waft of smoke assaulted my face breaking my reverie. Jobi was back to speaking with passion in his eyes, like his life depended on it. You just know when someone means something. I know the chappie. Very few things really rock his boat. But when something does rock it, it rocks big time. If you are in the same boat, you would fear drowning in all that buzz and energy that manifests in the air around him.

“I’ll do what I can man, sleep well” I said in an assuring voice and dropped him off at his flat.

I woke up late the next morning. Called various people. As the day progressed, things were looking terribly bleak.

11ster held some hope. Dash held some hope. I had called all my Parsifriends to check if they can do something about a ticket to NCPA. “We’ll see! We’ll See!” was all I heard.

It’s Wednesday night now. And the concert is tomorrow night. Pressure is building up on me. I can suddenly tell how it feels to be the stretched leather on the Tabla or the tight string on the Sarod. And Jobi is gonna drum and pull on it tomorrow if I don’t think of something fast.

Anyone know Zakir Hussains number? Or Amjad Ali Khans? Oh… the number of the Tanpura player would even do!

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Note: This is Part-1 of a 2 part post. Part 2.
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Categories: 'Huh?!' · Concert in Mumbai · Life · Life In Mumbai · Music Concerts · Music Muse · Pathe-ology