Indian Sounds: The soft, the trippy, the heavy.

No, there has been no upheaval. It has always been there, and we chose not so see, for a long time. We rather chose to be plundered into the sounds that emanated from foreign shores, because it reeked of a sort of melodramatic insight that we thought we lacked in our own country. Flash forward to the year 2010. If there has been any sort of revelatory revolution, barring Mamata Bannerjee's march against the Communist bastion in West Bengal, it's the music. The bloody, heart-throbbing, mind numbing, solitude inducing, soul crunching music that is being broadcast out of the shores of my country. For years, I/we have held a general disregard for the music that artists in India have produced, solely because it held vibes of non-professionalism, candid plagiarism, and an incessant need/want to sound 'international'. Now, much to my and the general music-loving Indian's ears' respite, there is what we call, hope. I would like to take this opportunity to tell you about a few bands/artists who have been making headlines in India and abroad. They sound genuine, probably because they are, and because the music they make is thought-provoking and thoughtful at the same time. It is made with a pinch of sensibility, and they still hold onto their ideals of musicmanship. They sample, they blast bass drums, they scream in tone, they croon and they are funky, to say the least. I would like to list my favourites.

Sulk Station

I love Beth Gibbons. I love her to bits. Her voice drips melancholy, easy and calm for those evenings and mornings when you want to see the world but from under the duvet. Thing is, Portishead doesn't do a lot of travelling these days, and neither does Elizabeth Fraser. So in walked Tanvi Rao, and brought along this dude with a misplaced baseball cap, a sampler and a laptop loaded with music software, and Tanvi brought along her croon. No disrespect to Gibbons, but Tanvi sounds more accessible. She slides over vocal duties, ever so effervescently, whispering words that resound over the sampled bass Rahul Giri sets up beautifully. They are 2 people on a mellowdramatic mission, as they say. I was literally taken aback when I heard 'Wait', one of their earlier songs. A touch of classical Carnatic, a dash of falsetto, a dose of low frequency beats, a whole load of trip hop, and you get a seamless mixture that is original to the core. To make things better, they're from Bangalore, the city where I, well, lose myself from time to time. Sulk Station makes it a whole lot easier for me.

Pick'led': Wait , Contentment.

The Bicycle Days

'Bicycle Day' was the day when Albert Hofmann, the father of LSD, decided to trip, not knowing that it would be a trip. I am not sure if the band's name spins from this, but it would make perfect sense if it did. You see, they call themselves an alternative band, but they're a lot more than that, and that would not be my guess. A friend of mine, who happens to know these blokes, asked me to check out their music and comment on their abilities. I listened, and I immediately asked her to pursue, promote and glorify them. Karthik's voice matches the sensibilities that the band portrays: a ghostly, sometimes marauding, omnipotent haze of droptunes. They released their first EP, '42' this year, and I was disappointed for not having access to it. I am still disappointed for not having ever seen them live, because from what my friends tell me, they pack in quite a show, visuals and all. The band have received rave reviews from the Indian music media, and for no small reason. If you listen to Porcupine Tree, Oceansize, Incubus or any other band that fits the mentioned bill, you'll like TBD. And more so, because they're Indian, and influences quoted are Douglas Adams, Bill Hicks, sarcasm, existentialism and peace. The track '27', is just plain goddamned top notch. The sound they create is primal but without being aggressive. Put your headphones on and close those eyes, because the trip is in your mind. The poster boys of Indian psychedelia are here. Valium in a CD. Who'd have thought?

Pick'led': 27, Circles.

Scribe

'M*d*rch*d!!!'. That is exactly what you'll exclaim when you let these guys take over your modestly priced stereo system. No pretensions here. No nice boys in flannel shirts. It's a plain and simple 'Wham, Bam, kaisa laga?' 5 incredibly talented individuals with a single motive - to moshpit the living hell out of your brain with their flaming cocktail of Bollywood catchphrases, blatantly bloody blastbeats, sarcastic jibes and riffs that make Meshuggah proud. They claim to be hardcore, and no one is complaining at their live shows. Scribe is the band that the Indian metal freak has embraced with nonchalant glee, and so have I. 2 albums to their credit, 'Confect' and 'Mark of Teja'. Both will go down as seminal masterpieces in the Indian metal phenomena. Although the first album had it's share of production glitches, no one can ever accuse these guys for not trying. 'Analyze This' starts with Neo's (remember that sci-fi legend?) last monologue from 'The Matrix', followed swiftly by the sound of the snare drums being thrashed to smithereens (smile!!), and the the man called Vishwesh clears his throat. Literally. My favourite song off that album, and for good reason. Midway into the track, I think I hear Slipknot, and therein lies my mistake. I should not be comparing these guys to them, or to any other band. They opened for Lamb of God, they've played at international music festivals, and then some. They are radical and talented enough to stand on their own name, and do a beautifully post-apocalyptic job at that. The second album sees them experiment a bit more, challenge a lot more. Song titles include 'I Love You, Pav Bhaji', 'Dum hai to aage aa!', 'Judge Bread' (Stallone, crap your pants. NOW!), '1234 Dracula', among others. The last song contains a heavy dose of Rajnikanth's dialogues, and for good measure. These guys are goofy, unpretentious, hairy, and love to make fun of contemporary pop culture and the stereotypes they create. They make angry music, but they are not intimidating. Scribe, take the floor, and take a bow.

Pick'led': Analyze This, Analyze That, Mark of Teja (the whole album)

A quaint selection of bhideos for the discerning eyes.

Sulk Station: Contentment

The Bicycle Days: '27'

Scribe: Dum hai to Aage aa

And this is but the beginning.

The Reveal

High he sat over the water,
Slowly reaching his hands into the slaughter below.
They were gentle, in their execution,
Almost a sullen feline grace.
It caught his eye, suddenly,
The parable he saw in his reflection.
"This is not mine", he reasoned
With a predicatively waning resolve that had seen better days.
A slow, sweeping glance around and the sight
was revealed to Him,
The sky, yellow with surrender, red with spite,
Merging seamlessly with the ooze crawling out of what was once blue with life.
He was the only one still sitting,
With the rest scattered around, still and seemingly comfortable.
A final laboured effort to look up and exhale with guilty relief,
He afforded himself a smile, before collapsing into the ground.
Still and seemingly comfortable.
The horizon was a straight line, devoid in any indentation.

Flutter

Open a song to settle the heart.
And the windows let the air through.
Can I ask myself another question,
While the record player loops?

A faint smell wafted from where I undid my shoe.
I tried to keep it low.
She said she didn't want to see the orange glow,
So I pretended to settle back in my seemingly juvenile groove.

Helps both ways if you can see through the nook
And crannies too.
Searching for things just out of arms' reach,
The mind conjures images it probably should not view.

Sifting through sand is no job for a cowboy.
Stacked high in shelves like paperwork in a hardware store.
I stole a quick glance while I tried to sweep the floor clean,
And the patch I missed smiled back at me, languid and slow.

Places remained

I am not a traveler yet.
I am but a journeyman.
Ambiguous, you might say, but it makes perfect sense.
I trade my knowledge and emotions,
My shoes and my traditions,
For a sense of contentment that we search for; usually vapidly.

Places remained from my memory
Of a time when the hands of the clock refused to budge.
They just moved in the back of my mind,
Reminding this fluid for the lack of a better word.
Like a black swan anomaly.
Like snow in a desert.

The cello creakes silently against the winter sun.
It plays a melancholic polytone as the credits drop
Languidly over the vivid screen of life.
It was a good year and warrants a better start,
But, being human is a deterrent to an otherwise perfect world.
I'd rather not have my epitaph written in stone.
Let it be blank. You are cordially invited to scribble a thought or two.

Pillion view

Elvis has left the building,
And Levi's never invented the rivets.
A new idea born out of a juggled mind
Gorged with white lines drawn surreptitiously clean,
Evokes a sense of rapture that envelopes every other sense.

When goals are set to tones
Reminiscent of the licks the left-handed guitarist conjured,
You can safely assume that you have slowly drifted into uncharted territory
That might seem inviting at first,
But gets ugly when the reptiles trudge away, content, and satiated with a full belly.

Ideas set in stone mirror hopes left behind.
Breaks between the glass lets the shallow air through.
The virtue called Grace might just slip through unnoticed
After that lunatic evening by the poolside.
Tend to the soul with a drink by the sea perhaps.

Stare closer into the looking glass once awake.
It is human to delineate the emotions that surface on such short notice.
Brush away that hair sitting brazenly by your lip
And take heart in the fact that the water the tap emits is still comfortably cold.
Takes little time to turn that gift of God into a tepid collection of unwanted muck.

Shoes help us walk with ease,
All the while keeping us inches away from the ground.
We never really 'hit the road' ; We glide nonchalantly over sharp stones and broken pavements.
Forgiveness is a coherent decision to listen,
When we realize we need to reconcile with our indifference.

#443

I feel the cold stone floors sometimes,

In my mind when I miss

The abject crying of the 4 month old
Desperately seeking his mother’s assistance.

I remember the public transport and the masters of speed.

Who overcharge, overwhelm, oversteer and overload

Your senses with curses, black smoke, busted suspensions and broken meters.

And then there was the rain.

I recall the nights of relentless staring

At the 17 inch LCD screen that somehow

Held together my monthly wage,

And the daily pack of Navy Cut that I cherished so.

I reminisce about the game nights,

The wanton screaming fuelled by litres of Kingfisher and the proponent of good highs.

A late, albeit goliath bite at the only eatery open at 3 am,

Followed by an afternoon of peace that silently made its presence felt.

I relive those bass-filled drives with

Absent friends and a clear head.

A quick stop at a gas station to replenish the depleted chocolate stock

And pose for photographs with random strangers in the background.

I play the tunes that we used to think we composed

Out of sheer nonchalance and alcohol-induced indulgence.

Don’t take me wrong: we had our moments of pure genius

And more moments of sheer senselessness.

I correlate the good times gone bad and

The bad times that miraculously morphed into the great.

Somehow, between the shades they met with a clear conscience,

Striking a deal to keep misery at hand’s length.

I contemplate the differences and the similarities.

So much of them we had, refusing to let them stand the in way

Of a higher cause that vaguely resembled hope.

The reflection slowly fades, like ripples on the surface

Ease their turbulent energy, pacifying themselves.

Conjoined ideas shimmer under a clear moonlit sky

As friends join hands to pass around a solitary ember,

Wishing the smoke never dissipates.

Silent Departures

It's been a good one year. Landed back in Bangalore sometime in June last year. Headed straight off to Koramangala 4th block to meet the person who provided me with a place to crash and a place to peace out. Found a job with a kick-ass organization and worked there for the next 9 months before making the final, veritable and almost predicatable plunge of pursuing the holy grail for Indian engineers: A Master's degree. It's been a great year.

There are friends, and then there is the BOD. We had humble beginnings, almost nonchalant. Robin introduced Malik and me to Nitin. Then Hemant came in. Then there was Keshav, more affectionately known as Kezman or Kinky Kezman. We bonded over things seemingly superficial, yet somehow managed to percolate each others' psyches by getting to know the others for their habits, for their deeds and misdeeds, for their lack of emotion and sometimes too much of it. We analyzed each other, we criticized each other , and we spoke our minds. We drank expensive whisky, we indulged in rampant indolence, we didn't care for a while, and then all of a sudden we found the group dissociated, but only spatially. 30th May could not have come earlier in my life.

30th May shall be fondly remembered as the day the BOD converged after two and a half years of being scattered across the globe. It was a much anticipated reunion, and much cherished. 

Thanks to ye all.

El Nocturnae

Nocturnal is nice. The darkness envelopes a lot of the scars, cracks and pits that the sheen of the sun seems to usher forth. I write after a word drought of close to 4 months, or more. Things have changed. Nicely.

Work is humdrum, taxing, belligerent in its arrogance. My manager is Scottish, likes Glen Fiddich and Hibernian, thinks Manchester United is okay just because they got the Ferguson.. I got the hots for a female colleague, actually 3 of them, but they seem too nice. Hot and nice. Hmmmm.

The Goa trip made me feel relaxed, if not over the moon. Lots of KF Premium, Mysore stash, ol' friends, Honda Activas, Baga and the late nights spent doodling on bikes on dark empty roads towards Palolim, more Mysore stash, Okocim Palone and Carlsberg, 3 days away from civilization inside civilized morning glory.

Mysore trips and the fabled Esteem rides, commencing after the 2.5 hour ride on a Volvo B7R tottering at 100 kmph on a highway made exclusively for Audi A4's and BMW Z6's in a state where politicians are confused about their ideologies and about the content and after effects of alcohol. BUt Mysore is still an upliftment. Purple Haze and the DJ who loves Moonspell, although he cannot spell half the name. He also adores Lacuna Coil but only because they have a female vocalist. Bangre waits tables at Haze, and he likes to take over the jukebox before 7 every evening, playing some Zappa, Hendrix, hair metal and also Porcupine Tree. Hence, respect. The drive to the Twilight Zone at 2 am in the morning becomes a trip as we vicariously whupp a Mumbaikar's ass, while jiving to Massive Attack, albeit with such subtlety that his kevlar-based cranium could let very little sarcasm percolate through. CHEERIO!!!!!

Late evenings sitting at Koshy's, meeting new people and reminiscing the old. Getting wasted over Filet Mignon and KF Premiums yet again. Checking the digital wrist watch to apprise oneself of the time, the deadline, the curfew. The rush back home, a quick shower and a quicker change of scene. Some sit and watch at Eastlands, some root for the Stretford end. But all watch with bated breath, hoping for the ball to find the opposing net. Furious chants and even furious screams of contentment. It's all in good faith mate.

Opeth and Bleak, Heir Apparent, Moor's Lament, The Drapery Falls and The Grand Conjuration, in an open air theater in IIT Madras that was constructed only to accomodate the more illustrious Bollywood stars. Opeth made it look like a walk in the park, showering us with brutal intensity in the midst of vociferous tonsil vibrations and head oscillations. It was heaven, hell and everything in between. And the 4 hour risde back to Bangalore from Chennai, at an ambient speed of 120 kmph, in a hotbox of a car with the A/C on. Touch it while you can.

It is good to be back. I shall consume the last morsel of Lay's before I crash for a rather long night at work. It's saturday tomorrow, so should be fun.

E Poxy

You got your coats in a bunch.
Are you having a hunch,
About the news as it comes on the late show?
Assemble summer days,
LS and purple haze.
Falter and you'll fall on your face slow.

Create a new persona.
A jacuzzi and sauna.
Was it a folly when Alice went through the dark hole?
Visit the apothecary.
Stir a non-existent story.
Get your fix and revel on the dancefloor.

High five the bass drum.
Fill the room with a huge thump.
Dirty colors on the other side of the glass door.
Dark lips in fusion.
Open mating season.
Luck drips like pearls from an oyster shore.

Paralyze the future.
Open a bloody suture.
Tongs and hammers vibrate in cranial rows.
Social apogee on show.
Empathy goes low.
Speak on a megaphone in a fire drill.

Would you go to a jamboree,
Disguised as a soiree?
Sashay and frolic under lines of neon shade.
Limited vocal stations.
Affiliated motions.
Crooked smiles and grins on a bastard face.

Gather round in circles.
Breathe through plastic snorkels.
Let them tell you how to dismantle the atomic bomb.
Point your fingers at turnstiles.
Before you all turn senile,
And the world just laughs and rushes through.

19

We sat on opposite ends of a round table,
Sipping our coffee with blissful endeavor.
We spoke of days the river flowed with wine
And of nights the curtains were never drawn.
Laughed out loud over broken heels and cracked soles
And pondered over grocery lists forgotten.

But we took sides.
Sides on a round table..
Sides on a circle that meets seamlessly, unhindered.
Rambled & quarrelled with eyes wide shut
And abrogated an agreement made wordlessly.
You thought it was karmic the way we parted on insolent grounds.
I thought it was strange that you voiced it out loud.
Mute was your rebellion. Silence your weapon.
The world your aim and the target, I.

Sleep now behind clouds.
The stars spiral in a helical maze
And swallows dance around the sun
While heaven divides hell.

Flightplan

The above painting is a Picasso classic called The Old Guitarist. Look closely at the image and you will find a faint outline of a woman painted on the background. Legend has it that Picasso started out painting a picture of an old lady in a sitting position, bit later changed his mind and drew the skewered neck area of the man in the image. Now touted as one of the most progressive and advanced works of the maestro, it also was a precursor to the Cubism era.

As for me, I adore this particular painting. One of the main reasons being the almost doppleganger aura that the picture of the old lady seems to exude, but in a very calming fashion. Eerie, but nice.

And Hemant is going to land early tomorrow morning in Bangalore. He's been away for about 4 months now. The BOD shall be reunited again. Robin's back already. Looking forward to an emancipating next weekend. I'm kinda pumped. It's good to be among friends again, among people who know you as you are and not as they want you to be.

To good times everybody.

In Situ. And Tempering.

Back to where we belong eh? Work is not throwing much tantrums, so taking an easier week into my veins. Went all the way to KR Puram to get some much needed sustenance. Been listening to a new band (he he) called Brand New. Amazing single called 'Jesus Christ', and getting back to one of me favorite artistes.. Mike Patton, of erstwhile Faith No More, now fronts Tomahawk. And then there's John Stainer drumming his ass off on Battles' debut album. Listen to alternative music, you mushyheads. Wont say it will give you perspective, but it wont atleast not give you no perspective. There.

2 comments received at work. During a group activity at work, we all were asked to devise an act/activity that we would like another individual to perform. I knew that most peole would end up with the same 'sing/dance' routine. I went a little different. 3 walls of the rooms were dotted with square holes in a grid of 20x6. So my plan read: 'Count the number of square holes on the room walls'. And the very generous female sitting next to me touted: 'That is so pseudo-intellectual!!'. Upon prodding a bit more, her definition of pseudo-intellectual was unearthed.. Anything and everything that people don't/won't understand, is pseudo-intellectual. So much for literature, art, science and everythig under the stars.

The second comment ?? That I'm a hottie. Dyamn, 2 years too late.


Seven mirrors. Seven days to peer into.
Seven ropes to choose from.
Seven pairs of shoes I gave away. Yesterday.
Seven steps to the next floor.

Four is my number in crime.
My palms have no digits when dusks enters the sky.
The four seasons rush away. If only the stayed.
Remember the seven pairs I gave away?
I treasured four of them. Till yesterday.

Rid the lawn of the weeds that proliferate.
The continents slide and create mountains, don't they?
Giant, gargantuan mountains. And deep oceans to swim in.
I never liked the frigid waters you inhabit.
I bathed only twice, but quenched a thirst a thousand times.

3 faces that oversee evolution.
Those 3 millenia I survived in clay moulds with glass eyes.
3 suns I have seen set in as many hues.
I need a lunar warmth this time.

One late summer night

This is not a story per se. It is written from experience, from emotions captured while racing through time and people. It is a collaboration of ideas from people who now live far and away. Call it an abstract collage, if you will, because although it looks like it makes little sense, it is full of actualities that we all confront.


2 AM
We came to a rather shallow halt. The highway has just been cleaned wet. Some idiot of a truck driver managed to dump a load of sand right in the middle of the road. Clogged up a bit of it and forced the Esteem to sway a bit while travelling at 120. Ah.. shit happens... Where's the product man??? Here we go mate.. Let me light it for you. The flame from the Zippo flickers against a rather cold midnight breeze, but we manage to light up a couple of products nonetheless. Dogged persuasion mate. We cant let go of this union. Union?? What union?? Dude.. Like the stars man.. They're shining so brightly like.. you know man.. and then the freakin' breeze like.. WTF?? Dude.. Like I just took 2 drags man.. And you already want me to pass huh?? Like gimme some time man.. Yeah man.. Is cool dude, take your time. We're hammered anyway, so might as well take it peacefully. Yeah man, like back at home I hardly got any man.. Even with the pipe I didnt get enough. I think my capacity has increased. Dude, what was your capacity in college like?? Why do you wanna know that? Just toke man! Peace!! He's like trippin' an aw mate.. Like them Hibs man.. Those guys trip like crazy those buggers ah'd say mate. Hibs an Harts, Glory be tae them Jam Tarts!!!! By the way mate,had ye ever imagined that sumthin' aw dis sort wud be happenin here an aw? I'm like 'yeah.. these guys got it goin' an aw', and boom!! Dude, this stuff is strong.. this is potent shit. Here, I'm done man.. I cant take no more. I'm already seeing things.. He he he he.. Stop laughing man. Feels great, disnae?? Oye, check this. I just wrote this stuff.. Came to my mind so.. Ha ha ..

2:30 AM
Oye, wanna go to Chamundi?? Like we gotta put petrol man.. Frick, I didnt get my debit card man. Koi nahi bey, I got it covered. We'll fill at that place that's open 24*7?? Yeah, aur nahi to kya?? We're goin' to Chamundi?? Dude, this is trippin an aw mate.. Absolutely, ah'd say. But we need some supplies... Dude, like I rolled 5 man. You were rolling while we watched the match?? Ya man.. like I wanted to stock up on that stuff like.. so... cool. Thanks man, you saved us this night.. Ya man, like you just gotta ask me man. Ask and you shall receive.. And check them , they're in the Classics pack on the dash. I rolled them straight man like... Yeah, they're straight alright. You've outdone yourself .. Oye, how much?? 500 ka petrol daal dete hain.. we'll need it later anyway. Ok. Boss?? 500. Speed ya regular?? Speed yaar.. Boss, 500 Speed, ok?

2:45 AM
"Its just no good anymore since you went away ....now I spend my time just making up rhymes of yesterday... One is the loneliest number ..One is the loneliest number..One is the loneliest number since you went away....since you went away".... Whooooh!!! These turns at 90??? Yeah!!!!

2:55 AM
This is just way too beautiful to behold. Yeah, like it's a cosmic connection, right??? It's like you don't really know where you're goin', and end up there by chance. But do you really end up there by chance?? I mean, you gotta want to be to there to be there, right?? But this is just IT. This transgresses everything man. It's way too pure, unadulterated, pristine and dark. It's ours man.. Totally bro, cheers to that mate!! Oye, peace kar. It'll ease out bhai.. You know we've never had things easy. Just take in this moment with friends.. Rest shall sort itself out in time. ACMNW... Ha ha ha ha ha ha.. Dont make me laugh so hard bhai! I'll choke on the smoke... Oye, kuch bhi eh?? Choke ?? Ha ha..
Anyone has plans for tomorrow?? Dude!! ManU's playing Everton tomorow.. Kick off kab hai?? 5:30 I guess... Peaceful.. We gotta go to Mandi man.. Like we're running low like.. No more stuff at home?? I had kept some in the bottom shelf of my cupboard.. That's over man.. I used that to roll these.. Theek hai, we'll go to Mandi tomorrow. Chalega na mere saath?? Of course bhai.. You don't have to ask..

3:15 AM
Open the trunk na.. We'll have better acoustics.. dude, take the smoke man..

An hour of silence

It's labour day today. Or rather a day to commemorate by not going to work and opening up those pints of beer that have been languishing in your refrigerator for the past fortnight because you were busy chaffing your ass for that American conglomerate which outsourced its work to that Indian IT company you work for. Hard earned break. Enjoy.

Started looking for some music that complements my life, or rather the abject lack of one. Searched true and hard and lo behold!! - there was mathcore and math rock to the rescue. To the 'average' person (sorry) its just noise. To me, its chaos in a Rubik's Cube. Slit and turn the pieces, decipher the complex break beats in your head, dissect the cryptic lyrics.. It's all about thinking, something I have not indulged in in the last few months. Just staple stalemate it has been. So Dillinger Escape Plan and Battles gave me someting to think about. And 65daysofstatic as well. But thenthey have no lyrics.

Was speaking to a photographer friend today. He claims to be dyslexic. Strangely the swear words never come out wrong from his mouth, nor the names of the chicks he digs. He wanted a little help with an introduction for an online exhibition of his photographs, and the write up that he had written was pretty obese and morbid, summarising the lack of depth in modern India and her denizens. I understood what he meant and noticing a few grammatical errors, corrected them. I helped another person.

Yellow lights on Southern Avenue.
Yellow flowers carpet the footpath
Where she diligently sits with an assortment
Of nicotine based products.
A lamp burns steady against a fleeting
April wind that hardly flutters a feeling.

Fingers entwined she speaks sweet nothings
Into his heavy ear while he gazes at the
Boats cutting through the tepid water of the Lake
Or so he wants her to believe.
The old man in Nike overalls casts a concerned look
Before waltzing away to his own tune.

Taxi on the sidewalk all burnished and pretty
Driver in tow sips his evening tea while
Recounting his dealings from the day's work.
Smart, suave, sassy, black.
A Japanese make, isn't it?
I would look ravishing in it, he ponders.

Walk with an empty mind as I
Buy my filter tipped from the old lady.
It's always the 3.50 rupees madam,
A Gold Flake and a packs of mints.
Then on the 223 from Panchanantala
Drop down at Lord's.

It's always a blur to me.

Keep Telling Myself It's Alright (Ashes Divide) Review

Faintly apt that I'd come across this masterful offering from Billy Howerdel on Steven Wilson's MySpace page. Ashes Divide is basically Billy's solo creation, wherein he wrote all the songs, composed all the music, and played most of the music and instruments, in addition to producing the same album, called Keep Telling Myself It's Alright.

Now for those who don't know, Howerdel is a former member of A Perfect Circle and has worked as a sessions musician with many alternative bands, Smashing Pumpkins being a standout amongst them. The name of the band is somewhat of a confuser, as the band exudes nothing of the nu-metal angst that is usually associated with morbid, almost moribund names that evoke the entrails of a burning ground. On the contrary, the album combines elements of A Perfect Circle, but only to give the listener a feel of Howerdel's imagination and his inherent control of the guitar. He employs numerous loops, FXs and on some tracks, crunching power chords that stand as testaments to Howerdel's capacity as a musician, something that was overshadowed during his stint as APC's guitar-maniac due to the histronics of another superbly talented musician called Maynard James Keenan. Surprisingly, Keenan leaves his mark here as well, in the form of his 13 year old son Devo, who plays cello on one of the tracks. The rest of the musicians are APC veterans, with Josh Freese assuming membrane busting duties and Paz Lenchantin getting back on the 4-string. Alkaline Trio's Matt Skiba makes an appearance here as well.

Now getting to the sound, it would be worth mentioning that there are vivid resemblances to 30 seconds to Mars and a little of Chevelle. The APC effect is carried off here, of course, but not in the same vitriolic manner of Thirteenth Step or eMotive. It's more relaxed, prog and blatantly alternative. The single 'The Stone' harks out APC strains, solely because Howerdel wanted the listener to be lured in by the APC sound, from where the person would be taken into a more concrete dimension of expansive guitaring and projectile lyrics. Howerdel is not a great vocalist, but he makes good on this one, carrying off the songs with appropriate aplomb and tenacity. The opener 'Stripped Away' starts with heavy riffs, and progresses into an easy listener. 'Too Late' and 'Forever Can Be' are the tracks of the album , the latter being an emotional ballad that rises from slow acoustic guitar work and metamorphoses into an almost atmospheric orchestral work. These are but 3 of the songs, and the rest of them stand alone on their own credo.

The only con in this album is it's length. At 44 minutes, it packs a lethal punch, but once the 6 and half minute closer is over, you're begging for more. Go get it. Period.

http://rapidshare.com/files/105411297/ASHES_dIVIDE.rar.html

Natural Anthem

I take a breath,

And pull the air in until there's nothing left.

I'm feeling green, almost happy

Like teenage lovers between their sheets.

Knuckles clenched to white as

the landing gear retract for flight.

My head's a balloon inflating with the altitude.

Blowing smoke rings into the insipid atmosphere.

I watch the patchwork farms' slow fade

Into the ocean's arms

And from here they can't see me stare.

As I experience the stale taste of recycled air.

Calm down now, I say,

Release them cares.

Into the stale taste of recycled air,

So that I may live with my sins,

In perfect harmonious neglect.

The sea breeze enacts a chaffing effect

On the looking glass as

The light bends at the cracks,

Creating silhouettes on peeling walls.

Bold static harks loud from across the mantlepiece

Where I rest my radio.

It lures me into the mesmerising nothingness

Incarcerated by 5 brick walls and a wooden floor.

This place is not a prison.

These vestiges are not my friends.

Inhaling thrills trough rolled up bills,

Emptying crystal tumblers only to be filled again.

And again.

There are liveried guards at the entrance.

They smile as I enter, but do not permit me to leave.

There is a tangible world outside this 6 sided box,

Different from the one the soot from the candles creates on the walls.

Sometimes it's too bright to see.

But the phenomenon does not cease any night.

I clear my eyes and stare at the candelabra,

Suture my mind shut,

Empty the crystal tumbler

And inhale the stale recycled air.

I have been travelling too long, too far, too wide. I need closure, I want closure... I wish.

Newsflash in 10 parts

(a)

Four.

Insane.

Gunspark.

Crimson greeting.

(b)

Bipolar.

Art.

White.

Sniff/snort.

(c)

Pencil heel.

Suffused hips.

Holiday.

In Normandy.

(d)

Blending.

Amber pride.

Particulate.

Obsolete.

(e)

Binary.

Cheat.

Kleptomaniac.

Outcast.

(f)

Smoke.

Trance.

Epiphany.

Cloudburst.

(g)

Zephyr.

Draft.

Gust.

Politik.

(h)

Dogstar.

Sirius.

Grave.

Epitaph.

(i)

Trot.

Heave.

Swallow.

Smile.

(j)

Tyre.

Tire.

Tie her.

Re-tire.

C for a Cause

Season 9 of Southpark. I was happily lounging off on my bed and smiling unconsciously to myself because I anticipated a flurry of humor to wash me away. I was watching Southpark, unhindered, after about a gap of 2 years. I remember seeing till season 7 while I was in college. But that's the story for another day.

The second episode of that season's called 'Die Hippie, Die'. It starts off with Cartman dresed up as a pest controller who speacialises in eradicating hippies, because 'all they do is smoke pot and smell bad'. Cartman had earlier encountered these 'vile' creatures and plans to rid the town clean of these abominations, as he fears Southpark will soon be infested by them hippies, who, as is their credo, start a jam band festival whenever they grow in numbers at a particular place. So much is the resolve of Cartman in the face of adversity, that he single handedly imprisons 63 hippies in his basement, keeping them satisfied with a regular tdose of joints, brownies and guitars.

Meanwhile, Kyle, Stan and Kenny encounter a group of 1st year students from the University of Colorado at Boulder, who tell them that they are being slaves to the corporations while they mooch off the hard labor of the common man for a pittance. Kyle, Stan and Kenny realize their folly and join the hippies, who, now having grown into a sizeable number, agree to start a jam band festival in Southpark to fight the corporations. Their reason: "We will show the corporations that we do not need them. We can live off ourselves". But somewhere down the line, the festival continues for 9 days and the young boys, previously disillusioned by the corporate mumbo-jumbo, come to the conclusion that they have achieved nothing in the past week but "got high and smoked crappy weed all the time". Subtle, but ironic.

Somehow, we've all been there. We've all believed in a cause, stood up for it, tried to make converts out of people who did not give a rat's ass about it anyway. We resolved not to give in to the shenanigans that dictated the life of the 'common man' as he was too influenced by the dictates of society. We wanted to be the social factors that altered community/human behavior as we considered ourselves a notch above our neighbors. All this while smoking pot oursleves, getting hammered out of what was left of our senses, and glorifying Pink Floyd as if they were the only British progresive band that ever walked the earth. We wanted to be above the ordinary, and then somehow we lost it all.

This is usually what humans do. And by humans, I mean myself too. I have done the very same things mentioned in the above paragraph. We join a moving wave, hoping to alter its course, but get carried away by the flow, land on an obscure beach somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and choose to stay there as its calm, serene, peaceful and away from the 'drags of life'. Unfortunately, these 'drags of life' are what give character to our existence. To try to change them is human intuition. Its also called evolution, to try to move on to something better. But when the 'moving on' becomes 'moving in a tangent', things go awry. And then we just don't care. It applies to hippies as much as it does to mothers who leave their children unattended to fend for themselves at 2 am at night. It applies as much to a politician trying to make things right as it does to the anarchist trying to rebel against that very same politician. It applies as much to the aspiring MBA candidate trying his heart out to get into a good B-School as it does to the NGO worker who teaches slum kids the basic alphabets.

It great to have a goal. It's even better to progress towards it. It'll be absolutely smashing if we actually make it to half of the way towards converting that dream into reality. We gotta try.

The cause never dies. Neither does the mind that carries and nurtures it. The latter just chooses to ignore it till it is beneficial for the host to take up the cause again. It's also called being an oppotunist bastard.

Dare

Ripping this idea off from a friend's blog post. One of the better fifteen minutes I've spent in the last few days.. and strangely enough, makes coincidental sense.
Here are the 'How-to's...

1. Put your MP3 player/Media player on shuffle
2. For each question, press the 'next' button to get your answer.
3. You must write the name of the song no matter what.

a.IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY?” YOU SAY? Stop me: Mark Ronson (n.a)
b.WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY? Too long / Steam Machine - Daft Punk (Yea baby!)
c.WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GIRL? Twilight is my Robe - Opeth (run for covr people)
d.HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY? Chosen ones - Megadeth ( Don't mess with moi)
e.WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE? Breathe - Pink Floyd (See, Papa never lies)
f.WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO? From here to eternity - Iron Maiden (Eddie, you the man!!)
g.WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU? Great day for freedom - Pink Floyd (Aww, thanks guys)
h.WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS? Underneath it All - No Doubt ( dyamn!!)
i.WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN? Strangelove - Depeche Mode ( this IS eerie)
j.WHAT IS 2+2? Rust in Peace - Megadeth(n.a)
k.WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND? But, Honestly - Foo Fighters
l.WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE? FFF - Megadeth (now this is a Mustaine overdose issue)
m.WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY? Probably couldn't see for the lights but you were looking straight at me - Arctic Monkeys (Story of my life. Big deal)
n.WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP? Just - Radiohead( I love ye Yorkie! Ye said it mate!)
o.WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE? Message from a self-destructing turnip - Porcupine Tree (Couldn't put this in a more sardonic manner)
p.WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU? What if I do? - Foo Fighters (Probably what the think the whole time)
q.WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING? Metanoia pt 2 - Porcupine Tree (Kill me somebody)
r.WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL? Knot comes loose - My Morning Jacket ( I can see the relief on the faces of the gathered milieu!)
s.WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST? All my life - Foo Fighters (Ummmm, yeah, kinda)
t.WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET? Brain Damage - Pink Floyd (Bow minions!! Papa has done it again!)
u.WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS? She looks to me - RHCP (n.a)
v.WHAT SHOULD YOU POST THIS AS? Dare - Gorillaz (Yeah??!!! I dared to post this soddy experience.. so here goes nothing)

As you can see, age is no hindrance when it comes to wasting time through redundant and obtuse methods.. But that's the joy of life. It's shit. So help yourself.

Peace

Savant

Periscope extends the lens.
Concave and clean.
Peer through. Peer through to the side.
It asks nothing, yet regales with morbid fecundity.
Laugh. Would you like another body?
We have plenty more.
Light another smoke master.
The strobes have only focused yet.

Surreptitiously you lick those lips master?
Do not be afraid, mesays.
They are but forlorn remnants of a larger prey.
Vanquish. Dominate. Subjugate.
They are yours for the making.
Firm, but they can talk. They whisper
Your name if asked.
Don’t you fancy that master?

Feel it against your veins sire.
Velveteen rabbits come for way more. Yes.
And you will be venerated. Parched soul.
It shall help you revel under the pink moon
And orange stars.
Your fingers come clean, don’t they?
No one shall judge you.
The mind is the slave.

Cut a hole, yes, cut that hole.
Inhale that aroma.
Almost reminiscent of the package Mamma gathered
For that early spring morning
She called birthday.
Explore the gift sire.
Cut a hole. Yes.
Cut loose.

You are sweating master.
Which part races?
Against time and against grain?
Dig harder I pray. The cornucopia lies almost
Within reach. Move them.
Strap your head up sire.
Glance at those pale green eyes.
Do you feel them at the base of your spine?


Feel them under your skin?
Tormenting the mitochondrial detail
To hark out in agonizing pain.
Feel them over your palms?
The amber nectar oozing out of your grasp
You held so rigidly, slipping away.
Feel them around you neck sire?
Asphyxiating almost. Begging questions
That require subtle replies.
Feel them on the mirror master?
Stripped clean, as naked as the wind on these desolate shores.
As naked as you and I shall ever be.

Come again sire. Come to me.
I shall not judge.
Cut the hole again master,
Shall we?

The painting is an impression by Jordanian cubist and visual artist Muhanna Al-Dura