The Sound of Music
What makes a song tick, the music or lyrics? And other curiosities.
The cat stirs in my arms, its lava orange eyes flickering in different directions. “It’s my baby,” J says. “How old is she?” I ask. “He is two years old,” J corrects me. I keep referring to the cat using female pronouns. Somehow it is hardwired in my brain to think of all felines as females. It is a beautiful cat albeit a little unkempt; its chocolate brown and white fur coat is turning pale at the extremities of the white areas. I suggest it could use a shower to which J says the cat hates water. Of course. I haven’t held a cat before in my arms and to my surprise I realize how bony its frames is. Cats look like fluffballs but holding one of them I can feel the wiry spine running through the length of its back. The cat starts to purr and its body vibrates like a little living engine, again something I have not experienced before. Then he hops off my lap and gives its limbs a million licks.
“Let’s play some music,” I ask. It’s a gorgeous afternoon of late November. The park outside is hazy green under the golden sunlight. The year is nearing its end. Another year.
I have been listening to ‘Fanaa’ on rotation. And I play the same song on my phone.
“It’s a great song. Do you like the sargam Rahman sings at the end?”
I have no idea what he is talking about. But then the song plays and I hear it. Yep, there is the sargam. I must have listened to the song a thousand times and never realized there was a sargam in it. My ears are attuned to listen to the words, the imagery, the poetry of the lyrics, not the musical arrangements, the workmanship, or the craft of the musicians. I can dig a song even if it is musically minimalist, as long as there is a resonant core to it (sample this song and this). This is possibly why I don’t like much from the current musical crop. I sound like a really old person but I cannot, for the love of God, endure the filth that is masquerading as music. Songs have hooks, and that is all they have, no soul. A beat, a catchy rhythm, a vibe to indulge your dopamine, but little else. In fact, the words are actively hideous, anti-aesthetic, bordering on retarded — the net effect an assault to the senses, no more pleasant than the grotesqueness of a metal nail being scratched against a brick wall over and over. I cannot think of a song that I remember the vocals of from the running decade.
J has exactly the opposite position. He couldn’t care less about the poetry in music. “Music has no language,” he says. “If I like a song, it has nothing to do with what is being said. I don’t even think of what is being said.” A talented piano player himself, he finds tunes from all over the Indian musical landscape: Hindi, Tamil, Telugu, and recently I learned, even Marathi — he recently recommended me a Marathi song and it was quite good — and given that his native language is Odia, this is a terrifically diverse palette he has to himself.
“Do you know that cassettes are now making a comeback? They used to sell it for ten rupees when we used to buy them and now they are going for two hundred, two fifty” he asks.
“I have no clue.”
****
There is a music studio in this house, stocked with harmonium, keyboard, tabla, synthesizer, guitars, microphones, speakers, woofers, and recording instruments. J’s father, a former college professor, and an enthusiastic stage performer respected well amongst local musical circle, revels in singing Kishore Kumar’s songs. He calls me upstairs to join him. Seated on a high chair, he is playing a harmonium and singing a Kishore song into the mic.
Pal pal dil ke paas tum rehti ho
Jeevan meethi pyaas yeh kehti ho
I sit next to a keyboard on the stand, caress my fingers on the keys and invoke any residual muscle memory I might access from the time I was learning to play my newly acquired Yamaha keyboard through tutorials on YouTube. I learned the nomenclature of the keys, what chords are, and little more. I never graduated to reading sheet music or learning theory of music. The progress was slow and hard earned. I have been in love with piano music as long back as I can remember: the songs which I love feature mellifluous piano music and I wanted to play them (I love guitar riffs too, but piano music sounds more ethereal). This is why I bought the keyboard. And in my painstaking labor, I memorized the key sequences of my favorite tunes and succeeded in playing them to some satisfaction. But now, I was drawing a blank. My fingers remembered nothing.
“Ab tum gao,” He passes the mic to me encouragingly.
I laugh. J’s father has been incredibly generous and affable to me. Then I hesitate.
I am a very self conscious singer (or for that matter, a very self conscious everything. Any act of exhibitionism, which arguably any act outside of private isolation is, and I get nervous: interviews, presentations, meetings, dates, even facing guests at home; even if there is nothing at stake, subjecting myself to scrutiny is nerve racking). I have an excellent conversational voice — I have receipts — but it is not a voice ideal for singing which requires a dynamic range and dramatic intonation. I have a shallow clear voice. I want him to sing along so I do not hear my own voice booming and loud, and diminish in its inadequacy.
He grabs another mic and we sing along. It’s fun.
First Kishore Kumar. His idol. There is a framed picture of Kishore Kumar leaning against the wall just behind all the paraphernalia, that I hadn’t notice before.
Then Hemant Kumar. As we sing ‘Tum Pukar Lo’, I tell him I want this song to play as I draw my last breath. Hemant Kumar had such a mesmerizing and haunting voice that it cracked like a lightening through the dark night. Its simplicity, in my opinion, was magical, and he needed none of the technical acumen that Kishore and Rafi possessed.
Then we sing even Mukesh. The forlorn king of tragic songs all seeped in despair.
“If you listen to Mukesh’s song through the day, by evening you would jump off the balcony,” I quip.
He laughs. Then he asks, “Have you heard this song? It is a very obscure song.”
I doubt there is any good song from the old Bollywood that I have not come across thanks to listening avidly to Vividh Bharti on my grandfather’s radio and on my own radio through my childhood and teenage years. I tell him I would be surprised if he could spring a good one.
Surprisingly, he does. And what a song it is!
Nain hamare, sanjh sakare, dekhe lakhon sapne
Sach ye kahi, honge ya nahi
Koi jane na, koi jane na yahan
It’s the lyrics which does it again for me.
****
It is the day after Christmas. J and I are seated on a sopha sipping cocktails. It is the 35th anniversary celebration of an acquaintance of J. A very genial man of kind disposition and supple hands, he shook mine as J introduced me. Every introduction goes the same way: the schools I enlisted in, the employers I worked for, and whatever I am doing now — the credentialism, as much as I want to slough it off, its insignia being a mere matter of happenstance and nothing more, functions in the background like an honor system: since I went to those places and did those things by virtue of presumed merit and access, I am fine company. Middle class speaks in cyphers: education and work. That is all people need to know about you to get a measure of you. You might be ignorant, or gullible, or retarded, or deceptive, or wicked, or a deviant piece of shit, but all they care about is that you went to IIT or good heavens, Harvard! People do this all the time. And such stuff makes me quibble. If I were to throw a party and somebody introduced himself to me, I would ask, “What kind of songs do you like? because that will tell me a lot about you.” But nobody ever asks the kind of songs that you like. People muddle crucial information with superficial fillers. But people are really really retarded. So I go along and shake supple hands.
I have been to more weddings with J and his family this month than the combine over my lifetime. I chuckle about that because a few months back I made a wish out loud to find myself in situations where there is food all around me and I could grab whatever I fancied. Wishes do come true, especially if you don’t force them. I generally never go anywhere no matter who invites. But I like this place. I suppose it is easier to be in social situations where nobody knows you, because then you can find your corner and be and eat, and not be forced into ulcer inducing conversations. I avoid all gatherings with relatives like plague. If you are not careful, they will slobber all over you the goo of insincerity and that stuff is hard to get rid of. I know that a lot of people like it because they have their own goo to rub on other people. I don’t care because I don’t need this reciprocal goo rubbing.
There is a slightly elevated stage at the corner of the hall with a host of musicians playing instrumental music. J’s father has brought his iPad to assist himself with the vocals of the songs he is about to sing at this party. He is nicely dressed in a suit and beaming with happiness. J tells me the band on stage has been assembled by his father and he knows all of them. I am honestly pleased to sit, slurp my soup, and hear him sing, sway, and perform. I click his pictures and clap for him. He is a really amazing singer. I think when you see somebody come alive in the moment, you should make them feel good about it if you can. How often does that happen? People, so often, get in the way of their own happiness.
****
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