Freeze Frame #132, #133: Once

A man stands at a street corner with his guitar, singing. During the day, when people pass by and are likely to drop a coin or two into his box, he sings popular numbers that they may have heard. It is after dark that he starts singing his own stuff. Whether or not his music is to your taste is, I think, immaterial — it is impossible to ignore the way his intensity goes up a few notches when he is singing his own compositions. 

A woman approaches him. “Where is she?” she asks after a modicum of preliminaries about why he doesn’t sing stuff like this during the day. “She’s gone,” he replies. It is clear that music like this cannot come out of anything other than personal loss. She doesn’t know him, nor he her. This is a pretty personal conversation for two strangers to be having. 

It turns out eventually that she is a musician as well. And that, I think, is all you need to understand. Once is a movie about two people who fall in love while they make music together. But it is not so much about their “romance” as about the sense of camaraderie and respect that two people share when they find common ground in a particular activity. In that sense, it has much in common with The Girl With The Pearl Earring, that little gem of a movie about Johannes Vermeer’s famous painting. 

Two scenes really stand out for me. The first is the one where they play together for the first time. It is at a store that sells musical instruments, where she has a deal with the owner to come in and play the piano for an hour. She brings him along, and they play a song he wrote called Falling Slowly. He gives her a rough idea of the music, starts off slowly and lets her join in. They play tentatively at first, slowly getting used to another person sharing their space. And as they grow in confidence, the music begins to soar. As a scene that shows the developing bond between them, it is nothing short of perfect.

It also serves to set up a later solo where he is in his room, singing a song about his breakup with his girlfriend. Home video clippings of them together plays in the background. It is clear that he hasn’t still gotten over her. But as he sings, you hear her (the girl, not the ex-girlfriend) voice slowly coming in, providing the harmony to his lead vocals. A part of you recognizes this and says, “Yes, this feels about right.”

These days, there is at least one big budget Hollywood musical coming out every year. Most of the time, the music is just an excuse to stage a big production number. But every once in a while, a movie comes along to remind you that the music doesn’t need the help.

 

Snapshots in G Minor

Long ago, in my wild and misspent youth, I used to be part of the band in my college. It took up a fair bit of my time when I was pretending to be a studious grad student, but it remains one of the happiest times of my life.

Singing Pukaarta Chala Hoon Main

It was called Baro-C, after one of the buses which plied through the remote part of Kolkata where our college (Indian Institute of Management Calcutta) was situated. It’s not a particularly imaginative name, but it was the by-product of a more imaginative one.

You see, there’s another bus that goes from our locality (Joka) to a place downtown called Bandstand. That bus has the words Joka Bandstand emblazoned across its back. Years ago, when a bunch of IIMCians wanted a name for their Western music band, they decided to call it Joka Bandstand, or JBS. And when they decided to form a companion band that would play Indian music, they named it after one of the other buses – route 12C, or Baro-C (Baro is 12 in Bengali). Since most of the same people played in both bands, they were often referred to collectively as JBS-BaroC.

A couple of years ago, one of the students asked me to write an article for the alumni magazine about my experience of playing in that band. So this is what I came up with.

---

This is a song for all the good travelers

Who passed through my life as they moved along.

The ramblers, the thinkers, the just-one-more drinkers

Each took the time to sing me a song.

– Ken Hicks, All the good people

If any of you have ever been in a situation where you have to change your residence after a number of years in one place, you’ll remember the amazement you feel at the number of things you find that you once thought were lost.

Some of them used to matter. A lot. But that was a long time ago. The fact that they once did matters more now than they actually do. But that’s a fine hair to split. So you pack them all into neat cardboard boxes, and take them with you to your new home where, in all probability, they will lie unopened.

Memories are trickier. You can pack them and put them away in some corner of your mind. But on some idle Wednesday evening, you’ll take a break from work, surf through the web and come across a song you’ve never heard before, and one of those boxes will open itself. And a sepia-tinted photograph of someone singing Annie’s Song in a little room behind the Annexe mess will waft out of that box and onto your desk.

Go away, you’ll say. There’s work to do now. Deadlines to meet, papers to submit.

No response. It’s still there, on your desk.

Like I said, memories are trickier. Besides, I want to write this one while my memories of the experience still matter to me.

So here goes…

I’ve been trying to write this one for a while now. It started off okay, when I came across the Ken Hicks song and realized that it could form the perfect opening for a JBS-12C piece. I had it all planned out – I’d start off there, ease into the article with some kind of analogy, pepper the whole piece with quotes from other band alums reminiscing on Yahoo groups and wherever else, add a bit about the history… a hitchhiker’s guide in G minor, if you will.

Well, here’s the thing: I don’t know how to write that piece. I just can’t do it. But here’s what I can do.

I can close my eyes and hear Sapnoti Majumdar ask us in an improbably squeaky voice if she could try out for the band, and then blow us away with Do lafzon ki. Here we are, wondering if the doorjamb needs oil, and suddenly Asha Bhosle is in the room.

I can remember what it felt like to glance out the window of the practice room behind the Annexe mess at 5 am while singing harmony to Aasmaan ke paar shaayad, and see the first rays of the sun shining through.

I can almost taste the slightly burnt bread that came with the ghugni at the shack outside the gate. Some people love the smell of napalm in the morning, I love the smell of slightly burnt bread. Go figure.

I can remember trying to explain to someone where they were screwing up on a song, and failing miserably because we didn’t have a common vocabulary to describe what a perfect note felt like. I can remember using stock trading jargon – go long on this note, go short here…

I can remember chewing someone out for making a rendition of Gazab ka hai din sound like a visit to the Holocaust museum. (Yeah, I was quite the perfectionist asshole back then, and some of them probably hated me for it.)

I can remember trying to conserve my breath while singing a slow section of Maaeri (Ab kya karoon…) so that I’d have enough of it left when the really tough part (Naa judaa…) came next.

I can remember trying not to wince outwardly when I screwed up on stage.

I can remember how stories about little anecdotes about band happenings become our personal rallying point. I can remember laughing with Ratul just a short while ago, reminiscing about Gireesh’s Ramji’s once-in-a-lifetime rendition of Day Tripper.

I can remember the show we once put up during the faculty-student dinner — the one where Prof. Ash Chats (does an article like this have to be formal about faculty members’ names? I hope not) sang Is rang badalti duniya mein and Prof. Mahanti danced in the aisles to the tune of Jhumroo… God, that was a good show!

I can remember…

Let me restate: it’s not that I don’t know how to write that article on JBS-12C. It’s that I don’t want to.

I don’t want to try and put a structure on to any of that. I don’t want to make a nice, bound, photo album out of a mass of photographs held together by a rubber band and dumped into some polythene cover from Oxford Bookstore.

I don’t want to adjectivize any of it. I don’t want to “describe” it.

I want these memories to remain as they are – chaotic, random, personal, alive as long as I can keep them that way.

I want to be able to sing Ruth aa gayee re and automatically grin when I reach the third line, because somewhere, in some parallel universe, Vinayan is still chewing out Uttam for not getting the percussion right.

These memories probably strike particular chords in bits and pieces to a small bunch of people. But I’m sure there are people out there who once held a microphone or a guitar in their hand on a makeshift stage in the OH Quad, who may not recognize any of these snapshots but can see in them, a reflection of their own.

The time is gone, the song is over,

Thought I’d something more to say…

— Pink Floyd, Time

 

It is written. But not very well, I’m afraid.

At the time of writing this, Slumdog has already won over audiences around the world, snagged a few Golden Globes (and other awards besides) and is widely expected to take home some statuettes on Oscar night. And I’m happy for the cast and crew who made it this far. I really am. But here’s what I cannot get around:

The movie simply did not work for me.

There’s enough to like, believe me. The movie is beautifully structured, the concept is interesting, the performances are quite good, the camerawork is amazing… But at the end of the day, I did not feel emotionally attached to this tale of a ragamuffin from Mumbai surviving a baptism in shit, communal riots, a brother’s betrayal and numerous other setbacks to find love and 20 million rupees in the end.

A big part of that is the writing. Sample this exchange between Jamal and Latika right at the end:

Jamal: I knew you’d be watching.

Latika: I thought we would meet only in death.

Jamal: This is our destiny.

Latika: Kiss me.

If the structuring of the story and the concept are interesting enough to warrant an Oscar nomination, then tripe like the above should warrant a Razzie nomination as well. I agree that dramatic lines like this are an integral part of our own films, but the good ones learn to do it with a modicum of panache. For a movie that’s been feted all over the place, it’s surprising how pedestrian the dialogue is. When Salim tells his brother, “The man with the Colt45 says ‘Shut up!’”, I wanted to barf.

The sad part is, the performances are pretty good but are hamstrung by the dialogue. The kids who play the younger and adolescent Jamal, Salim and Latika are fantastic. Dev Patel is quite good as the older Jamal — I was initially apprehensive about his accent being a distraction, but he managed to hold my attention despite that. The actors who play Salim do a pretty good job. Frieda Pinto looks like a million bucks, but has little to do. She does adequately. Anil Kapoor is suitably supercilious — I doubt a real game show host would be this condescending on live TV, but he makes it work. Irrfan Khan is his usual dependable self.

Three of the Oscar nominations have gone to A. R. Rahman. This is genuinely puzzling, because I can’t think of a single good thing to say about the music. The celebrated Jai Ho is earth-shatteringly nondescript. I sat there listening to the song and thinking, “They love him for this?”

Rahman’s music has brightened my days for the better part of two decades now. But he’s done much better than this. Then again, sometimes the Oscars are about granting overdue recognition. If Judi Dench could win for Shakespeare in Love, then our man certainly deserves a statuette for this score.

Let me leave you with a question that has been on my mind since yesterday. I don’t think the things I have spoken of in this review add up to why the movie didn’t work for me. There was something else missing, maybe a sense of wonder, of seeing something I hadn’t seen before. Is it that I have become desensitized to the poverty I see around me? Would I have loved this movie if it was set in, say, Brazil instead?

 

Five Rahman moments

Thanks to his Golden Globe for Slumdog Millionaire (and the possibility of an Oscar), Rahman is now the flavour of the month. While I haven’t been too impressed with much of his recent work, it made me think about his career over the years.

I heard Roja when I was in high school — to say that we were gobsmacked would be an understatement. It was like nothing any of us had heard before. But while it was new and exciting to us, there were also many who felt it was too synthesized and artificial and wouldn’t stand the test of time. Seventeen years later, it now seems fair to say that he has accomplished enough to earn his place among the greats of Indian film music.

This post is not about Rahman’s contribution to Indian film music (I may do that later), but simply a recollection of five Rahman moments that have surprised  and delighted me over the years.

1. The repeated shehnai notes in Yeh jo des hai tera (Swades). The song is nice, but what makes it unforgettable is the use of the shehnai. (Aside: Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy achieve a similar effect with bagpipes in the title tune of Salaam-e-Ishq.)
2. The use of the tanpura in Hai Rama (Rangeela). My friend Ratul brought this one to my notice. Who would’ve thought of using a tanpura to bookend a steamy song involving Urmila Matondkar and Jackie shroff prancing around in their underwear?
3. M. S. Viswanathan singing Vidai kodu engal naade (Kannathil Muthamittal). Instead of any of a dozen conventional singers, he picked a veteran composer with a voice that belied his age and got him to sing this one about leaving one’s homeland. (More on his unconventional choices for singers here.)
4. The second sax interlude in En kaadhalae (Duet). The credit for this probably goes at least partly to the director K Balachander. Nonetheless, what he accomplishes here is beautiful. Two brothers (one a singer, the other a composer and sax player) in love with the same girl, singing a song at a function where she might make an appearance. When she does, the sax player announces it with four happy notes that are the musical equivalent of jumping up excitedly, then launches into his theme for her (Anjali Anjali). But as he gets into it, he is reminded of the fact that he is estranged from his brother because they both love this girl, so he quietly segues into a sadder theme. It was so well done that I didn’t even realize until later that it was all done through a musical instrument.
5. Tu Bole Main Boloon (Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na). Exactly how often have you heard a jazz tune in Hindi film music?

Memsaab has a lovely post on her favourite Rahman numbers. Worth a dekko.

 

YouTube – Hey Jude

This is, absolutely, without doubt, the best performance of The Beatles’ Hey Jude I have ever heard. ’nuff said.

Hat tip: To Nithya, who posted the link on her facebook page and alerted me to this gem.

 

From the OST of “Ramsu”

I saw this interesting post at Shouts and Murmurs the other day.  Basically, it was a tag where one had to pick a song or two to suit a bunch of situations. It seemed interesting, so I gave it a shot. Here goes:

Rules of the tag: Various situations are given. You have to come up with a song ( or a couple) that aptly describe those situations in YOUR life.

Opening credits: I’d like to pick Bang Bang (He shot me down)” by Nancy Sinatra, but that’s just my favourite song for the opening credits, not the one that describes my life. So I’ll go with Pink Floyd’s Shine on you crazy diamond, with random production credits appearing against a black backdrop and my name appearing just when those four signature notes break through the lull created in the first few minutes. Delusions of grandeur? Yeah, well, why not?

Waking up: Aasmaan ke paar shaayad from Rockford. I always remember singing this song towards the fag end of an all-night jam session with my 12C bandmates at IIMC, so it’s not technically a waking up song. But the moment I think of it, I instantly remember what it felt like to have the first rays of the sun streaming through the window of the music room.

Average day: Isn’t it a lovely day, the Fred and Ginger dance number from Top Hat. Tum se hi from Jab We Met.

First date: Hoshwaalon ko khabar kya from Sarfarosh (it’s the first movie my wife and I saw together).

Falling in love: Dheemi dheemi from 1947: Earth. Sippi irukkudhu from Varumaiyin Niram Sigappu.

Love Scene: The jazz soundtrack playing in the background during the love scene in Jerry Maguire. So wildly inappropriate that Tom Cruise stops to ask “What is this music?” On quieter nights, Pyaar ki raat by Euphoria.

Fight Scene: Madurai veeran from Dhool.

Breaking up: Breathe (2 am) by Anna Nalick. Mandram vandha thendral from Mouna Raagam. Do hanson ka joda from Ganga Jumna.

Getting back together: The last triumphant stretch in Kalaivaaniye from Sindhu Bhariavi that ends with Varuvaai. Tumne pukaara aur hum chale aaye from Rajkumar.

Life’s ok: Kisi ke muskuraahaton pe from Anari.

Mental Breakdown: The stretch in Nothing but Wind where the quiet melody is drowned out by the cacophony of mechanical noises. And the same quiet melody returning in the end, but sounding, somehow, so much sadder. The cover of Comfortably Numb that plays in the background during the lovemaking scene in The Departed.

Driving: Unnaiththaane from Nallavanukku Nallavan. For reasons too complicated to explain.

Learning a lesson: Kholo kholo darwaaze from Taare Zameen Par. Including the little breaks in the middle, like the one where one of the teachers sings the theme from Verdi’s Rigoletto.

Deep thought: Endha oor enbavane from Kaattu Roja. High Hopes by Pink Floyd. The Lonely Shepherd by Gheorghe Zamfir (composed by James Last) from the soundtrack of Kill Bill.

Flashback: The soft opening of Pyaar humein iss mod pe, when you just hear one voice starting tentatively, Tumne woh kya dekha.

Partying: Engeyum eppodhum, both the original from Ninaiththaale Inikkum and the brilliant remix from Polladhavan.

Happy Dance: Aasai Nooru Vagai from Aduththa Vaarisu.

Regretting: High Hopes by Pink Floyd.

Death Scene: The end of the song Vedam anuvanuvuna from Saagara Sangamam, where the song slowly builds to a crescendo while a Sanskrit verse (Jayanti deva) sounds a solemn counterpoint.

Closing Credits: John Cage’s 4′ 33″. If you haven’t heard (of) it, google it.

Am not sure I want to tag anyone per se, but I’d definitely like to see Memsaab, Beth or Veracious do a list like this, but with only Indian music! Folks, you up for it?

Update (14 September 2008): A whole bunch of people seem to have been inspired by this to do their own OSTs. The list is as lovely as it is varied. Some choices make me wish I’d thought of them. Some others drive home how little I actually know of Indian film music. I suggest you go check them out:

• … so they dance!
• Roti Kapda aur Rum
• Apni East India Company
• Hmong chick who loves Indian cinema
• Memsaab Story (using only Shammi’s B&W songs)
• TheBollywoodFan (using only Aamir’s songs)

 

Unconventional voices

No, I still don’t like Himes-bhai’s voice. Although I will admit that the occasional Mika number works for me – Mauja Hi Mauja from Jab We Met being an example. This post is mostly about A. R. Rehman. Not his singing voice (which I’m not very fond of but works well for some songs), but his uncanny ability to pick the right singer for a certain song.

Rehman has had his favourites over the years — Hariharan and Sukhwindara Singh come to mind instantly. But every once in a while, he has made an inspired choice that completely transforms a number from good to great. These aren’t conventional voices, and wouldn’t work for most songs. But you cannot imagine how certain songs would sound if sung by someone else. Here are my top five picks in this category (links attached, in case you wanna lusten to them):

5. Raasaathi (Thiruda Thiruda): My favourite song in that album. Also, one of the songs that Shahul Hameed is best remembered for, other than Usilampatti pennkutti in Gentleman. Other than probably a base guitar somewhere in the background (and I’m not even sure about that), this song is a capella, with a lot of humming in the background and Shahul’s plaintive voice in the lead. (Listen here)

4. Chikubukku chikubukku rayile (Gentleman): Basically, this one makes the grade because of how it reinvents Tamil pronunciation. If someone spoke the language like that in my presence, I would have to physically restrain myself from punching his lights out, but the song… well, I can’t imagine any other way to sing it. (Listen here)

3. Lukka Chhuppi (Rang De Basanti): I love Lata Mangeshkar, okay? My dad’s an old Hindi film music buff, so I grew up listening to her. But hearing her sing Jiya Jale in Dil Se was the musical equivalent of seeing Rajni romance Deepika Padukone. Her voice sounded tired, strained, and clearly much older than the woman being depicted on screen. To me, that song is one of Rehman’s eminently forgettable choices. But Lukka Chhuppi… who else could have conveyed Waheeda Rehman’s heartbreak at losing her son so well? The opening lines are simple enough: We’ve played enough hide and seek/Now come out and show yourself. The tune isn’t exactly a sad one either. But the evident ageing of Lata’s voice and the tragedy being depicted on screen make it what it is. I don’t think there are too many instances where Lata’s voice would qualify as unconventional, but my guess is that most music directors would’ve ended up using a much younger voice here. Rehman chose well, and it made all the difference. (Listen here)

2. Veyilodu vilayaadi (Veyil): Not a Rehman number, this one. But since it is by his nephew G. V. Prakash Kumar, I guess you could say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Four singers, but the ones that stand out are Kailash Kher (who could make Happy Birthday sound soulful) and Jassi Gift (who I liked much better here than in his acclaimed Lajjavathiye). The other two sing the song like they would sing any number, but when Kailash lets rip with pasi vandha kuruvi muttai, or when Jassi goes Nandoorum nari oorum, the song simply catches fire. (Listen here)

1. Vidai kodu engal naade (Kannathil Muthamittal): The scene depicts a village of Sri Lankan Tamils being evacuated before the airforce bombs the place into oblivion. No matter what your politics, the sight a bunch of people leaving the place they had called home for so many years is, you will agree, heart-rending. The lyrics convey a sense of loss that remains with you long after the movie has ended. But what truly elavates the song is the quality of M S Viswanathan’s voice. You don’t hear finely modulated sorrow, but something raw and visceral. (Listen here)

Have I missed out any really good ones? You tell me.

 

30 going on 13, and in the wrong lane

Okay, so here’s what happened. I was channel surfing this weekend and found that my viewing choices boiled down to:

1. Die Hard 2 – The one where Bruce Willis fights off a bunch of terrorists in an airport
   
2. Lizzie McGuire – The Disney TV series, not the movie version
   

And, put your drink down before you read this otherwise you might spray it all over the place, I chose the latter.

Yeah, I know. Now you see what I mean by being in the wrong lane.

So I sat down and made a list of all those things that seem to indicate that I am turning into a thirteen year old girl. I seem to have a valid defense for each of these things, but when you add it all up, it’s kinda distressing.

And no, before you ask, I do not, do Not, do NOT like Princess Diaries. And I like the sequel even less. I think Anne Hathaway can be quite interesting in a good role, but this isn’t it.

1. Lizzie McGuire: I don’t like Hilary Duff now, but I think she did have considerable charm when she still had her baby fat. I watch the show once in a while for the same reason that I watch Full House – it’s got a Pleasantville kind of feel to it. Kinda like HAHK for TV.
2. Kelly Clarkson: I have, on occasion, sung along when her Walk Away plays on the radio. Although, in my defence, the video does involve grown men singing along with an enthusiasm that is entirely inappropriate given their age and plumbing.
3. Teen rom-coms: I only like some of them, like Say Anything or 10 Things I Hate About You. I have, however, watched a distressingly large number of them, including Pretty in Pink.

So I’m trying to figure out what I could do to act my age and gender. The best idea I’ve come up with so far is to spend an entire day alternating between watching Akira Kurosawa and surfing for porn on the Net. If you have a better suggestion, please do let me know.

ps: Telling me to just give in to the inevitable and start listening to Vanessa Anne Hudgens doesn’t count as a suggestion.

pps: And no smirking about the fact that I actually know who Vanessa Anne Hudgens is either.

ppps: Okay, so it’s 31. At my age, I’m allowed an error term or two.

 

Ilayaraja BGM- A Background

In a list of 100 Greatest Film Score Composers , only 2 Indians figure, one is of course A.R.Rehman and the other is a man whose middle name spells “Genius” .

A maestro called Illayaraja . Mixing up a medley of native folk tunes, Western classical rythms, synthesizer beats, pure Indian classical stuff, he created a music, which has it’s own stamp. But more than his memorable songs, his greatest contribution has been to an aspect, which somehow never really got the attention it deserved in Indian cinema, the background music. Many of the olden composers churned out excellent and memorable songs, but somehow their background scores have never been memorable. Barring a few directors like Bimal Roy, Guru Dutt, Satyajit Ray , not many directors paid attention to this aspect. I am putting together a series of posts on this topic on some of his memorable background music scores.

The movies for which i had posted were

Pithamagan

Idhayam

Thevar Magan

Guna

Nayakan

Thalapathy

 

Strange chords #3: Duet Theme

Duet is not the best film K. Balachander has made. A remake of Cyrano de Bergerac, with assorted additional nonsense and a dash of Alibaba thrown in for good measure, the movie never really manages to get itself out of the way and reach the heights it could. It is, however, one of the most interesting movies I’ve seen, from a musical standpoint. The main reason why I’m somewhat fond of that movie is its music.

They key, for me, came during the opening titles itself. I didn’t notice it when I saw the movie for the first time, since I didn’t know the whole plot then. But when I went back home and listened to the album, I realized what KB and Rehman were doing in that opening piece.

It is a Kadri Gopalnath saxophone solo in Kalyanavasantham – a beautiful, beautiful raga (best known example: Nadaloludai, composed by Sri Thyagaraja – yet another of his little gems). In the movie, you see Prabhu playing it.

He plays a character named Guna, a talented musician and sax player, who forms part of a successful music duo with his brother Siva. Guna is overweight, and doesn’t have much luck with women as a result, whereas Siva pretty much has them eating out of his hands. A minor early crisis causes them to move to a different city, where they begin their career afresh. Their life settles into a comfortable routine when love comes in the form of Anjali, a film choreographer who lives next door. She loves Guna’s music, but thinks Siva is the one composing it. Things get a little heated when this truth is revealed, but before it can be resolved between the three of them, additional complications arrive in the form of Sirpi, a psychotic movie star with designs on Anjali. It all ends in a violent and senseless climax where all extra characters are bumped off and only the hero and heroine are left.

Crazy plot, and there’s really no obvious reason why I should narrate it here. But now that you know this plot, go back and listen to the theme music and see how it is patterned – how it starts off slow, breaks for a moment when the waves crash against the rocks, starts again, settles into a rhythm, then picks up the pace, then begins to have more ominous notes sounding in the background, and ends with the waves crashing against the sea. When you think about it, this could have been pretty much any piece – most movies have random instrumental music playing over the opening titles – but KB showed here what he could do with it.

The entire story is told in flashback from Prabhu’s point of view, and you realize, after watching it and harking back to its musical set pieces, that this was a man who used his sax as a narrative intrument. Listen to the interludes in En kaadhalae, and you see how he expresses his feelings – his frustration, his despair, his love – through his instrument. Amazing piece of work.