We the Write stuff.

Some months ago, I found myself in a personal slump. One of those unfortunate situations where nothing was really going wrong, but nothing was really going right either. So I walked the streets of Kingston, chainsmoking and desperately looking for some kind of answer. Clarity falling from the skies would have been greatly appreciated. Instead, I found myself staring at a poster for London Jazz Festival month. A beautiful festival that would begin at my local theatre with a John Etheridge showcase in a few days time. These were all signs. What else could it be?

So I clutched at this straw. Jazz would save me, like it had so many times before. I considered going alone, but the more I heard about the magic that was Etheridge, the more I realised that would be selfish. So I took my oldest friend and my newest friend, the latter who would soon become my significant other i.e. if we ever fight, I will blame Etheridge.

There three of us stood, in the rain, waiting for it to start - The Jazz Geek (me), The Metal Head (The New Friend - TNF) and The I-Love-Music-So-As-Long-As-I-Have-A-Good-Time-It's-Cool-Person (The Old Friend - TOF). I spent a few moments worrying about the grief I'd have to suffer if they both hated it, but before I could really do or say anything about it, we were sprawled on wooden steps, waiting for it to start.

I was right. Etheridge saved me. As soon as he started with a cover of Miles Davis' classic "Doxy", I felt waves of uncertainty and the burdens of personal disaster leaving my shoulders. Clarity crept into my freezing toes, and for the first time in weeks, I didnt worry or wonder about "what-if's" and "whys and wheres".

After a few songs had been performed, I ventured hesitant peeks at TNF & TOF sitting next to me, and I breathed even easier. TNF sat in silent concentration, enjoyment and understanding washing over the planes of his face with an occasional comment about how beautiful Etheridge's guitars were. TOF spent the entire evening whispering "Thats amazing, did you hear what he just did?" over and over again.

Im not saying that Etheridge saved me to the extent that my slump was resolved overnight. But his music and his humour cleared my head and replaced hyperventilation with steady breaths. A few days later I found myself calm enough to resolve my slump on my own, and I endured the loss by purchasing "Doxy" as a single and driving my flatmates crazy by keeping it on repeat for days.

When I started growing immune to the powers of "Doxy", again I found myself walking the streets of Kingston. This time with a friend who had uncovered secrets of Kingston streets that he was more than willing to share with me. So in the bitter cold, down lanes and through alleys, we walked.

And reached Collector's Records. I've been in love before. With friends, with men, with books, with albums. This is the first time I've fallen in love with a store. Records in racks and shelves and turntables to play them on before you decide to own them. We stayed till almost-closing time, discovering, exclaiming and placing on turntables. I left with Billy Joel, Simon & Garfunkel and more, tucked under my arm, beautifully preserved in their original vinyl selves - the second best thing to owning them as people, in my opinion. And they cost me less than a pack of cigarettes would have.

My favourite part of London is how almost everyday is a burst of bibliomaniac joy.

Its the small stuff, like having manic 10 hour classes, and running home to grab a few hours of shut-eye before another class at 8pm, only to be kept awake by doors slamming and loud laughing from the kitchen, only to slam my door open to lose my temper at whomever I see first, to find that a flatmate has wedged a whole pile of packages from Amazon under my door. For me, me, me.

Its the big stuff, like trudging sleepily in the rain in my pajama's to get some coffee, only to find my tattered copy of "Howl" that I'd given up tearfully for lost, placed next to the coffee machine, with a post-it saying, "I dont know which building you're in, but I see you hovering around here all the time, so I thought this would be the best place to return it. I hope you actually find this, and if you're not you, then sod off, this doesn't belong to you"

And then its the truly perfect stuff, like becoming an accidental and active participant of BookCrossing.

I'd heard of BookCrossing in one of my first Publishing classes, where 60-odd book geeks including myself, gathered to talk about how reading is a community - a dying community in some respects, but for those who love to read, an exciting community nonetheless.

BookCrossing, essentially, is the "the practice of leaving a book in a public place to be picked up and read by others, who then do likewise." I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard of, and it gave me, and the other people sitting around me, goosebumps just thinking about it. We all told our professor, that it sounded almost too good to be true, and it was probably just one of those things, like the Tooth Fairy, who you truly believe is real, just because you want to believe it, when deepdown, you know its a parent who is the real Tooth Fairy. She nodded wisely, and said, "Wait and see, you won't see it coming"

And then, a few days ago, I got onto a bus and sat on a book. I hardly ever do this, since books are my personal God and religion, and well, you don't normally sit on your God. When I got up, it was a much worn copy of "The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop", which is one of those books you've always thought you should read, but it was either out of stock, or too expensive, and along the journey of all the other books you've wanted painfully, you sort of pushed it at the back of your mind. On the book, was a note stapled to the cover, "Read this and pass it on" and on the title page, were the initials of all the people who'd read it and the dates they'd found it.

I forgot I had a tottering pile of textbooks to wade through by the next day, forgot that I had groceries to buy, food to cook, laundry to do, trash to take out. I forgot social commitments and Skype dates. I forgot that it was raining and that my heater wasn't working and I was, to put it mildly, freezing. I forgot about Stoner Sam and his Stonery Sammy ways. I had been crossed with a book and nothing else mattered.

I passed it on last night. I left it on a table at the cafe I usually frequent. Before I left, the proprietor grinned at me and said, "You've picked prime property there, honey. That book knows that table well"

That book, knows more people and places than I do. And Im grateful I got to know it, and that it has KM 4-10-2010 permanently embedded in its pages.

Note: A very Appy Birday to the old man of the blog, Harry from WetheUs and well, everyone who reads us etc.

Ello All

It's Tejas' Birthday. Wooptedoo dah. Wish him or kiss him.

Yesterday was a bad day. A surreal experience for me, since I had one of those moments where Art somewhat saved me. A bit. It was a perfect marriage of the emotions I had, and the emotions I felt after experiencing the art.
I lost my phone yesterday.
This is the second time in 9 months, I think. I have recently lost my kickass iPod that my sister gifted me, which had tremendous sentimental value, my nephew's mp3 player and my mom's flash drive. Yes, I'm an idiot and no this is not for sympathy. This is about the connection of art and how it manages to dig in to you, through all the clutter and crap you may have inside you and still carve a small nichè for itself amongst all the baggage you carry.

Yesterday I re-read a series that I had stopped through halfway a while ago, and had not managed to complete it. It happened like this. I lost my phone in the morning, moped for a while, then went to landmark by 1 pm and sat there reading for a good 7 hours. There is something liberating about being cut-off from the rest of the world. In my state of mind, it almost felt good, that I could escape having to tell people how dumb I felt because I lost my phone, ironically because there was no way to tell them. I did not even have the strength to feel sorry for myself or just plainly ask 'Why?'

Thus I sat and read Y: The Last Man.

Y is about Yorick Brown (and his capuchin Ampersand) the only man to survive a plague that strikes all the Y-chromosome carrying mammals(namely all males) around the world simultaneously, killing them instantly. Whats left is broken infrastructres, plane crashes, food shortages, and a whole lot of women. How Yorick survives these conditions plus a bunch of crazy chicks who are either trying to sleep with him or kill him forms the rest of the story. Needless to say a story as epic as this, has to be thought out well and thought out well is exactly what it is. In 60 issues Brian K. Vaughn manages to tell the story at a decent pace, progressing with the plot while still holding the attention of the reader. Obviously it is filled with great allegory, and social commentary but is undoubtedly and ironically going to be viewed as masogynistic and yes, chauvinistic. However Vaughn bypasses all that and continues with his story about the last man trying to reunite with his girlfriend in Australia.

But Yorick- the average everyman, still seeking his true love not knowing whether she's alive or dead, and a huge responsibility on his shoulder is someone I could definitely identify with at that moment. No, I am not the last man on earth, but at that point of shame, I wished I could just be alone, or run away. It probably sounds highly dramatic, but that my friends, is the power of art! In 7 hours I immersed myself in Y and questioned myself as he did, that is reclusiveness what we really want? or is it really the complete opposite? Maybe we just want to be accepted no matter what we do, and while that would be great, it is not fair at all to shy away from the responsibilities that each of us possess. Alas, Poor Yorick, I knew him!

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! - (Hamlet, V.i)

I keep giving this one example of how I always listen to Billy Joel before an audition, or before facing any 'music'. Why? Because for some reason hearing his voice is the equivalent of having someone older or someone I trust saying to me "It's alright Tejas. Just get in there and do your best and know I'm right behind you". Very Uncle Ben.
Sigh.
Uncle Ben, why do I miss him so much?

Comic back to the point. The marriage of art and the person who experiences it, is a very personal moment. It's like family, literally. Because every person has their own experience when they are in contact with the art. I cannot expect anyone to have the same feelings or emotions I did when I read it, it is probably not going to happen. But maybe you will have it with something else, maybe a great album, or a great painting, when you are at another emotional level. And it'll cause you so much pain or joy or emotions you can't even describe. It's truly awesome.

That my friends is the power of art!

I have mentioned before that I can't sing to save my life. This isn't entirely true. I can't sing like Tejas can, or like Harry can. I can't sing like Norah Jones or KT Tunstall. I can't sing for other people, I can't sing to play the fool into karaoke machines. But I can sing, when I really really need to, when it seems like the right thing to do, and when my voice chooses to ignore my brain telling it that it's a terrible voice and not to humiliate me.

Carly Simon and Dusty Springfield have/had voices and wrote music that most current female artists can only dream of having/writing. When they sing, the emotion and the rawness, blares through and heals wounds, and you know, that if you have emotion and rawness, and wounds that need to be healed, then you can sing too. These women are/were brave, are/were independent, are/were magic from the moment they opened their mouths. Their music is/was the kind of music that you can imagine old men sitting on park benches and nodding their heads wisely over, saying "They dont make voices like that anymore" And they don't. They really don't make voices like that anymore.

For the past month, I have let Carly and Dusty save my soul. Imitating Brittany Murphy in "Little Black Book", I lie on my bathroom floor and belt out Carly Simon. Im alone at home, and I sound good, because Im singing my soul out, letting the wounds heal. In my room, at night, I snuggle up to the words of Dusty, crooning her words softly to myself. I lie spreadeagled on an empty beach and sing about clouds in my coffee and the son of a preacherman, while watching the clouds above me rearrange themselves and float away, leaving me cleansed and clear.

I am now wishin' and hopin'. I have fewer clouds in my coffee. I look forward to the look of love. I have no secrets. I can tell myself that I haven't got time for the pain. I close my eyes and count to ten. And, I am anticipating, that little by little, I'll know just what to do with myself.

So, thank you, Carly & Dusty, Simon & Springfield. For giving me the strength to sing, and for letting me know that my soul is worthwhile enough to be saved by both of you.

Ello All

I have always found a place in my life, for the music I love most. I have attached a song or an album to sometimes things as simple as a fleeting emotion, an entire book that I'd read or even an entire phase in my life. Let me state for the record that in the past few months I have heard at least 10-12 new albums, some which have been great, some not so much. But this obviously provided me and a population with a host of new material to attach our lives to. In any case I feel that’s what one of music’s most important functions should be. People do not want to listen to happy songs when they’re sad. They want to listen to sad songs when they are sad.
And how strange that this season I have been so lucky to find not hope or love or optimism. I found strength.

Battle studies is definitely one of those albums. John Mayer has surpassed himself and proven to be the best musician-singer-songwriter-guitarist of today, without any doubt whatsoever. He has effectively bridged old-fashioned blues and contemporary pop to produce an epic album, my favourite of last year. He described it as a ‘guidebook to relationships’, which could not be more true. If you are in a relationship, or just got out of one; if you have had your heart physically torn from out of your chest, and you feel helpless, if you feel trapped, or unloved or indifferent, remember not to lament. Don’t give up or give in, just be brave. Fight on.

I have never been a big fan of horror movies. Its not that I don’t enjoy them, per se, it’s just that I very rarely get scared or touched in any way when watching one. The only horror movies that have ever touched a chord in me, on a deep chilly level has been “The Exorcist” (surprise surprise) and “The Omen Trilogy”, both of which I own on DVD and have watched alone at home many a time. Since the creation of these movies, there has never been a movie that I have wanted to watch over and over again, or talk about, forget writing reviews.

I ignored the Blair Witch phenomenon. I watched the movie, sure, and while I admired the use of documentary film-making in terms of horror, I shrugged after watching the movie, and my exact words I recall was “Meh”.

However, Paranormal Activity aroused my interest for many reasons. 1) The extreme hype that surrounded it, 2) The abnormally minimal budget used to film it ($ 15,000) 3) It was being called the best horror movie of the decade. 4) The story seemed simple enough to have potential: a couple who believe they are being haunted, decide to film themselves and their home to spot any evidence of ghosts/demons.

A friend who I have always admired for his cool and calm head, lent me the DVD and warned me not to see it alone, and while I scoffed at him at the time, I'm glad I took his advice.

If you break it down into pieces (which you really shouldn’t do), analytically, the film isn’t a masterpiece. However, it does the one thing its supposed to do. It chills you. Its quiet, and theres no gore, or anything stereotypically scary but before you know it, you’re leaning back in your seat, and wondering why the heck you’re scared, because nothing has even happened. The entire film is set primarily in the couple’s bedroom, with a few minutes spent in the living room. It’s a movie based on conversation and a hand-held camera, a movie that while you say “Oh well, that wasn’t so bad”, once its done, STILL somehow has the power to keep you awake all night.

A friend and I watched the movie at 11pm, and by 12:30, it was done, and we bragged about how this was a bunch of overrated hype, and there was nothing scary about it. Then we went to bed, and managed to get sleep only at around 5am. Like the best of horror movies, there is no logic to why you should be scared. You know you aren’t possessed, you know there aren’t demons in your body, or ghouls under your bed, you also know that you’re an adult and you should really know better. Yet, like the best of horror movies, Paranormal Activity, gets you asking yourself the most creepy question of all : What if?

Ello all,

I have never been able to sing to save my life, and it is something I have made my peace with over the years. However, I whole-heartedly admire those who do sing, including Harry and Tejas and am content with being the only WeTheMember with zero vocal abilities.

One voice, in particular, I fell in love with some years ago, and I wished and hoped and prayed that her voice were mine. Despite the fact that after her debut album, much of her music has been disappointing, I stayed true to my love of her voice, her lazy croon, a voice that always made me want to curl up under covers with a book and a great sense of well-being. I stayed loyal to Norah Jones’ warm jazzy croon for 9 years, including the release of her new album, The Fall. 

While I downloaded The Fall in November, somehow I never found the time to listen to it until some days ago, on a long bus ride in an attempt to mar my thoughts. Norah didn’t let me down. While her last few albums have been mediocre imitations of her debut album “Come Away With Me”, her latest album shows that YES, she is willing to experiment with her beautiful voice, and isn’t afraid to step out of her comfort zone. Instead of falling back, yet again, into her jazzy/bluesy comfort zone, Jones has now stepped into rocknroll, leaving her trusty piano behind to embrace a guitar instead. 

The Fall, the result of a painful break-up, is a beautiful album that reaches out to lonely nights and heartache. Her lyrics are raw and honest, and soothe you where it hurts. Listening to this album, gives you the same comfort that a bartender gives you over many martinis. He doesn’t know you, but he exudes understanding. Norah Jones and I have never met, but in the three hours I spent with her in a bus, I knew that on some strange level, she understood. 

My personal favorites in The Fall, are “Back to Manhattan”, where in her unique voice she sings, “I’ll go back to Manhattan/ It’s just a train ride away/ I know nothing ’bout leaving/ but I know I should do it today” I identified with it instantly, because if you switched Manhattan for Sharjah, and a train for a bus, that was me in a nutshell. My other favorite is “Man of the Hour”, which is Jones’ ballad to her dog, where she croons: "And though we’ll never take a shower together/I know you’ll never make me cry/You never argue/You don’t even talk/And I like the way you let me lead you when we go outside and walk/Will you really be my only man of the hour?” A song that not only made me think of Harry and the comfort he derives from his dogs (a comfort that made me jealous sometimes), it also gave me my first smile in days. 

And since just recently, I listened to someone wax poetic on converting pain into art, my admiration for Norah Jones has now transcended into more than just coveting her voice. She took her pain, and her brokenness and she used it. She reinvented herself, removed herself from what was comfortable, and leaped. Even the most ardent haters of Norah Jones cant call The Fall yet another reproduction of her debut album. She took a risk, and emerged triumphant. She fell and is better for her Fall. 

P.S – The dog on the cover, is unfortunately NOT Norah Jones’s man of the hour. He is just a beautiful dog named Ben. Her actual Man of the Hour, is a 20 pound poodle, who according to Norah Jones, would have created chaos if allowed on any set. Ben, in my opinion however, would be the perfect Man of any Hour, non? Isnt he just beautiful?