Music critique in Mussoorie

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March was a good month to be in Mussoorie. The air was nippy and clear, cool enough to feel the wintry chill but not so cold that you were stuck indoors under a mound of blankets. The town wasn’t free of tourists even in this lowest of off-seasons as Mall Road witnessed a steady parade of honeymooners and families from Delhi escaping the onset of summer in the plains below. But they weren’t overbearing and there was enough space for one to wander and take in the view of the Doon valley from its many viewpoints peacefully.

It was in Mussoorie that I developed the compulsive habit of visiting every affordable restaurant that anyone recommended to me. I took in suggestions offered from just about anywhere, the Lonely Planet, the tourist office, idle gossipers on park benches, backpackers, people I was traveling with. Like everything else that depended on other people pointing the way for you, it was a hit and miss affair but some of the hits were so good that the exercise appeared to be worthwhile.

It was on one of these “recce’s” that I hit the café somewhere in the middle of the Mall Road. The red and orange walls were decorated with posters of Jimi Hendrix, Guns N’ Roses, Led Zeppelin, Metallica, Deep Purple, Iron Maiden, some obscure Meghalayan guitarist I had never heard of, covers ripped off Rolling Stone Magazine and song lyrics and “inspirational” quotes by the aforesaid musicians scribbled all over. I felt like I was entering a shrine to classic rock than a restaurant. Nevertheless, since it was listed in the Lonely Planet, a fact confirmed by the huge “recommended by Lonely Planet” scribble pointing to a blowup of the review from the guidebook and a quote from Jimi Hendrix saying “Knowledge speaks, but wisdom listens”, I felt compelled to eat there.

Apart from a young man who was crouched over a table in a corner, there was nobody around. With his eyes closed, he appeared to be attentively listening to music on a walkman, bobbing his head up and down. He perked up when I tapped his shoulder to draw attention to the fact that there was a hungry customer waiting in his cafe.

“Oh, I’m sorry”, he said, “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not really”, I said, and then went on to compliment the décor of his restaurant.

“So what do you want to eat? Noodles okay? I can make noodles”, he said, cheerfully.

I was in no mood for noodles but since he had such a joyful countenance, I chose to go with what he had to offer.

P was a fan of “rock music” for as long as he could remember. His favourite band was Pink Floyd but his knowledge of their oeuvre extended only to “Another Brick in the Wall”, “Wish you Were Here” and other tracks from their live album “Pulse”. He played the guitar for a Dehradun-based rock band and cribbed about the lack of a music scene in the region. One of his friends was a DJ for a local radio channel, he said, and his aim was to filter in more rock music awareness through that avenue. His dream was to make songs that became more popular with the youth and he felt he could achieve it by blending guitar riffs with Indian sounds to make the music sound new and attractive.

“You mean, like what Junoon and Euphoria are doing,” I said, trying to mask my skepticism.

“No, no, they are too commercial,” he said. “I want us to sound like Deep Purple but, like, more Indian, you know? With violins and all.”

“You mean, like Parikrama?”

“Yes, yes, exactly, something like that. But hopefully bigger.”

After a quick trip to the kitchen to check on the noodles, he asked me if I would like to hear a song his band had been recording. Of course, I said, I couldn’t wait to hear it.

He fetched his walkman and put on the tape.  The song began with the vocalist doing a tacky raga-like imitation of the opening riffs of “Paradise City” by Guns N’ Roses. P must have seen a frown on my face, so he paused the song and added a disclaimer saying, “Please remember that this is just a scratch recording. We’ll be refining the song when we record the final version. The solo in the middle is all me by the way.” And then flashing a smile, he said, “Now I’ll let you listen in peace.”

When he was away in the kitchen paying more attention to my noodles, I resumed the song. It may have been a scratch recording but the song was horrific in every imaginable way. After the wordless opening raga, the song plunged into a sub-Blink 182 mode with a punky rhythm robbed of all energy by the fact that the rhythm guy just didn’t have any, well, rhythm. The lyrics were some mumbo jumbo about dreams and angels and falling in love in a dream with an angel or some terrible crap like that. It’s a good thing that I’m writing this over 8 years after the event because much of the residue left of the words in my memory has been wiped out with time.

Then the guitar solo began. Oh, the ordeal. It started with decent uptempo riffs but then, for some reason, he abruptly went up the scale and began a bending spree that sounded like a series of streaky burps and ended with an out of control atonal arpeggio assault. It sounded as if he had worked out 3 different techniques to do one solo and hadn’t figured out how to transition smoothly between the sections.

Soon, P arrived with my noodles. I looked at him, smiled, nodded, thanked him for the song and began to eat. After my meal, he asked me expectantly, “So how did you like it?”

I thought the noodles were too oily but I told him I enjoyed the food.

“Not the food, man. I’m talking about my song. How did you like the song?”

“Oh, the song…”, I said, thinking of the best strategy to adopt here.

“The song was really fantastic, especially the solo in the middle,” I said, not wanting to get into trouble in a town I didn’t know. “I’m sure you’ll work out the little technical glitches in between and smoothen out your solo in the final cut.”

“What glitches?”, he said, looking bewildered.

“Oh, you know, when you bent the high notes all of a sudden and the somewhat abrupt arpeggios at the end…”

“Oh, the solo is fully done. It’s going to stay as it is”, he said, defiantly. “My band has agreed that it’s the best element of the song at the moment. In the final edit, we’ll just do a proper mix and we would be ready to go.”

“Ah, okay. So you’re all set then. Best of luck.”

“You don’t seem to be very happy. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing”, I said, resignedly, “What do I know about music anyway?”

“That’s okay. Let me explain. The song is about angels and afterlife, yeah? So I had to work out something really freaky for the solo section. When I bend the notes, you should feel as if the man’s soul is departing for the netherworld. After that, you might have noticed that it returns to normal but picks up the motif again at a faster pace. That’s because he’s reunited with the angel he loved. It’s a happy moment, so I play fast at the end. My solo summarises the story of the song in 40 seconds.”

It’s never easy to tell musicians/artists that you didn’t like what they had created when you were in front of them, however terrible it may have seemed to you, and especially when one had put in as much thought and effort into their music as P appeared to have.

So I said, “That’s really impressive. It’s a great concept. Maybe you could put that information on the liner notes of your album because some of us aren’t as smart as you are.”

He took my e-mail address and promised to send me some of the other tracks when they were ready to get more feedback. A part of me is glad that never happened.

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