Music was my first love and it stayed. Can’t say if it came from the family: parents, older brother and sister all music lovers, plus, the larger family full of singers and musicians. Or Calcutta where I grew up. So many things about the city was to do with the practicing and preaching of music, the exact word in many Indian languages, charcha. Neighborhoods at dusk would resonate with evening riyaaz, often cacophonous. Music was part of every child’s initial curriculum, a pursuit abandoned should they fail the litmus test. And those who abandoned it (parents included) became fans in the neighborhood of the ones who persisted. And so some of us who did persist not because we were prodigies but just possessed the initial sparks, were adored in the para (neighborhood). That was encouragement.
And I was there playing my piece in the evening symphony on tabla, sometimes accompanied by RamDa who would play Chandrakauns on the harmonium, and sometimes with my brother on sitar. All my other interests - a multitude drifting in and out at various points - are now only a faint memory. Like making catapults from the y of a tree's branch and strips of cycle tube, or flying kites or painting clay pots or collecting stamps and first day covers. Music survived my ADHD.
As a pupil of one of the best tabla Gurus then I may have had another reason. Plus with parents who sang along and encouraged everything musical, Hindustani classical, film music, even the stuff we listened to. And then of course there was The Beatles, mentioned last for reason. Who without any doubt occupied the singular spot for the favorite, a permanent answer to if there is one band which one would it be.
Music also got me friends before I hit my teens. Friends with whom LPs were exchanged and much time spent listening together. These friends stayed and conversations with them to this day gravitate to music. Those days if there was talk, it had to be music trivia. By the mid teens, we had to know all the facts. Like Joni Mitchell wrote Woodstock and also illustrated the jacket of CSNY's So Far, the album with their cover of her song. We collected rare LP s. A friend had a Blue Album that George Harrison had autographed, with a large Om below the signature. That was worth a million, it still must be. Am sure SG has kept that. Would like a selfie with it someday!
The stereo and turn-table were important possessions. Cosmic was an expensive brand. Sonodyne was cool to have. Both were Indian and produced the decibels you needed to deliver to your neighbours. Phillips was a tad inferior. Of course the more resourceful ones had Sansuis, Sonys and Akais. Few, whose fathers globe-trotted, had spool decks and fancier stuff. Cassettes came later and were difficult to manage. They somehow became mainstay despite the tendency to get flicked (a word in our dictionary then, for stolen) easily and the regular watch one had to keep against humidity and fungus attacks. By the time we were leaving school, CDs had appeared and were aspirational. My first one was a gift from my sister, a collection of Brahms produced by Polydor for the Festival of the USSR in India, in the mid-eighties.
Music also got me friends before I hit my teens. Friends with whom LPs were exchanged and much time spent listening together. These friends stayed and conversations with them to this day gravitate to music. Those days if there was talk, it had to be music trivia. By the mid teens, we had to know all the facts. Like Joni Mitchell wrote Woodstock and also illustrated the jacket of CSNY's So Far, the album with their cover of her song. We collected rare LP s. A friend had a Blue Album that George Harrison had autographed, with a large Om below the signature. That was worth a million, it still must be. Am sure SG has kept that. Would like a selfie with it someday!
The stereo and turn-table were important possessions. Cosmic was an expensive brand. Sonodyne was cool to have. Both were Indian and produced the decibels you needed to deliver to your neighbours. Phillips was a tad inferior. Of course the more resourceful ones had Sansuis, Sonys and Akais. Few, whose fathers globe-trotted, had spool decks and fancier stuff. Cassettes came later and were difficult to manage. They somehow became mainstay despite the tendency to get flicked (a word in our dictionary then, for stolen) easily and the regular watch one had to keep against humidity and fungus attacks. By the time we were leaving school, CDs had appeared and were aspirational. My first one was a gift from my sister, a collection of Brahms produced by Polydor for the Festival of the USSR in India, in the mid-eighties.
Then, there was music one could select and curate from rare LPs in Calcutta. Piracy in today's language. I remember buying my first collection of John Mayall, Robert Cray and other British blues artists from AC Market on Theatre Road, circa, 84/85. They would let you select songs from LPs. BASF was known for the best blank tapes, next was TDK. The quality of the recordings were good.
One thing though. I bothered less for the lyrics and more for the music. It had to sound good to the ear. I was probably slow. I sometimes couldn’t fathom the lines, but that did not matter. The music just had to be rich: the vocals, the instrumentals, the composition. And so the love for all the Jobim, Gilberto, Joao Bosco, Pavarotti and Placidos of the world. Closer to home, Mehdi Hassan remains to be comprehended to this day, i.e., Mir or the others whose ghazals he sang. At home there was one LP I loved of Rafi and Begum Akhtar. A classic, specially the mellow and glorious Urdu of Kaifi Azmi between the songs, narrating as Ghalib in 1st person the events of 1857.
And so it stayed that I never got past the first 10 seconds of Bob Dylan, read his off-putting nasal whine. I still struggle.
In my later years, with weed, thinking it might help, I ended up particularly liking neither. Rather, I developed a dislike for both: his music and weed. So I chose never to collect Dylan’s music in spite of the poetry and always smirked in the inside mixed with amazement, when some friends would gush over him. To me there was more and better music to explore. But here’s the twist. I did collect AND love not his but covers of his songs by others, example, the 40 odd versions of 'All Along the watchtower…’ from Ritchie Havens to DMB. Speaking of which my favorite still is Hendrix's, where the raspy guitar opening and sharp drumming can wake up a neighborhood. That opening transformed the song and was adopted by Dylan himself. It packed more kiloton than Joe Cocker's cover of With a little help. So here's conceding basically that I did love Dylan, the lyricist and composer! Maybe some rearrangements by others shone more brilliantly and sounded better to my ear, but to be fair those were all covers!
Therefore here’s also a belated toast to Robert Allan Zimmerman and fans of his I know who have loved him a 100% in spite of his nasal whine. @Shouvik Gangopadhyay, @Bhaskar Khaund, @Sandeep Talwar: wherever you are, you probably rejoiced his Nobel and it is most deserved. I raise my glass to your (our) laureate!
Am also off now to collect his stuff, at least grab copies of his lyrics and explore him better. A bit like when every time someone I’ve never heard of wins a literature Nobel, I get a copy of their work. The better part is this time I will read the literature. Read by listening to the music (his own and the glorious covers). And yes I am not the literary type, so I cannot argue about who wrote better, specially after I hear that another Dylan deserved the Nobel more!
