... and him bite very hot: Jamaican Proverb
Third post in as many days. This must be a record.
The Venue: Jazz
The Occasion: Weekend
I am dragged out of bed, not entirely against my wishes, by Chops and D, after I have been gradually marinated with small doses of Chivas 14 years since afternoon.
The band is a new one. I have seen their name on hoardings, but never heard them before. It turns out that they have a particularly good bassist, and great choice of music. As we enter we are treated to a near perfect rendition of almost the entire The Wall Vol 1. Side A. After this some Nirvana, then again some very, very good Dark Side of Moon. Agreed, the lead vocals were a little feeble, but then that could be a technical issue.
Suddenly, a bunch of high-pitched women start screaming those horror words: “Hotel California”. Now, I have nothing against the song, but just that it is one of those which have been rendered boring by repetition. Any band which performs this, or even Sweet Child of Mine, is downgraded two notches in my scheme of things. Horror of horrors, the band decides to play this song, with the women breaking into a jive on the song with their men folk. Ugh!!!
Inspired by their success, they go on to ask for Sweet Child (a very good song, but not again please!!!), converting the purist again. This time I decided not to even look at what dance form befitted that song. My friends and I shake our heads in dismay, but then I am reminded of a verdict passed by KD recently at HRC recently, when they were playing some seriously puppy love music (and obviously to the gallery). KD had said: “DJ o toh manush, oro niche jineesh potro ache. Chhoto chhoto jama pore kochi mey guli giye ‘summer of 69’ chaile, koto baar mana korbe.” (Roghly translated: The DJ is a man too, he has things down under to take care of. When cute girls wearing short dresses come up and ask for summer of 69, how many times can he say no.”
Well, that explains. And I was just hoping things wouldn’t boil down to “Summer of ‘69”. And thankfully it didn’t. What transpired next was a little more horrific though. It turns out that I knew those women, actually their husbands. They work in the same firm, but in some obscure department though. Then I made the next mistake of telling my friends that. And the wrath is now directed to me and I am told five years down the line, I will find myself in a similar situation- when my wife and her hysterical friends will be screaming likewise and break into a tango over Sweet Child. And I won’t know where to look.
Later at night walking on Marine Drive, I wonder if that is possible. Perhaps. I am sure each of those guys considered themselves real cool cats/ rock stars, or whatever, strumming that air-guitar while waltzing with their wives. Maybe they even appreciated their wives’ sense of music and timing; and their choice of dance form (man, I am married to the Prom Queen). May be they felt a certain sense of pride in it. Maybe that’s what marriage does to you. Maybe I do not understand their Point of View. Maybe that’s why I am where I am today.
If I get married, I will do it with the knowledge that it is going to change me like no relationship ever has or even will. But I just hope the changes are not of this nature.
PS: I do impulse shopping every Sunday evening to fight the crabby pre-work week mood that I am in. This time I bought a mannequin- i.e. everything that was there on it, and then a bit more. Odd sized shorts (which a friend calls Pauni Chaddi), matching T-Shirt, floaters, sneakers. Would have bought a jacket as well, but they didn’t have my size. And then D bought identical sneakers too, but in a lovely pink. All from the same Nike store on Linking Road. Damages? INR20k. Sunday Bloody Sunday!!!
Calvin (on Sunday): Any day you have to take a bath and go to bed early isn’t a day off in my book.
Third post in as many days. This must be a record.
The Venue: Jazz
The Occasion: Weekend
I am dragged out of bed, not entirely against my wishes, by Chops and D, after I have been gradually marinated with small doses of Chivas 14 years since afternoon.
The band is a new one. I have seen their name on hoardings, but never heard them before. It turns out that they have a particularly good bassist, and great choice of music. As we enter we are treated to a near perfect rendition of almost the entire The Wall Vol 1. Side A. After this some Nirvana, then again some very, very good Dark Side of Moon. Agreed, the lead vocals were a little feeble, but then that could be a technical issue.
Suddenly, a bunch of high-pitched women start screaming those horror words: “Hotel California”. Now, I have nothing against the song, but just that it is one of those which have been rendered boring by repetition. Any band which performs this, or even Sweet Child of Mine, is downgraded two notches in my scheme of things. Horror of horrors, the band decides to play this song, with the women breaking into a jive on the song with their men folk. Ugh!!!
Inspired by their success, they go on to ask for Sweet Child (a very good song, but not again please!!!), converting the purist again. This time I decided not to even look at what dance form befitted that song. My friends and I shake our heads in dismay, but then I am reminded of a verdict passed by KD recently at HRC recently, when they were playing some seriously puppy love music (and obviously to the gallery). KD had said: “DJ o toh manush, oro niche jineesh potro ache. Chhoto chhoto jama pore kochi mey guli giye ‘summer of 69’ chaile, koto baar mana korbe.” (Roghly translated: The DJ is a man too, he has things down under to take care of. When cute girls wearing short dresses come up and ask for summer of 69, how many times can he say no.”
Well, that explains. And I was just hoping things wouldn’t boil down to “Summer of ‘69”. And thankfully it didn’t. What transpired next was a little more horrific though. It turns out that I knew those women, actually their husbands. They work in the same firm, but in some obscure department though. Then I made the next mistake of telling my friends that. And the wrath is now directed to me and I am told five years down the line, I will find myself in a similar situation- when my wife and her hysterical friends will be screaming likewise and break into a tango over Sweet Child. And I won’t know where to look.
Later at night walking on Marine Drive, I wonder if that is possible. Perhaps. I am sure each of those guys considered themselves real cool cats/ rock stars, or whatever, strumming that air-guitar while waltzing with their wives. Maybe they even appreciated their wives’ sense of music and timing; and their choice of dance form (man, I am married to the Prom Queen). May be they felt a certain sense of pride in it. Maybe that’s what marriage does to you. Maybe I do not understand their Point of View. Maybe that’s why I am where I am today.
If I get married, I will do it with the knowledge that it is going to change me like no relationship ever has or even will. But I just hope the changes are not of this nature.
PS: I do impulse shopping every Sunday evening to fight the crabby pre-work week mood that I am in. This time I bought a mannequin- i.e. everything that was there on it, and then a bit more. Odd sized shorts (which a friend calls Pauni Chaddi), matching T-Shirt, floaters, sneakers. Would have bought a jacket as well, but they didn’t have my size. And then D bought identical sneakers too, but in a lovely pink. All from the same Nike store on Linking Road. Damages? INR20k. Sunday Bloody Sunday!!!
Calvin (on Sunday): Any day you have to take a bath and go to bed early isn’t a day off in my book.
1 comment:
I know Jazz. I know the women. Well.. maybe not those particular women, or that particular band. But one day, listening to an obscure band playing country songs, i remember some women doing the 'twist'. It's for things like that i get out of home at all :D And hey, if marriage turns you into one of the husbands, atleast you'll be secure in the knowledge that you do have a partner in crime :-)
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