Or more accurately, a list of online identities to spitefully assign to your classmates as you magnanimously tolerate the text version of their vacuous mental excretion .
Identity #1: compulsive laugher.
These personalities swarm the internet, occasionally interrupting you even when your status is set to "busy" or "away". Watch out for their arsenal of lols, which they fire at you incessantly, in worst cases driving thee to thine grave. For this reason we assign them the code name of "The Grin".
Sample conversation:
The Grin: hi der
Magnanimously Tolerant Intellectual: I wasn't named after a pronoun
TG: lol
*pause*
TG: wots up?
MTI: According to earth's gravitational field, and relative to one's own position, the direction that the sky is in
TG: lol
- Please note that laughter so frequent is generally characteristic of severe dementia. Indeed, only the severely demented do not know of geographical directions so basic as "up".
TG: wot you doin rite now?
MTI: I am currently typing these words
TG: lol
MTI: stop laughing
TG: lol
MTI: no, really, it's annoying
TG: lol
TG: I'm crazy
TG: lol
MTI (experimentally): lol
TG: ROTFL
MTI: ROTFL
TG: hahaha, so u get it?
MTI: hahaha, no
TG: lol
And at this point the MTI resists a very powerful urge to call up bannarghatta zoo and tell it that a hyena has escaped.
Identity #2: The Bitch
Pure pedigrees, too. Read it and see for yourself.
TB: hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!
MTI: hello
TB: omg, Insertname's such a bitch!
MTI: ah.
TB: like, yesterday, she cpied all mi aswrs in french clss, and all she sed ws like "thnx" n den she woked off!
MTI: maybe she had to use to loo.
TB: huh ya thats lik sooooo convenient!
MTI: yes, bathrooms are a beloved convenience of civilized society
TB: o btw cn u rite lik the english essay fr me? pleeeez!
MTI: no.
TB: o cmon pleeez! s mi frnd's bday tmrw n I hve to make a crd!
MTI: It's my grandaunt's death anniversary tomorrow and I have to stitch a dress.
TB: o cmon
MTI: no
TB: k I g2g n dont frget da essay k? thnx bi
Indentity #3: The Doofus
Caused either by excessive chatting or masculinity. Cannot comprehend subtlety, cannot comprehend references to previous lines. These entities are so common that software engineers are using them as models for AI software that will automatically handle unwanted instant messangers. Sample code looks somewhat like this:
DO CASE (chatstatement)
CASE chatstatement IS_EMOTIONAL
PRINT RESPONSE "I feel bad for u"
CASE chatstatement IS_A_QUESTION
PRINT RESPONSE "I dunno"
CASE chatstatement IS_ A_QUESTION_THAT_I_REALLY_DON'T_KNOW
PRINT RESPONSE "I guess"
CASE chatstatement CONTINUES_THE_LINE_JUST_ABOVE_IT
PRINT RESPONSE "wot r u toking about?"
CASE chatstatement IS_A_NORMAL_STATEMENT
PRINT RESPONSE "cool"
CASE chatstatement MAKES_NO_SENSE_WHATSOEVER
STORE chatstatement TO mustbeajoke; PRINT RESPONSE "hahaha"
CASE chatstatement IS_NONE_OF_THE_ABOVE
DO METHOD FIZZLE_BRAIN; PRINT RESPONSE "i g2g, mi mums rily mad | il ttyl, bi!"
ENDCASE
Needless to say, the doofus is notoriously difficult to make conversation with. Take the following sample:
MTI: I watched a movie today:
TD: cool
*pause*
MTI: It wasn't a very good movie
TD: I feel bad for u
MTI: You do?
TD: I dunno
MTI: No, seriously, do you actually feel bad that I watched a movie so terrible you haven't even mustered the courage to ask about its name?
TD: I guess
MTI: Oh, what's that which just whizzed past your head? Oh, I think it was The Point!
TD: hahaha
MTI: There it goes again!
TD: wot r u talking about?
MTI: The Point
TD: wot point?
MTI: never mind
TD: cool
MTI: What do you want to be when you graduate?
TD: dunno
MTI: come on, you must have some idea, right?
TD: I guess
MTI: You do? Then maybe you should become a fortune teller.
TD: wot r u toking about?
MTI: Oh no, not this again!
TD: wot r u talking about?
MTI: the imminence of the apocalypse
TD: hahaha
*pause*
MTI: You are something, you know?
TD: I dunno
MTI(experimentally): Linear B
TD: hahaha
*pause*
MTI: bob?
TD: cool
MTI: let's have you ask me a question
*crunchcrunchcrunch* *fizzle*
TD: k i g2g, mi mums rily mad
MTI: really? I hear it's hereditary.
TD: il ttyl, bi!
Identity #4: Mia
This identity is directly inspired by a friend of mine who is…excitable, shall we say? Little introduction is necessary, but visualization certainly makes the dialogue more interesting. Picture a bunny that is mostly normal, although a bit red-faced about the hypocrisy of Russia’s foreign policy, and that Fred Fox took its carrot.
MTI: Hi Mia
MIA: Hello
MTI: Doing anything productive?
MIA: I was hoping to practice a speech I wrote for Tuesday.
MTI: Oh, well, you know what they say: The drearier your speech, the harder the applause when you're done.
MIA: Who's they?
MTI: Um, the voices in my head, Mia.
MIA: You should tell someone.
MTI: What? Mia, I was joking! Quit analyzing!
MIA: I see. So they is just a pronoun inserted to make the sentence grammatically accurate.
MTI: um, I suppose so.
*pause*
MTI: So, what else are you doing online?
MIA: Joining a random online organization.
MTI: Good god, Mia, you should never go in for those! The next thing you know you'll be receiving random emails from your long-lost half-brother.
MIA: You know my long-lost half brother?
MTI: What? No! I meant the emails would claim to be from your long-lost half brother!
MIA: So I have a long-lost half brother out there and people write emails claiming to be him
MTI: No, I mean, people claim that you have a long-lost half brother and claim to be him.
MIA: Ah.
*pause*
MIA: Who are these people?
MTI (giving up): They live in Jamaica. Their names are bob.
MIA: YOU KNOW THEM?
MTI: Mia, I am one of them.
MIA: WHAT?!
MTI: I write to people claiming to be your half-brother. He does exist, actually.
MIA: HE DOES?!!!
MTI: We keep him tied up in the cellar and feed him chicken soup the whole day.
MIA: YOU CRUEL, CRUEL PERSON!!!
MTI: Mia, calm. I was joking.
MIA: WHAT?
MTI: joke(n.): A mischievous trick; a prank.
- I never find out how the conversation ends; Mia always blocks me around now.
-Avanti Shrikumar
e mërkurë, 20 qershor 2007
What's in a name? (the editorial of our first issue)
The White Crayon. There are too many predictable reactions to such a name that would be written all over countenances. There are the self-convinced intellectuals seeking a deeper meaning in life who would squint at the bold letters and blink too frequently, stroking their chins and conjuring up multiple ambiguous implicit meanings to what the object could personify. There are those who would raise an eyebrow and sneer at the sheer stupidity of it all, savouring one more attempt, like all the other newspapers that are starting to be a bore, to ridicule, along with the title. And there are those who might just simply shrug their shoulders and ignore the posters and sparse issues and go their own way, immersed in their own worlds, irrespective of how much of it is real and how much a creation of their minds (who wouldn't or shouldn't be reading this). Alright, your eyes could already be skimming my dismissed words because of the stereotypes I've decided to use and possibly sound convinced of, but it all elicits that the question in response to something like "The White Crayon" would be WHY?
What if the title of our venture into the literary realm was simply stated, without any explanation whatsoever? Stated, printed, brusque, with the convenient use of a period. It could be said that the title is The White Crayon and just is, the words emerging from someone's mouth impulsively. Can such an answer be accepted? Hardly. The spontaneity of everything has long been forgotten, invariably tainted by some sort of thought or deliberation. That cocoon of comfortable complacency is never allowed to exist anymore. It is constantly prodded and eventually wrenched open by some manifestation of criticism, forced to unravel its flaws, which is of course the delicious subject of those analysts. This leads to the timeless argument questioning whether ignorance is blissful or not, and reminds me of a line in one of Sir Oscar Wilde's plays: "Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone."
You could easily say that such a manner to choose the name "The White Crayon" exhibits the lack of thought or the ability to perceive, that such a name lacking effort simply foreshadows a journal with the same lack of erudition. I myself would probably do the same. It is rather disappointing though, that in our generation our minds are, by our own will and instigated by parents, teachers, and our wonderful environment, accelerated possibly overwhelmingly past the phase of innocence and the ability to simply accept without incessant criticism of everything. Thus, for the majority of us who are either not enlightened enough to simply accept The White Crayon without any doubt, or feel that we all have the right to question and criticize and should, here are a few possible interpretations that come to mind with regard to the title of our journal.
Simplistically, one can discern that out of all the colours in a box of crayons, white is the most unused one. It almost unarguably retains its pointiness compared to all the other crayons worn down by enthusiasm, and is hardly even acknowledged. So "The White Crayon" could be referring to invisibility, something we all experience, some enjoying it and some dreading it. Perhaps our journal encourages all of those who are perfectly alright in their unnoticed state, possibly like myself, to leave their safe, invisible zones where their work is only appreciated and criticized by their own minds, and try becoming a colour for once to the world. Which brings about another well-known debate- does someone's art, in any form, need to be exposed to everyone? Does it require praise and recognition, as well as analysis? Or can it be safely stored in the recess of your own mind? Our literary journal serves, in one light, as an experiment: to see if sharing all our gifts of art benefit any of us, to test whether any are deserving to see our talents whatsoever. At least it is a test for myself.
Is it a question of confidence? To this day, at sixteen, I can freely admit I still do not have some sort of established reassurance within myself that I am good enough. We all know there will always be those who excel beyond your reach, who can either motivate you to compete or simply reinforce your sense of resignation, shattering any definition of "good enough". But supposing there is a standard that you feel is satisfying enough, can or should we be reassured at all, if it is self-proclaimed? Or must it be confirmed by someone else?
Before it gets to be too much, I'll stop the Pandora's box of spilling questions. One can easily see that all of this does not simply deal with why the hell we named the paper "The White Crayon". It conveniently served as the first domino to knock over a series of hurried questions. Let's just see if The White Crayon provides some kind of answer.
-Amrita Mishra
What if the title of our venture into the literary realm was simply stated, without any explanation whatsoever? Stated, printed, brusque, with the convenient use of a period. It could be said that the title is The White Crayon and just is, the words emerging from someone's mouth impulsively. Can such an answer be accepted? Hardly. The spontaneity of everything has long been forgotten, invariably tainted by some sort of thought or deliberation. That cocoon of comfortable complacency is never allowed to exist anymore. It is constantly prodded and eventually wrenched open by some manifestation of criticism, forced to unravel its flaws, which is of course the delicious subject of those analysts. This leads to the timeless argument questioning whether ignorance is blissful or not, and reminds me of a line in one of Sir Oscar Wilde's plays: "Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone."
You could easily say that such a manner to choose the name "The White Crayon" exhibits the lack of thought or the ability to perceive, that such a name lacking effort simply foreshadows a journal with the same lack of erudition. I myself would probably do the same. It is rather disappointing though, that in our generation our minds are, by our own will and instigated by parents, teachers, and our wonderful environment, accelerated possibly overwhelmingly past the phase of innocence and the ability to simply accept without incessant criticism of everything. Thus, for the majority of us who are either not enlightened enough to simply accept The White Crayon without any doubt, or feel that we all have the right to question and criticize and should, here are a few possible interpretations that come to mind with regard to the title of our journal.
Simplistically, one can discern that out of all the colours in a box of crayons, white is the most unused one. It almost unarguably retains its pointiness compared to all the other crayons worn down by enthusiasm, and is hardly even acknowledged. So "The White Crayon" could be referring to invisibility, something we all experience, some enjoying it and some dreading it. Perhaps our journal encourages all of those who are perfectly alright in their unnoticed state, possibly like myself, to leave their safe, invisible zones where their work is only appreciated and criticized by their own minds, and try becoming a colour for once to the world. Which brings about another well-known debate- does someone's art, in any form, need to be exposed to everyone? Does it require praise and recognition, as well as analysis? Or can it be safely stored in the recess of your own mind? Our literary journal serves, in one light, as an experiment: to see if sharing all our gifts of art benefit any of us, to test whether any are deserving to see our talents whatsoever. At least it is a test for myself.
Is it a question of confidence? To this day, at sixteen, I can freely admit I still do not have some sort of established reassurance within myself that I am good enough. We all know there will always be those who excel beyond your reach, who can either motivate you to compete or simply reinforce your sense of resignation, shattering any definition of "good enough". But supposing there is a standard that you feel is satisfying enough, can or should we be reassured at all, if it is self-proclaimed? Or must it be confirmed by someone else?
Before it gets to be too much, I'll stop the Pandora's box of spilling questions. One can easily see that all of this does not simply deal with why the hell we named the paper "The White Crayon". It conveniently served as the first domino to knock over a series of hurried questions. Let's just see if The White Crayon provides some kind of answer.
-Amrita Mishra
Song for Scott Guber
Goodbye Scott, and I'm sorry they wiped you
I think I'm the only fan you ever had
Most people thought you were evil, or mad.
But all they did was misconstrue you;
You were far greater than your fat boss
You never sought glory for yourself,
You loved your lousy job, at your own loss
You let yourself be left upon the shelf
And instead you did all the nasty work
The unpopular decisions, everything
That Stevens always decided to shirk.
When late in your office you began to sing
I saw that you were not at all the prick
That the others made you out to be
You had class, and heart, and with every click
Of your fingers your beauty I could see
Music, of course, was the love of your life
But it showed me the power of your love
And through all your crusades, your painful strife
You never lost that hope or that love
And eventually, you let us all see it
But their hatred for you refuses to wear:
You're dead now, so they say I shouldn't care
But I swear one day I'll make them believe it.
-Keshava Guha
I think I'm the only fan you ever had
Most people thought you were evil, or mad.
But all they did was misconstrue you;
You were far greater than your fat boss
You never sought glory for yourself,
You loved your lousy job, at your own loss
You let yourself be left upon the shelf
And instead you did all the nasty work
The unpopular decisions, everything
That Stevens always decided to shirk.
When late in your office you began to sing
I saw that you were not at all the prick
That the others made you out to be
You had class, and heart, and with every click
Of your fingers your beauty I could see
Music, of course, was the love of your life
But it showed me the power of your love
And through all your crusades, your painful strife
You never lost that hope or that love
And eventually, you let us all see it
But their hatred for you refuses to wear:
You're dead now, so they say I shouldn't care
But I swear one day I'll make them believe it.
-Keshava Guha
If it's written in the stars, what happens when they die?
Things are funny sometimes. The world, I mean. "Things in the world" would be the best way to put it, I guess. Such as how everything we believe and perceive is actually made up, or invented, by another like us. Banging together two identical parts of your body (clapping your hands, as people like to call it), for example, is seen as a form of high praise, and not as an act that which doesn't only create an annoying noise, but can, with time, cause tremendous pain to your hands. All the complicated rules to life, the wrong turns, the "proper" way of doing things; all invented by some foolish being. Yes, humans are the smartest of all animals, for a certain gene that gave us "intelligence". Damn that gene!
But if you just think about things sometimes, you'd be surprised. Things not engineered by human action and thought. Things which happen, let's say, by chance. Fate, if you like, chance, if you don't. Let me quote something from somewhere as an example.
"You ever look at a picture of yourself and see a stranger in the background? It makes you wonder how many strangers have pictures of you. How many moments of people's lives have we been in? Were we part of someone's life when their dreams came true? Or were we there when their dreams died? Did we keep trying to get in as if we were somehow destined to be there? Or did the shot take us by surprise? Just think, you could be a big part of someone else's life, and not even know it."
(One Tree Hill, Season 4, Episode 3)
Strange if you actually think about it, right? Makes you want to rush out and grab that old, dusty photo album and sit for hours postulating just what that dumpy man in the red bathing suit was trying to achieve, standing on his head on the side of the pool, doesn't it? Did he reach enlightenment? Or just discover a new way to get rid of a hangover? You'll never know. But, for that instant in time, as you stood shivering in your tiny bathing suit, smiling awkwardly as someone took your photograph, you were part of his life. And you have that moment captured with him, forever. Chance? Or design.
I believe in fate. Well not fully, I believe we all have a choice in whatever we do. Every second of the day. Me typing this out right now is putting me on a different path which eventually (in the next nano-second or so) will lead to another crossroad. And finally the choices we make, will result in us following billions of winding roads passing trillions of signposts which finally lead to our final destination. The end. The golden light.
Now, someone I was discussing this with said that what I believe is completely contradictary. Because if there were so many million choices and so many billion permutations and combinations, how can one say that things are pre-ordained? But then there's another take on the matter. With all the infinite options and roads to go on, what makes us choose that one specific path? Divine intervention? Or just plain human asinine-ness? Hmm...We'll never know the answer to the universe. Well maybe we will. Maybe we'll come to a time when we can confidently state that the answer is 42 (or something to that likeness) but then, we would probably have forgotten the question.
But I digress. Or do I? Hard to say. Sometimes I believe that there are an infinite number of parallel universes, and in each we are making different choices. Ever experienced moments of sheer euphoria and you can't explain why? Or suddenly you're depressed, once again, completely unjustified? That's because for a zepto second you glimpse what a wonderful/terrible time you're having in the other universe. And you want to be there, or it just plain scares you. Maybe I'm just talking a bunch of nonsense. *sigh*
Well whatever it is, maybe out there someone is laughing sadistically (or affectionately) as he (She? It?) watches everything BE exactly the way it was supposed to. So everything happens for a reason. Everything has a purpose. Or maybe the big guy up there is shaking his head in amusement at the utter mess we're making of our lives (what with the global warming and all) and chuckling at the weak attempts we make to try and figure it all out when the answer is dancing right in front of us in an electric green tutu.
"We've rushed and rushed and rushed, and now, it feels like the world has just come to a standstill."
"Maybe the world is still rushing, but we've just come to a standstill; or maybe we've finally come to the right place and there isn't a need to rush anymore."
"Is this the right place?" "Is this where we're meant to be? Right now?"
"I don't really believe in fate, but this is better than where we were before. If we weren't here, where would we be right now?"
"It doesn't matter. We're here."
"Yes, we are."
(Lines from an online fiction called “Eclipse” written by Phoenix song available on www.schnoogle.com )
-Avantika Agarwal
But if you just think about things sometimes, you'd be surprised. Things not engineered by human action and thought. Things which happen, let's say, by chance. Fate, if you like, chance, if you don't. Let me quote something from somewhere as an example.
"You ever look at a picture of yourself and see a stranger in the background? It makes you wonder how many strangers have pictures of you. How many moments of people's lives have we been in? Were we part of someone's life when their dreams came true? Or were we there when their dreams died? Did we keep trying to get in as if we were somehow destined to be there? Or did the shot take us by surprise? Just think, you could be a big part of someone else's life, and not even know it."
(One Tree Hill, Season 4, Episode 3)
Strange if you actually think about it, right? Makes you want to rush out and grab that old, dusty photo album and sit for hours postulating just what that dumpy man in the red bathing suit was trying to achieve, standing on his head on the side of the pool, doesn't it? Did he reach enlightenment? Or just discover a new way to get rid of a hangover? You'll never know. But, for that instant in time, as you stood shivering in your tiny bathing suit, smiling awkwardly as someone took your photograph, you were part of his life. And you have that moment captured with him, forever. Chance? Or design.
I believe in fate. Well not fully, I believe we all have a choice in whatever we do. Every second of the day. Me typing this out right now is putting me on a different path which eventually (in the next nano-second or so) will lead to another crossroad. And finally the choices we make, will result in us following billions of winding roads passing trillions of signposts which finally lead to our final destination. The end. The golden light.
Now, someone I was discussing this with said that what I believe is completely contradictary. Because if there were so many million choices and so many billion permutations and combinations, how can one say that things are pre-ordained? But then there's another take on the matter. With all the infinite options and roads to go on, what makes us choose that one specific path? Divine intervention? Or just plain human asinine-ness? Hmm...We'll never know the answer to the universe. Well maybe we will. Maybe we'll come to a time when we can confidently state that the answer is 42 (or something to that likeness) but then, we would probably have forgotten the question.
But I digress. Or do I? Hard to say. Sometimes I believe that there are an infinite number of parallel universes, and in each we are making different choices. Ever experienced moments of sheer euphoria and you can't explain why? Or suddenly you're depressed, once again, completely unjustified? That's because for a zepto second you glimpse what a wonderful/terrible time you're having in the other universe. And you want to be there, or it just plain scares you. Maybe I'm just talking a bunch of nonsense. *sigh*
Well whatever it is, maybe out there someone is laughing sadistically (or affectionately) as he (She? It?) watches everything BE exactly the way it was supposed to. So everything happens for a reason. Everything has a purpose. Or maybe the big guy up there is shaking his head in amusement at the utter mess we're making of our lives (what with the global warming and all) and chuckling at the weak attempts we make to try and figure it all out when the answer is dancing right in front of us in an electric green tutu.
"We've rushed and rushed and rushed, and now, it feels like the world has just come to a standstill."
"Maybe the world is still rushing, but we've just come to a standstill; or maybe we've finally come to the right place and there isn't a need to rush anymore."
"Is this the right place?" "Is this where we're meant to be? Right now?"
"I don't really believe in fate, but this is better than where we were before. If we weren't here, where would we be right now?"
"It doesn't matter. We're here."
"Yes, we are."
(Lines from an online fiction called “Eclipse” written by Phoenix song available on www.schnoogle.com )
-Avantika Agarwal
A Poet's Hypocritical Truth
Too well you know you’re seen but not seen through,
Lying languid there in the easy dark,
Hiding in or from a hiatus?
Curled toes slopping, smoothening cement,
Wording ringlets of soundless satisfyingly senseless smoke so savoured
To fog up the empty cool air of the minds of those fools
Lying there in the mothed dark, waiting.
Now as these words appear I hear you laughing
Metal-lipped, stealing my smug snug warmth,
As I slip on my unhardened cement
Falling into blinking daylight.
-Amrita Mishra
Lying languid there in the easy dark,
Hiding in or from a hiatus?
Curled toes slopping, smoothening cement,
Wording ringlets of soundless satisfyingly senseless smoke so savoured
To fog up the empty cool air of the minds of those fools
Lying there in the mothed dark, waiting.
Now as these words appear I hear you laughing
Metal-lipped, stealing my smug snug warmth,
As I slip on my unhardened cement
Falling into blinking daylight.
-Amrita Mishra
e premte, 15 qershor 2007
It's better to burn out than it is to rust
PEARL JAM
Pearl Jam
J Records, 2006
Pearl Jam (The band)- Well what can I say? They are a bloody brilliant band (quite aptly put don’t you think?). Their mixture of grunge sound, classic rock roots, heartfelt lyrics and deep vocals all come together to form a concoction of pure musical excellence. They exploded onto the scene in 1991 with, in my opinion, the best album to be released in decades, the epic “Ten”. But fifteen years later it can be seen that with age, Pearl Jam, the band, are rusting. They are still an amazing band, better than most, but their latest album has confirmed the fears of the entire music listening world by making it certain that the heights of “Ten” will never again be reached by them.
Pearl Jam (The self titled album released in 2006)- To be fair, in isolation, this is quite a good album. I mean if Good Charlotte, Simple Plan or some such band were to release an album like this, I would count it as being an outstanding album. For Pearl Jam, however, it’s a whole different story. (My apologies to all Good Charlotte and Simple Plan fans, but it’s just that their music tastes like a Popsicle forcibly being shoved up someone’s ass.) Anyway, with our expectations of this great band, after listening to this album the words disappointing, overestimation and disenchantment come to mind. Through the years Pearl Jam’s sound has evolved from being very hard rock like, to something more sober. In this album they tried to recreate their hard rock sound and, unsurprisingly they weren’t able too. Why they tried to revisit those hard rock roots is beyond me. As a huge Pearl Jam fan, their new “sober” sound has grown on me and I was even looking forward to an evolved sober Pearl Jam record, instead what I got was a valiant but unsuccessful attempt by a great band to try and be something they were fifteen years ago.
We as Pearl Jam fans have become accustomed to every album of theirs having inventive and original guitar riffs. It pains me to say that their inspirational guitarist (Mike McReady) has dropped the ball on this one. The guitar riffs are ok but not nearly up to Pearl Jam quality, where songs like Comatose and Life Wasted in particular have quite basic guitar bridges.
It is also apparent that Pearl Jam are more of a personal band. By this I mean that their songs that deal with personal issues of the band members tend to be great, as the band can truly engage with the song. You can see this in their older songs such as Black, Yellow Ledbetter, Betterman, Indifference and so on. In this album Pearl Jam deal with political issues and as a result, the quality of those songs are insufficient as the band are clearly not engaging themselves with this political message as opposed to how they did when their songs were about personal issues. A testament to this belief is the fact that the most endearing and musically captivating song in this album is perhaps the only personal song- Comeback.
This album does have its bright spots; songs such as Comeback, Gone and Army Reserve are pretty good songs, Comeback being the pick of the lot. Another positive that Pearl Jam can take away from this album are its lyrics. Pearl Jam have always had good lyrics and this album is no different. Its nice to see that at least in song writing Pearl Jam are meeting the high standards set by themselves.
As pointed out by a fellow Pearl Jam fan I seem to have quite unjustly dealt with this album, therefore in conclusion I’d just like to repeat that Pearl Jam (the album) is only a disappointment and a failure when compared to other Pearl Jam records, and if you view it in comparison with the kind of records being released today it is far more superior. Lastly I’d just like to say that Pearl Jam are and always will be a great band not to mention one of my personal favorites.
-Tarun Singh
Pearl Jam
J Records, 2006
Pearl Jam (The band)- Well what can I say? They are a bloody brilliant band (quite aptly put don’t you think?). Their mixture of grunge sound, classic rock roots, heartfelt lyrics and deep vocals all come together to form a concoction of pure musical excellence. They exploded onto the scene in 1991 with, in my opinion, the best album to be released in decades, the epic “Ten”. But fifteen years later it can be seen that with age, Pearl Jam, the band, are rusting. They are still an amazing band, better than most, but their latest album has confirmed the fears of the entire music listening world by making it certain that the heights of “Ten” will never again be reached by them.
Pearl Jam (The self titled album released in 2006)- To be fair, in isolation, this is quite a good album. I mean if Good Charlotte, Simple Plan or some such band were to release an album like this, I would count it as being an outstanding album. For Pearl Jam, however, it’s a whole different story. (My apologies to all Good Charlotte and Simple Plan fans, but it’s just that their music tastes like a Popsicle forcibly being shoved up someone’s ass.) Anyway, with our expectations of this great band, after listening to this album the words disappointing, overestimation and disenchantment come to mind. Through the years Pearl Jam’s sound has evolved from being very hard rock like, to something more sober. In this album they tried to recreate their hard rock sound and, unsurprisingly they weren’t able too. Why they tried to revisit those hard rock roots is beyond me. As a huge Pearl Jam fan, their new “sober” sound has grown on me and I was even looking forward to an evolved sober Pearl Jam record, instead what I got was a valiant but unsuccessful attempt by a great band to try and be something they were fifteen years ago.
We as Pearl Jam fans have become accustomed to every album of theirs having inventive and original guitar riffs. It pains me to say that their inspirational guitarist (Mike McReady) has dropped the ball on this one. The guitar riffs are ok but not nearly up to Pearl Jam quality, where songs like Comatose and Life Wasted in particular have quite basic guitar bridges.
It is also apparent that Pearl Jam are more of a personal band. By this I mean that their songs that deal with personal issues of the band members tend to be great, as the band can truly engage with the song. You can see this in their older songs such as Black, Yellow Ledbetter, Betterman, Indifference and so on. In this album Pearl Jam deal with political issues and as a result, the quality of those songs are insufficient as the band are clearly not engaging themselves with this political message as opposed to how they did when their songs were about personal issues. A testament to this belief is the fact that the most endearing and musically captivating song in this album is perhaps the only personal song- Comeback.
This album does have its bright spots; songs such as Comeback, Gone and Army Reserve are pretty good songs, Comeback being the pick of the lot. Another positive that Pearl Jam can take away from this album are its lyrics. Pearl Jam have always had good lyrics and this album is no different. Its nice to see that at least in song writing Pearl Jam are meeting the high standards set by themselves.
As pointed out by a fellow Pearl Jam fan I seem to have quite unjustly dealt with this album, therefore in conclusion I’d just like to repeat that Pearl Jam (the album) is only a disappointment and a failure when compared to other Pearl Jam records, and if you view it in comparison with the kind of records being released today it is far more superior. Lastly I’d just like to say that Pearl Jam are and always will be a great band not to mention one of my personal favorites.
-Tarun Singh
Which Way to Happy?
One of the more recent additions to the more-or-less universally accepted indicators of standard of living is the happiness index. It’s a weird term, considering how adamant we 21st century people are that happiness, like love can’t be measured and should, under no circumstances have ANYTHING to do with economics. Introduced by the King of Bhutan in 1972, it tries to make up for the failings of GNP and per capita income, but falls short already in definition: there isn’t a site on the net, nor a passage in the “new and improved” economics textbooks that flood our school that can tell me in even half-exact terms, what the happiness index really is.
But maybe it’s because “happiness” is in itself such a tricky concept. Word-wise, Mr. Webster could only say that happiness ( Hap´pi`ness, n. ) is good luck; good fortune; prosperity, Microsoft Office Word 2003, more prolific than its predecessor, produces “contentment”, “pleasure”, “cheerfulness”. Freud, perhaps less interested in its pronunciation and linguistic associations, simply believed that it was what every human strived after. And me? I’m not so sure. It’s a big word, and a cool idea. When I think happiness, I’m thinking about the time I jumped into a fountain in Paris with my oldest, closest friend, and came out with soaking red hair and a handful of worthless copper coins. I’m thinking of Sunday breakfasts and the Eels, and the scene in Withnail & I, where Withnail solemnly concludes that he and Marwood are “on holiday by mistake”. You need factors to calculate something, and these are *my* factors. So how on earth does one add my memories, my brilliant days, my “peaceful, easy feelings” to those of a million others? And is the sum of all of that even going to be in numbers?
The happiness index baffles me. More than that, it puts that famous cynical look on my face, the one where my mouth scrunches up and my forehead gets all wrinkled, and makes me wonder who King Jigme Singye Wangchuck’s financial advisor was. I’ll accept that it’s a noble experiment (just like Prohibition in America ) with a reasonable amount of logic behind it, in that it equates a good standard of living with high consumption levels and a sense of fulfillment instead of unevenly-distributed income and dubious literacy levels. But when you deal with happiness, you’re dealing with the emotions of a myriad different people, their personal histories, their personal quirks and achievements, and also with a whole lot of psychobabble about well-being and inner-peace. To attempt to capture this in door-to-door national surveys or annual spending patterns is like delving into a hornet’s nest. But I guess the government of India, for one, feels more warmly towards it- India (corruption, potholes, slums and all) I’ve heard, fares very well on the happiness index…
-Mallika Leuzinger
But maybe it’s because “happiness” is in itself such a tricky concept. Word-wise, Mr. Webster could only say that happiness ( Hap´pi`ness, n. ) is good luck; good fortune; prosperity, Microsoft Office Word 2003, more prolific than its predecessor, produces “contentment”, “pleasure”, “cheerfulness”. Freud, perhaps less interested in its pronunciation and linguistic associations, simply believed that it was what every human strived after. And me? I’m not so sure. It’s a big word, and a cool idea. When I think happiness, I’m thinking about the time I jumped into a fountain in Paris with my oldest, closest friend, and came out with soaking red hair and a handful of worthless copper coins. I’m thinking of Sunday breakfasts and the Eels, and the scene in Withnail & I, where Withnail solemnly concludes that he and Marwood are “on holiday by mistake”. You need factors to calculate something, and these are *my* factors. So how on earth does one add my memories, my brilliant days, my “peaceful, easy feelings” to those of a million others? And is the sum of all of that even going to be in numbers?
The happiness index baffles me. More than that, it puts that famous cynical look on my face, the one where my mouth scrunches up and my forehead gets all wrinkled, and makes me wonder who King Jigme Singye Wangchuck’s financial advisor was. I’ll accept that it’s a noble experiment (just like Prohibition in America ) with a reasonable amount of logic behind it, in that it equates a good standard of living with high consumption levels and a sense of fulfillment instead of unevenly-distributed income and dubious literacy levels. But when you deal with happiness, you’re dealing with the emotions of a myriad different people, their personal histories, their personal quirks and achievements, and also with a whole lot of psychobabble about well-being and inner-peace. To attempt to capture this in door-to-door national surveys or annual spending patterns is like delving into a hornet’s nest. But I guess the government of India, for one, feels more warmly towards it- India (corruption, potholes, slums and all) I’ve heard, fares very well on the happiness index…
-Mallika Leuzinger
Seeking Seers for the Survival of the Sensitive
Politics comes from root words like “polis” from which we get “place” and “polity” which, if stretched, would be made to mean marshalling the resources of the place for the best of the populace. A related word would be policing. Political conscientizing would be about making people aware of the necessity for polity and for reducing policing to nothing.
The populace needs administrators, but the striving has to be toward equality in rights and service, maximizing freedom and bringing about the unity and oneness of mankind without in any way tampering with the necessity for power to be evenly, proportionally, distributed among the different groups of the whole, so that the difference can be maintained too. This prescription may seem idealistic, but I believe it is the only one that is worth striving for.
The document for the future, the constitution if you will, has to be a blueprint that will take into consideration different interest groups, including ones who have no voice and ones yet unborn, not to mention the minorities. The inclusion must be inscribed into the body of the politic, consciously, else cause for future violence will be sown. This may even lead to our destruction.
In a country like India, all this works out to addressing certain major concerns. Redefining democracy, for instance. Eliminating at least poverty as Marx defined it, although that is a pitifully low standard of living in today’s world. Marshalling, I repeat, our natural resources in ecologically and economically sound ways so that we come out of the dependency and debt spirals as well as the self-destructive vandalism seen in the ignorantly wanton mismanagement of Nature. Historical wrongs like caste inequality have yet to be redressed and seeds of trouble being sown for the future in the form of power-brokering with a nation like America have to be refrained from. As Gandhi once stated in other words, only a nation ready to totally forgive and forget past enemies and give up its identity and selfhood, if need be, for the higher calling of serving mankind, is actually going to be a “great” nation.
Such a nation hasn’t yet existed. In a future that will consist of humans, mutation, AI, Clones, etc. along with the poor, the dispossessed and the disabled, and the oppressed, we need fresh vision if we are to survive at all. The present awaits with bated breath for the planners of the future, wise beyond our means, to bring us those documents of change that will help our ark on its exciting pilgrimage to a cosmos of perfection.
Dr. A.V.Koshy
The populace needs administrators, but the striving has to be toward equality in rights and service, maximizing freedom and bringing about the unity and oneness of mankind without in any way tampering with the necessity for power to be evenly, proportionally, distributed among the different groups of the whole, so that the difference can be maintained too. This prescription may seem idealistic, but I believe it is the only one that is worth striving for.
The document for the future, the constitution if you will, has to be a blueprint that will take into consideration different interest groups, including ones who have no voice and ones yet unborn, not to mention the minorities. The inclusion must be inscribed into the body of the politic, consciously, else cause for future violence will be sown. This may even lead to our destruction.
In a country like India, all this works out to addressing certain major concerns. Redefining democracy, for instance. Eliminating at least poverty as Marx defined it, although that is a pitifully low standard of living in today’s world. Marshalling, I repeat, our natural resources in ecologically and economically sound ways so that we come out of the dependency and debt spirals as well as the self-destructive vandalism seen in the ignorantly wanton mismanagement of Nature. Historical wrongs like caste inequality have yet to be redressed and seeds of trouble being sown for the future in the form of power-brokering with a nation like America have to be refrained from. As Gandhi once stated in other words, only a nation ready to totally forgive and forget past enemies and give up its identity and selfhood, if need be, for the higher calling of serving mankind, is actually going to be a “great” nation.
Such a nation hasn’t yet existed. In a future that will consist of humans, mutation, AI, Clones, etc. along with the poor, the dispossessed and the disabled, and the oppressed, we need fresh vision if we are to survive at all. The present awaits with bated breath for the planners of the future, wise beyond our means, to bring us those documents of change that will help our ark on its exciting pilgrimage to a cosmos of perfection.
Dr. A.V.Koshy
It has stopped raining now
and the last drops drip
from the drop-laden leaves
splashing into muddy puddles.
The circles disperse in confusion
flowing surfaces textured with folds
weaving the earth into a rippled fabric
rushing murmurs mud-brown.
I step outside the house, barefoot,
the soft sludge squelching between my toes.
The two dogs follow me as I walk, making my way
to the lake, streaming with rainwater.
The evening sky melts with the clouds
reflecting in the collecting water still trees.
The gushing wetness sounding the air and,
suddenly, I am six again, overjoyed
with the mud sticking to my feet
and the floating scum curving around me.
I kick the water, laughing,
the smell of earth splish-splashing in my eyes.
I become my footprint and am washed away
running dripping into pools of memory.
The soaking sunset of my youth –
I mock myself. Night falling. I should really go back.
-Saumyananda Sahi
and the last drops drip
from the drop-laden leaves
splashing into muddy puddles.
The circles disperse in confusion
flowing surfaces textured with folds
weaving the earth into a rippled fabric
rushing murmurs mud-brown.
I step outside the house, barefoot,
the soft sludge squelching between my toes.
The two dogs follow me as I walk, making my way
to the lake, streaming with rainwater.
The evening sky melts with the clouds
reflecting in the collecting water still trees.
The gushing wetness sounding the air and,
suddenly, I am six again, overjoyed
with the mud sticking to my feet
and the floating scum curving around me.
I kick the water, laughing,
the smell of earth splish-splashing in my eyes.
I become my footprint and am washed away
running dripping into pools of memory.
The soaking sunset of my youth –
I mock myself. Night falling. I should really go back.
-Saumyananda Sahi
The Fool on the Ink Sea
White petals falling
he's sitting over there.
alone.
and the eyes in his head
see the wave coming
that the world's been riding on
all along
a tsunami of his selves, waiting to
drown him.
-Amrita Mishra
he's sitting over there.
alone.
and the eyes in his head
see the wave coming
that the world's been riding on
all along
a tsunami of his selves, waiting to
drown him.
-Amrita Mishra
The Beatles Remixed
THE BEATLES
Love
Capitol, 2006
Yep, you guessed it- another teacher writes a review of an album made by some old fogies; in this case, two of them are even dead!
I have to say that I didn’t want to write a review but I spent days thinking of this and that, only to quickly discount what I’d spent days thinking about, and meanwhile, the clock was ticking down and the deadline coming closer and you know what I’m like about deadlines!!!
So, what to say about The Beatles? Everyone knows them, don’t they? I remember when I was about eleven and in some record store with my parents, flicking through the vinyl albums and gazing in awe at the pictures and a world I had never seen before. I found one album with no name and no title, just four dirty and unkempt men standing in front of some weird house (the “Hey Jude” album). I asked my mum why there was no name and title and she told me it was The Beatles and they were so famous that everyone knew who they were. I didn’t know them and I thought that odd.
That was years ago, a lifetime is flashing in front of my eyes and now to members of the band are dead (John Lennon and George Harrison) and yet they’re able to put out a new(ish) record. “How’s that possible?” I hear you say. Well, take one DJ who happens to be the son of George Martin, the legendary Beatles’ producer, and with your connections, get Michael Jackson who owns the songs to release them (no mean feat- ever wonder why no-one sings a Beatles’ tune on “American Idol”? - MJ usually won’t release the songs). Now, with your skills as a DJ, mix the fade-ins and fade-outs of various songs, reverse tracks, mix in different elements of other Beatles’ songs at crucial climaxes or even remove certain instruments from the track or move them into the foreground. At times incredible new music is created such as with the mostly unrecognizable “Glass Onion”, the mix of the vocals of “Within You, Without You” with the music of “Tomorrow Never Knows”, as well as “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite” which mixes in elements of “Nowhere Man”, “Blue Jay Way”, “I Want You (She’s so Heavy)” and “Helter Skelter”.
This modern creationism is not the only highlight though, as the impact on the listener of various songs is subtly altered and enhanced. For instance, the relaxed beat contained in the mellow introduction to “Here Comes the Sun” tranquilly ushers you into the beachside world of the song before the familiar bombastic music takes you over and we’re back in the world that we know so well. I also found the different introduction to “Octopus’s Garden” particularly effective in that it appeared to appropriately slow the tune down thus emphasizing its nursery rhyme form.
Some of it works and some of it doesn’t. I found the jazzy intro to “Lady Madonna” weird to say the least and some of the cuts are awkward and clunky as well as repetitive (mix the end of one track with the start of another), but let’s move on to the real travesty of the CD. This is the unplugged version of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”. With this track you want the guitars to weep all over you- after all, that is what the song is about- but here there is a non-electric whimper taken from the demo of “Anthology” subsumed beneath George Martin’s syrupy strings of schmaltz that are the only new instruments on the CD. “While My Guitar Gently Tinkles in the Background” would be a more appropriate song title for this abomination.
This leaves only the incredible ending to mention.
It starts with studio talk (from “Anthology”) and an alternative acoustic beginning to “A Day in the Life” that subtly and intimately allows the song’s phenomenal music to sweep its caresses all over you. This is possibly my favourite track in terms of sing-along-ability (but then there’s “Hey Jude”) and- but ‘nuff said. I’m just caught up in the moment and listening to it. Woah! A segue into “Hey Jude” (that’s two of the greatest tracks mixed together) and I’m in heaven. The “na-na-na”s thankfully appear to start earlier than the original and seem to take you away with arms outstretched for a lot longer. At three minutes most of the instruments are wiped from the track for a brief shoomy moment before a funky bass undulates its way in and slowly the rhythm builds and swells, sweeping you along and tears well up in your eyes at the beauty and emotion of it all.
Where to go? We’ve hit the heights?
No.
Follow history and rekindle what went before and as “Hey Jude” fades, the bass sample that launched Primal Scream’s career and the whole history of Acid House begins. What follows may remind a lot of people of EMF or other big beat bands (we’re talking about The Beatles, right?) as the thumping drums of Sgt. Pepper” take control. End with “All You Need is Love” and the debt to the two summers of love is acknowledged.
History becomes contemporary. For a moment.
Check out:
Moby “Play”
Beck “Mellow Gold”, “Mutations” and “Midnite Vultures”
Primal Scream “Screamadelica”
for other cross-references.
-Richard Old
Love
Capitol, 2006
Yep, you guessed it- another teacher writes a review of an album made by some old fogies; in this case, two of them are even dead!
I have to say that I didn’t want to write a review but I spent days thinking of this and that, only to quickly discount what I’d spent days thinking about, and meanwhile, the clock was ticking down and the deadline coming closer and you know what I’m like about deadlines!!!
So, what to say about The Beatles? Everyone knows them, don’t they? I remember when I was about eleven and in some record store with my parents, flicking through the vinyl albums and gazing in awe at the pictures and a world I had never seen before. I found one album with no name and no title, just four dirty and unkempt men standing in front of some weird house (the “Hey Jude” album). I asked my mum why there was no name and title and she told me it was The Beatles and they were so famous that everyone knew who they were. I didn’t know them and I thought that odd.
That was years ago, a lifetime is flashing in front of my eyes and now to members of the band are dead (John Lennon and George Harrison) and yet they’re able to put out a new(ish) record. “How’s that possible?” I hear you say. Well, take one DJ who happens to be the son of George Martin, the legendary Beatles’ producer, and with your connections, get Michael Jackson who owns the songs to release them (no mean feat- ever wonder why no-one sings a Beatles’ tune on “American Idol”? - MJ usually won’t release the songs). Now, with your skills as a DJ, mix the fade-ins and fade-outs of various songs, reverse tracks, mix in different elements of other Beatles’ songs at crucial climaxes or even remove certain instruments from the track or move them into the foreground. At times incredible new music is created such as with the mostly unrecognizable “Glass Onion”, the mix of the vocals of “Within You, Without You” with the music of “Tomorrow Never Knows”, as well as “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite” which mixes in elements of “Nowhere Man”, “Blue Jay Way”, “I Want You (She’s so Heavy)” and “Helter Skelter”.
This modern creationism is not the only highlight though, as the impact on the listener of various songs is subtly altered and enhanced. For instance, the relaxed beat contained in the mellow introduction to “Here Comes the Sun” tranquilly ushers you into the beachside world of the song before the familiar bombastic music takes you over and we’re back in the world that we know so well. I also found the different introduction to “Octopus’s Garden” particularly effective in that it appeared to appropriately slow the tune down thus emphasizing its nursery rhyme form.
Some of it works and some of it doesn’t. I found the jazzy intro to “Lady Madonna” weird to say the least and some of the cuts are awkward and clunky as well as repetitive (mix the end of one track with the start of another), but let’s move on to the real travesty of the CD. This is the unplugged version of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”. With this track you want the guitars to weep all over you- after all, that is what the song is about- but here there is a non-electric whimper taken from the demo of “Anthology” subsumed beneath George Martin’s syrupy strings of schmaltz that are the only new instruments on the CD. “While My Guitar Gently Tinkles in the Background” would be a more appropriate song title for this abomination.
This leaves only the incredible ending to mention.
It starts with studio talk (from “Anthology”) and an alternative acoustic beginning to “A Day in the Life” that subtly and intimately allows the song’s phenomenal music to sweep its caresses all over you. This is possibly my favourite track in terms of sing-along-ability (but then there’s “Hey Jude”) and- but ‘nuff said. I’m just caught up in the moment and listening to it. Woah! A segue into “Hey Jude” (that’s two of the greatest tracks mixed together) and I’m in heaven. The “na-na-na”s thankfully appear to start earlier than the original and seem to take you away with arms outstretched for a lot longer. At three minutes most of the instruments are wiped from the track for a brief shoomy moment before a funky bass undulates its way in and slowly the rhythm builds and swells, sweeping you along and tears well up in your eyes at the beauty and emotion of it all.
Where to go? We’ve hit the heights?
No.
Follow history and rekindle what went before and as “Hey Jude” fades, the bass sample that launched Primal Scream’s career and the whole history of Acid House begins. What follows may remind a lot of people of EMF or other big beat bands (we’re talking about The Beatles, right?) as the thumping drums of Sgt. Pepper” take control. End with “All You Need is Love” and the debt to the two summers of love is acknowledged.
History becomes contemporary. For a moment.
Check out:
Moby “Play”
Beck “Mellow Gold”, “Mutations” and “Midnite Vultures”
Primal Scream “Screamadelica”
for other cross-references.
-Richard Old
when we paint our masterpiece
I've got colours in my head, and all I want
is for you to sort them out. There are paintbrushes in
that corner, and I give you my mind,
a blank canvas, a stretched-out-washed-out
bit of paper, because I'm hoping you'll draw me
All the love in the world.
My watch isn't showing a time, and there isn't
a clock on the wall (I took it down
when you said we were out of time). So
I'm here now and you,
you might as well be Picasso. All we need
is a bit of world.
is for you to sort them out. There are paintbrushes in
that corner, and I give you my mind,
a blank canvas, a stretched-out-washed-out
bit of paper, because I'm hoping you'll draw me
All the love in the world.
My watch isn't showing a time, and there isn't
a clock on the wall (I took it down
when you said we were out of time). So
I'm here now and you,
you might as well be Picasso. All we need
is a bit of world.
Refills
push.
as cold, metallic, smooth, smoothes over
over what?
what brim, what foaming cup thrust into a tilted
waiting
waiting
waiting
mouth a second too late, so it cascades over the side
white foam on a white cup
champagne in a paper cup?
no it isn't.
it's your mind, didn't you know
too full
so let it spill.
form a sticky puddle on the table.
or on the air.
then snap fast for a refill.
and cold creeps up your finger
sinking
sinking
a letter imprinted under your nail
you hold it up to the light
and then
push.
and that white foam
is on the screen
that fills up your squinting eyes.
-Amrita Mishra
as cold, metallic, smooth, smoothes over
over what?
what brim, what foaming cup thrust into a tilted
waiting
waiting
waiting
mouth a second too late, so it cascades over the side
white foam on a white cup
champagne in a paper cup?
no it isn't.
it's your mind, didn't you know
too full
so let it spill.
form a sticky puddle on the table.
or on the air.
then snap fast for a refill.
and cold creeps up your finger
sinking
sinking
a letter imprinted under your nail
you hold it up to the light
and then
push.
and that white foam
is on the screen
that fills up your squinting eyes.
-Amrita Mishra
Countless Shades of Blue
Cozed in my space coated
With countless shades of blue,
Where I'm never alone with these thoughts.
Where they lie behind every painting
And smiling photos of what we were.
Each brushstroke filled with memories,
Each smile, a sad tear that slips from the eyes brimming with happiness.
And I want to be reminded,
I don't want to step out of the blue
And detach myself from this-
So why am I doing this,
Trying to use a brighter tone
When the love I have lifts me into this blue, but I'm sinking?
Why am I cleaning my stained pallet?
The boy's not washing away-
The boy won't wash away.
I'm not trying hard enough to wash him away.
The stains are splattered all over the walls
And the blue I am fighting has reached my soul, to stay there.
-Deepika Ghose
With countless shades of blue,
Where I'm never alone with these thoughts.
Where they lie behind every painting
And smiling photos of what we were.
Each brushstroke filled with memories,
Each smile, a sad tear that slips from the eyes brimming with happiness.
And I want to be reminded,
I don't want to step out of the blue
And detach myself from this-
So why am I doing this,
Trying to use a brighter tone
When the love I have lifts me into this blue, but I'm sinking?
Why am I cleaning my stained pallet?
The boy's not washing away-
The boy won't wash away.
I'm not trying hard enough to wash him away.
The stains are splattered all over the walls
And the blue I am fighting has reached my soul, to stay there.
-Deepika Ghose
In the Garage, I Belong
WEEZER
Weezer (the Blue Album)
Geffen, 1994
It is my certain opinion that the 1990s witnessed the closest thing to a golden generation in rock music since the pioneering era of 1965-75. In the 1990s “modern soul” and “R&B”, the evil descendants of the disco era and 1980s synth-pop, still ruled MTV and the unrepresentative rankings of the Billboard Hot 100. But this period also witnessed the rise of several new schools of rock, both radical (in the case of Nirvana and Pearl Jam, Sonic Youth and Pavement) and revivalist (Green Day and the subject of this piece, Weezer), all of which were rather unhelpfully grouped under the term “alternative rock”.
While my fellow reviewer has chosen to highlight how a recent Pearl Jam album pales in comparison to their early 90s work, I would like to return to 1995 and Weezer (known popularly as The Blue Album), the funny, melodic and endearing album that will surely be remembered as one of the finest rock/pop works of the decade.
Weezer is an album that shows impressive simplicity: Rivers Cuomo writes terrific melodies that are so immediate and hooks that are so catchy that he deserves to be held alongside such 70s power-pop writers as Alex Chilton (Big Star), Douglas Colvin and John Cummings (The Ramones) and Howard Devoto (Buzzcocks). The most obvious point of comparison is, however, Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day; as contemporaries and musical rivals they could be compared to Eddie Vedder and Kurt Cobain. Just like Vedder with Cobain, Cuomo is a better lyricist (not surprising from a Harvard College literature graduate), far superior tunesmith and a better guitarist as well (like Green Day, Weezer show an affection for the three-chord song but they have greater variety and complexity). And unlike Green Day (and indeed, nearly every band of the alt-rock era), they sing songs that reflect not the cynicism and antigovernment frustrations of a disillusioned American youth but songs that reflect their personal experiences. This is once again where they can be compared to Pearl Jam, and this is one of their greatest strengths.
The greatest thing about this album though is its consistency. There may be only ten songs, but there isn’t a bad one in the bunch. If forced to choose with a gun to my head, I’d say that the three singles (“Buddy Holly”, “Undone (The Sweater Song)” and “Say it Ain’t So”) stand out. But on repeated listens, “My Name is Jonas”, “In the Garage” and “Surf Wax America” are just as memorable and likable. “No One Else” has perhaps the album’s funniest lyric, about Rivers Cuomo in one of his jealous moods: fittingly he includes a song, “The World Has Turned and Left Me Here”, about the consequences of his jealousy. He shows the capacity to laugh at himself, and shares with us his most intimate thoughts and memories, sung not despairingly but lovingly. While the album did receive both critical and commercial success (included in Rolling Stone’s list of the 500 all-time greatest albums), it’s a great shame that it never became the iconic moment that Green Day’s Dookie did. It is a situation that reminds me once again of Nirvana and Pearl Jam, and is unfortunate testament to the underappreciation of the album that is the best value-for-money of any musical work of the 1990s.
-Keshava Guha
Weezer (the Blue Album)
Geffen, 1994
It is my certain opinion that the 1990s witnessed the closest thing to a golden generation in rock music since the pioneering era of 1965-75. In the 1990s “modern soul” and “R&B”, the evil descendants of the disco era and 1980s synth-pop, still ruled MTV and the unrepresentative rankings of the Billboard Hot 100. But this period also witnessed the rise of several new schools of rock, both radical (in the case of Nirvana and Pearl Jam, Sonic Youth and Pavement) and revivalist (Green Day and the subject of this piece, Weezer), all of which were rather unhelpfully grouped under the term “alternative rock”.
While my fellow reviewer has chosen to highlight how a recent Pearl Jam album pales in comparison to their early 90s work, I would like to return to 1995 and Weezer (known popularly as The Blue Album), the funny, melodic and endearing album that will surely be remembered as one of the finest rock/pop works of the decade.
Weezer is an album that shows impressive simplicity: Rivers Cuomo writes terrific melodies that are so immediate and hooks that are so catchy that he deserves to be held alongside such 70s power-pop writers as Alex Chilton (Big Star), Douglas Colvin and John Cummings (The Ramones) and Howard Devoto (Buzzcocks). The most obvious point of comparison is, however, Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day; as contemporaries and musical rivals they could be compared to Eddie Vedder and Kurt Cobain. Just like Vedder with Cobain, Cuomo is a better lyricist (not surprising from a Harvard College literature graduate), far superior tunesmith and a better guitarist as well (like Green Day, Weezer show an affection for the three-chord song but they have greater variety and complexity). And unlike Green Day (and indeed, nearly every band of the alt-rock era), they sing songs that reflect not the cynicism and antigovernment frustrations of a disillusioned American youth but songs that reflect their personal experiences. This is once again where they can be compared to Pearl Jam, and this is one of their greatest strengths.
The greatest thing about this album though is its consistency. There may be only ten songs, but there isn’t a bad one in the bunch. If forced to choose with a gun to my head, I’d say that the three singles (“Buddy Holly”, “Undone (The Sweater Song)” and “Say it Ain’t So”) stand out. But on repeated listens, “My Name is Jonas”, “In the Garage” and “Surf Wax America” are just as memorable and likable. “No One Else” has perhaps the album’s funniest lyric, about Rivers Cuomo in one of his jealous moods: fittingly he includes a song, “The World Has Turned and Left Me Here”, about the consequences of his jealousy. He shows the capacity to laugh at himself, and shares with us his most intimate thoughts and memories, sung not despairingly but lovingly. While the album did receive both critical and commercial success (included in Rolling Stone’s list of the 500 all-time greatest albums), it’s a great shame that it never became the iconic moment that Green Day’s Dookie did. It is a situation that reminds me once again of Nirvana and Pearl Jam, and is unfortunate testament to the underappreciation of the album that is the best value-for-money of any musical work of the 1990s.
-Keshava Guha
Chalk-Zone
There are a lot of things we miss out on, maybe things that are supposed to be not noticed. It could be the many people that don't lie in your line of vision, that pass you by everyday on the road or in your apartment building or contained in the same school campus that steal your favourite nooks and corners and say the same things. How many people do you remember to notice on a daily basis? Your friends, sure, only the teachers of your specific subjects, maybe that guy that you've always found cute, that you look at coyly out of the corner of your eye to resassure yourself that he isn't flirting with someone else, maybe an enemy to make sure he's sitting alone or at least looks miserable. Maybe some details aren't reserved for us to see, or maybe we're all not capable of seeing them all. It was when rereading an old favourite, Born Confused (Tanuja Desai Hidier) and absentmindedly flipping through the first few pages that I came across this. A crisp page, unfamiliar to the fingertip, found itself just before the first chapter. A forgotten page, or rather an undiscovered one. It stared at me and blinked a little, and there they were, a few words that didn't roll off my tongue so easily and automatically like so many in the novel itself:
"Some souls one will never discover, unless one invents them first". - Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathrustra
It made my mind go spiralling in too many ways, which gives away my complete inexperience when it comes to philosophy, since just any line might impress me. But it inexplicably held a truth to me, a truth which makes me so effusive and yes, shamelessly hypocritical, considering my last article condemned inspiration from any lyrics, a category which could expand itself to include quotes. How much of what we know is real, and how much do we in reality invent? Look at Nietzsche himself. Before I read his biography, he seemed like the ideal guy just for conjuring a statement like that, along with his other more well known theories of eternal recurrence and non-linear time. Automatically, I could close my eyes and draw some kind of a metaphysical outline of the philosopher- completely utopian and fictional. A figure almost completely invented in my very own head without knowing anything about him. It was when I read a bit that I learned he was a staunch misogynist, thanks to an awful sister who eventually broke up the one romance he ever had. You find the flaws in a believed-to-be perfect person and that figure gets slightly distorted, but the version of Nietzsche I'd like to admire is contained in the very words he wrote, and not in anything else about his life.
Isn't it something we all do? You'd ridicule me if I said the world isn't real but an illusion that you've convinced yourself to be living in, but don't we create distorted versions of everyone we know, so they can become more lovable or easier to hate? Aren't all those details that were never noticed, like a page stuck to another for the first fifty times a book was read, smeared over with little inventions? It's something so easily done, a figure drawn and blueprinted in your mind when you form a first impression. We're all architects, then, constantly drawing, filling in the void that hasn't been recorded by observation. Welding anything that emerges from imagination or daydreams or a bit of squeezed out fiction with what we know. Making it all up. Do we have the right to do that? Can I pick up a piece of chalk like that kid in that Cartoon Network show, and start drawing away my own world? To ramble on like this about a philosopher and butcher up something he said once upon a time with hardly any experience? I guess I'll have to keep inventing for you to discover what a fool I am.
-Amrita Mishra
"Some souls one will never discover, unless one invents them first". - Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathrustra
It made my mind go spiralling in too many ways, which gives away my complete inexperience when it comes to philosophy, since just any line might impress me. But it inexplicably held a truth to me, a truth which makes me so effusive and yes, shamelessly hypocritical, considering my last article condemned inspiration from any lyrics, a category which could expand itself to include quotes. How much of what we know is real, and how much do we in reality invent? Look at Nietzsche himself. Before I read his biography, he seemed like the ideal guy just for conjuring a statement like that, along with his other more well known theories of eternal recurrence and non-linear time. Automatically, I could close my eyes and draw some kind of a metaphysical outline of the philosopher- completely utopian and fictional. A figure almost completely invented in my very own head without knowing anything about him. It was when I read a bit that I learned he was a staunch misogynist, thanks to an awful sister who eventually broke up the one romance he ever had. You find the flaws in a believed-to-be perfect person and that figure gets slightly distorted, but the version of Nietzsche I'd like to admire is contained in the very words he wrote, and not in anything else about his life.
Isn't it something we all do? You'd ridicule me if I said the world isn't real but an illusion that you've convinced yourself to be living in, but don't we create distorted versions of everyone we know, so they can become more lovable or easier to hate? Aren't all those details that were never noticed, like a page stuck to another for the first fifty times a book was read, smeared over with little inventions? It's something so easily done, a figure drawn and blueprinted in your mind when you form a first impression. We're all architects, then, constantly drawing, filling in the void that hasn't been recorded by observation. Welding anything that emerges from imagination or daydreams or a bit of squeezed out fiction with what we know. Making it all up. Do we have the right to do that? Can I pick up a piece of chalk like that kid in that Cartoon Network show, and start drawing away my own world? To ramble on like this about a philosopher and butcher up something he said once upon a time with hardly any experience? I guess I'll have to keep inventing for you to discover what a fool I am.
-Amrita Mishra
e enjte, 14 qershor 2007
Where Have All the Flowers Gone?
MUSIC: Everyone's personal turtle shell. A damp, dark little world where we let our vulnerability ooze out and ride on the back of a voice, of any voice of the millions of floundering bands out there. The perfect withdrawal is discovered in the pain of some lyric or the other, one that seems to echo your own thoughts with suspicious accuracy. It is this emotion that we relish to live in the shadow of, relieved that there is someone out there who actually "gets it", right? To lean on the reassurance that there always will be a line to mirror your exact state of "blahness". To be able to identify a particular avatar of yourself in a particular song at a particular moment, to be able to define the nothingness you feel suspended in. In other words, to recede into someone else's copy-written turtle shell.
Lyrics are something we are all naturally inclined towards, as they are something we can relate to. Empathy is not a preference but a necessity, possibly something we seek in frustration from friends and family and yet find in music, a beautiful utupian asylum. Is it shameful that we are so dependent on this understanding from a stranger, from a voice completely detached from ourselves? Not only are song lyrics something we lap comfort from, but seem to flaunt everywhere- whether it be online nicknames, entwined in back-of-a-book, product-of-boredom graffiti, scribbles tattooed on skin, or exploding out of our smirking lips. A string of words not only to prove your degree of worldliness and artistic calling, but the perfect disguise for your mood at that instant. Anyone should be able to discern the fact that this only serves to ridicule any creativity which may reside within you, as it's a clear indication that we are so foolishly incapable of conjuring impressive, raise-your-eyebrow phrases ourselves, that we must resort to what has already been created.
How many times have you been genuinely struck by a MSN nickname and discovered that it wasn't stolen from a song or poem, or any other work of art? Even if we did have the capabilities to come up with something more ground shaking than borrowed ideas, it seems slightly too embarrassing to post and expose your own tangled mind. A bit too open and daring, especially in a world that goes by "Oh it sounds familiar, it must be from..." So we all conveniently hide in the shell of those who are used to being victims of ambiguity or some manifestation of pain. Right? We become accustomed to being asked "Hey, where's your nick from?" and testing our own memories to recognize songs fragmented into Instant Messenger nicknames.
Where's all the creativity really gone? Seeking refuge in a lyric is a disappointment to all of us who do try to pursue our artistic talents. Yet look at this at another level. You're in a particular mood, one that you have the talent to identify and do not require a song to do so for you. You spin yourself in a certain thread of thought, a thought you are convinced is unique to you, a thought that is surely your own invention, something that identifies yourself in a group of people who would rather identify themselves with a certain brand. And yet, as you plug into your iPod for some inspiration to keep your cocoon weaving, you stumble upon a lyric which doesn't wash itself away like the others, a line that adheres to your thought rather too closely. And instantly, the music goes flying and you seethe: how the hell could someone have come up with that already?! The idea belonged to ME, it's my personal possession. To hear someone else mumble those very words is an insult to the self, is it not? It's funny how most of us feel a fear to peek out of the shell of an artist, relieved to live off their empathy and lyrics. The few, who dare not to, end up having their original ideas stolen from possession only too quickly, depriving them of what they have taken, proudly, to be their highly personal identity.
-Amrita Mishra
Lyrics are something we are all naturally inclined towards, as they are something we can relate to. Empathy is not a preference but a necessity, possibly something we seek in frustration from friends and family and yet find in music, a beautiful utupian asylum. Is it shameful that we are so dependent on this understanding from a stranger, from a voice completely detached from ourselves? Not only are song lyrics something we lap comfort from, but seem to flaunt everywhere- whether it be online nicknames, entwined in back-of-a-book, product-of-boredom graffiti, scribbles tattooed on skin, or exploding out of our smirking lips. A string of words not only to prove your degree of worldliness and artistic calling, but the perfect disguise for your mood at that instant. Anyone should be able to discern the fact that this only serves to ridicule any creativity which may reside within you, as it's a clear indication that we are so foolishly incapable of conjuring impressive, raise-your-eyebrow phrases ourselves, that we must resort to what has already been created.
How many times have you been genuinely struck by a MSN nickname and discovered that it wasn't stolen from a song or poem, or any other work of art? Even if we did have the capabilities to come up with something more ground shaking than borrowed ideas, it seems slightly too embarrassing to post and expose your own tangled mind. A bit too open and daring, especially in a world that goes by "Oh it sounds familiar, it must be from..." So we all conveniently hide in the shell of those who are used to being victims of ambiguity or some manifestation of pain. Right? We become accustomed to being asked "Hey, where's your nick from?" and testing our own memories to recognize songs fragmented into Instant Messenger nicknames.
Where's all the creativity really gone? Seeking refuge in a lyric is a disappointment to all of us who do try to pursue our artistic talents. Yet look at this at another level. You're in a particular mood, one that you have the talent to identify and do not require a song to do so for you. You spin yourself in a certain thread of thought, a thought you are convinced is unique to you, a thought that is surely your own invention, something that identifies yourself in a group of people who would rather identify themselves with a certain brand. And yet, as you plug into your iPod for some inspiration to keep your cocoon weaving, you stumble upon a lyric which doesn't wash itself away like the others, a line that adheres to your thought rather too closely. And instantly, the music goes flying and you seethe: how the hell could someone have come up with that already?! The idea belonged to ME, it's my personal possession. To hear someone else mumble those very words is an insult to the self, is it not? It's funny how most of us feel a fear to peek out of the shell of an artist, relieved to live off their empathy and lyrics. The few, who dare not to, end up having their original ideas stolen from possession only too quickly, depriving them of what they have taken, proudly, to be their highly personal identity.
-Amrita Mishra
What's Your Favourite Song?
A wonderful new invention enables us to read our “chat logs”, that to the average and somewhat uninterested MSN user are simply records of chat sessions we had with people online since the feature was installed. I guess in a way rereading anything from the past; diaries, blogs, scrappy notes, letters, e-mails, is always… surprising. Surprising, why? To know how much you’ve changed. Living with yourself everyday, it’s hard to notice subtle changes. You don’t really realize when you grow an inch (except when it means procuring some nasty head bumps if you’re unlucky) but you do know the difference between being as high as your daddy’s knee (or if you’re like me and have this cool selective memory, you probably won’t remember anything from that period except for traumatizing events such as being stranded in a big and scary airport) and being tall enough to hug him without him having to stoop. I repeat: it’s the subtle changes we miss. Sometimes we forget entire events in our lives, and sometimes just moments. Sometimes, what should be an entire summer vacation worth of memories, just consists of the smell of a tree, the taste of an orange bar, and the colour of that faded t-shirt of his you hated. Very often, there are entire blanks we find hard to recollect, I think, on purpose, for the sheer mortification of it all. Words from the past help fill up these blanks, even if sometimes, you wished they didn’t.
Digging out old emails, I actually saw myself writing “thx 4 evrythin, I luv u 2” and signing off with nothing short of “Avantika: basically the greatest”. I hate that font! Well, at least I do now. And that’s the least of it. Need I explain? I also remember one rainy Saturday night when a really good friend introduced me to his “crush” (who is now also, a really good friend) and I vividly remember our conversation. Her nickname was a shocking collection of symbols and leet and now she cringes whenever I bring it up. So much has changed from that one evening. Heart-breaks, exams, friendships ruined, new ones made, grades, graduation even! And no one tripped in their saris (well, tripping on Church Street doesn’t count because graduation was over by then!) We’ve gone from snotty little brats telling on each other to big grown up brats stealing fire extinguishers.
And music has evolved so much with us, every step of the way. I think the summing up of what I am trying to say rests in one simple question, or rather in its answer:
What’s your favourite song?
If I could be so Ms. Abbreviationist as to say, most FAQ ever! It could be a tricky question, one used to judge you absolutely. Dare mention a song like, “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman” and face the large possibility of being stared at with pity, revulsion and in most cases, scorn. Mention an R&B hit and the rock idealists will spit at your feet and wander off muttering rants about the degradation of music after the likes of 50 cent hit the charts. Mention a Fall Out Boy single and again, be ready to be classified as a wannabe-punk-rocker who, once again, has terrible taste in music, and therefore, is an intellectually challenged being. But I am (as usual) being pessimistic and not getting to the point.
While examining the question of a favourite song simply, it is typical to assume that that choice, the one selection, would be an utter reflection on one’s music taste. So, now, if I tell you that my number one favourite song is “Angels” by Robbie Williams (and here I kid you not), I can already hear your brains whizzing away (that does generate interesting imagery), type casting me as another of the pop loving, Mariah Carey worshipping sort. Not the same girl who crusades for Ryan Adams and screeches at people who prefer Bethany Joy Lenz and Tyler Hilton’s poppy boy-bandish version of “When The Stars Go Blue”.
So what is it that decides your favourite song? A memory, is my answer. Alright, maybe sometimes it is the best of the genre you like the most, so, for instance, “Aces High” might be a metal head’s favourite song. But sometimes, how can one explain a hard-core punk fan sheepishly claiming that “Baby… One More Time” is his/her all-time favourite song?
I’ve seen the answers evolve from Backstreet boys’ songs (when a certain group of boys – who’d vehemently deny this – threw their jackets on an audience of screaming girls as they crooned “I don’t care who you are – as long as you love me” during a Western Music concert) to Britney Spears’ tracks, Guns and Roses’ songs (when everyone was going through the initial rock phase), Blink 182 were big too, right? And so on and so forth. The answers keep changing. But the memories stay preserved.
But try to deny the fact that if “Oops I did it again” came on the radio you’d start bopping your head and singing along with that silly pop princess and you’ll find you can’t! Even if now, as a fully self-actualized person (Carl Jung spinning in his grave?) you’ve found “yourself” and can’t identify with the person you were earlier, you can’t forget him/her. I spent an entire glorious afternoon listening to the big hits of the 90s (Backstreet Boys, Boyz II Men, Bon Jovi, etc) and the memories uprooted were well worth the abuse my ears took (well, I do like BBB… but…)!
A song is nothing but an auditory stimulus which triggers of feelings experienced during a certain period in your life. So what is your favourite song? A silly song like “In the Shadows” which you and your friend played on loop and danced to an entire night? (Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never done that!) The first song you learnt to play on your guitar? The song your mom used to sing to you when you were a baby? (Yes, Yellow Submarine will be forever imprinted in my memory bank thanks to her) The first cover your band did or, your boy friend’s favourite song?
It’s a complicated question and a trip (if I may be so clichéd to say) down memory lane. The other day, for example, my iTunes played “Only Hope” by Switchfoot and I was flooded with memories from the summer of 2005 when I was going through my Langdon Carter phase. Nostalgia’s a good thing. Memories are better. If not to cry over, to laugh at. To see how much we’ve changed. Signposts, if you will. And songs mark these signposts! Every step, every phase. You may HATE Boyzone now, and burn that poster you have of those pretty boys, but you can’t deny that part of your past, and therefore you may as well save that poster. If anything, it can be used to educate your kids against the evils of boy-bands.
-Avantika Agarwal
Digging out old emails, I actually saw myself writing “thx 4 evrythin, I luv u 2” and signing off with nothing short of “Avantika: basically the greatest”. I hate that font! Well, at least I do now. And that’s the least of it. Need I explain? I also remember one rainy Saturday night when a really good friend introduced me to his “crush” (who is now also, a really good friend) and I vividly remember our conversation. Her nickname was a shocking collection of symbols and leet and now she cringes whenever I bring it up. So much has changed from that one evening. Heart-breaks, exams, friendships ruined, new ones made, grades, graduation even! And no one tripped in their saris (well, tripping on Church Street doesn’t count because graduation was over by then!) We’ve gone from snotty little brats telling on each other to big grown up brats stealing fire extinguishers.
And music has evolved so much with us, every step of the way. I think the summing up of what I am trying to say rests in one simple question, or rather in its answer:
What’s your favourite song?
If I could be so Ms. Abbreviationist as to say, most FAQ ever! It could be a tricky question, one used to judge you absolutely. Dare mention a song like, “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman” and face the large possibility of being stared at with pity, revulsion and in most cases, scorn. Mention an R&B hit and the rock idealists will spit at your feet and wander off muttering rants about the degradation of music after the likes of 50 cent hit the charts. Mention a Fall Out Boy single and again, be ready to be classified as a wannabe-punk-rocker who, once again, has terrible taste in music, and therefore, is an intellectually challenged being. But I am (as usual) being pessimistic and not getting to the point.
While examining the question of a favourite song simply, it is typical to assume that that choice, the one selection, would be an utter reflection on one’s music taste. So, now, if I tell you that my number one favourite song is “Angels” by Robbie Williams (and here I kid you not), I can already hear your brains whizzing away (that does generate interesting imagery), type casting me as another of the pop loving, Mariah Carey worshipping sort. Not the same girl who crusades for Ryan Adams and screeches at people who prefer Bethany Joy Lenz and Tyler Hilton’s poppy boy-bandish version of “When The Stars Go Blue”.
So what is it that decides your favourite song? A memory, is my answer. Alright, maybe sometimes it is the best of the genre you like the most, so, for instance, “Aces High” might be a metal head’s favourite song. But sometimes, how can one explain a hard-core punk fan sheepishly claiming that “Baby… One More Time” is his/her all-time favourite song?
I’ve seen the answers evolve from Backstreet boys’ songs (when a certain group of boys – who’d vehemently deny this – threw their jackets on an audience of screaming girls as they crooned “I don’t care who you are – as long as you love me” during a Western Music concert) to Britney Spears’ tracks, Guns and Roses’ songs (when everyone was going through the initial rock phase), Blink 182 were big too, right? And so on and so forth. The answers keep changing. But the memories stay preserved.
But try to deny the fact that if “Oops I did it again” came on the radio you’d start bopping your head and singing along with that silly pop princess and you’ll find you can’t! Even if now, as a fully self-actualized person (Carl Jung spinning in his grave?) you’ve found “yourself” and can’t identify with the person you were earlier, you can’t forget him/her. I spent an entire glorious afternoon listening to the big hits of the 90s (Backstreet Boys, Boyz II Men, Bon Jovi, etc) and the memories uprooted were well worth the abuse my ears took (well, I do like BBB… but…)!
A song is nothing but an auditory stimulus which triggers of feelings experienced during a certain period in your life. So what is your favourite song? A silly song like “In the Shadows” which you and your friend played on loop and danced to an entire night? (Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never done that!) The first song you learnt to play on your guitar? The song your mom used to sing to you when you were a baby? (Yes, Yellow Submarine will be forever imprinted in my memory bank thanks to her) The first cover your band did or, your boy friend’s favourite song?
It’s a complicated question and a trip (if I may be so clichéd to say) down memory lane. The other day, for example, my iTunes played “Only Hope” by Switchfoot and I was flooded with memories from the summer of 2005 when I was going through my Langdon Carter phase. Nostalgia’s a good thing. Memories are better. If not to cry over, to laugh at. To see how much we’ve changed. Signposts, if you will. And songs mark these signposts! Every step, every phase. You may HATE Boyzone now, and burn that poster you have of those pretty boys, but you can’t deny that part of your past, and therefore you may as well save that poster. If anything, it can be used to educate your kids against the evils of boy-bands.
-Avantika Agarwal
Dolphins and Boiled Prawns
The boat churns through the water, its little Yamaha outboard motor making little wavelets and tossing spray high into the air, the painted prow of the Paulo star cut through the sun-soaked ocean leaving a wake that stretched back to the palm-tree smothered shore. I drag my fingers in the water, feeling the cold rush between my fingers and the wind in my hair. We are chasing dolphins, nipping around headlands and bays in search of one of our closer brethren. It is said that dolphins are amongst the most intelligent creatures on the planet. I suppose they would have to be, for they’ve found paradise to live in.
It is idyllic out here, the calm blue sea rocking gently beneath me, the sun, recently risen making long, dappled reflections in the water and the incredible thrill of exploring an element that we left not so long ago.
Paulo, a Goan fisherman, is at the tiller, his bronzed skin gleaming with sweat; he has a perfect tan, born of hard labour beneath the hot Konkan sun, the same shade that fat, pink Europeans were spending ridiculous amounts of money to obtain. Quite a waste as they all end up resembling boiled prawns.
Suddenly a cry, “they’re there!”
I turn in my seat, seeing Paulo pointing in front of me and there, for less that a second a streamlined, grey shape slicing swiftly through the water, and then it is gone. I feel a strange sense of euphoria; I have just seen a dolphin in the wild! A fleeting glance, but now I am on the edge of my seat, scanning the surrounding sea.
The engine stops. Frantic whispering, Paulo points, then suddenly a long nose, glinting wet in the light lances effortlessly out of the sea, without making a splash it breaks out of the sea, behind it comes the rest of the dolphin, dark grey and moving with incredible grace it surfaces, a great plume of spray bursts from its blowhole, then just as easily it vanishes.
I have not long to wait, suddenly a large mass of dolphin erupts from the sea not ten feet from the boat, it emerges completely, twisting like a ballerina, lights dance around it in the spray, it seems to stop, motionless hanging in the air, then with quite an ungainly slap of the tail it is gone. “He’s showing off”, said someone.
We wait a while and no more dolphin. He, or she has vacated the area. Paulo starts his little outboard and the star begins to move. I ask Paulo whether he has ever seen any sharks, he replies, “where there are dolphins,” (here he pauses dramatically) “there are no sharks. They fight, so we are with dolphin, so no shark.”
Douglas Adams once said that humans think they were the most intelligent creatures on the planet because we have cities and bombs and big wars, whereas dolphins just swim around having a whale of a time (pardon the pun). The dolphins, on the other hand, consider themselves to be smarter, for precisely the same reason. While it is impossible to fathom the mind of another species, the momentary glance I had of a dolphin conveyed a strange sense of playful superiority. I would much rather be sharing an ocean with them than a Great White Shark, though.
I can spot the next dolphins, or rather school of dolphins; there are about six, breaking the water behind us all spurting water from their blowholes before disappearing beneath the surface. Dolphins are incredible, the sheer effortlessness of their movement, the poise and grace of their swimming speaks of a domination of their element, which we can never hope to achieve.
Dolphins are beginning to have a hard time of it, though. Increased fishing has meant that dolphins are rapidly losing their main source of food; large drift nets often catch dolphins that suffocate because they cannot surface. Oil slicks and marine pollution also take their toll. In China, the Yangtze freshwater river dolphin is almost extinct- the Chinese prize them as exotic cuisine, particularly the embryo, so there are less than two-dozen left.
We are returning to the shore, greeted by the now-familiar sight of the golden sand, the waving fronds of the coconut trees as they sway in the ocean breeze and the sight of sunbathing tourists. This encounter with the dolphins has been an interesting experience, an insight into a totally alien world, maybe greater than our own, that we know so little about, but are already threatening with extinction.
-Abhimanyu Arni
It is idyllic out here, the calm blue sea rocking gently beneath me, the sun, recently risen making long, dappled reflections in the water and the incredible thrill of exploring an element that we left not so long ago.
Paulo, a Goan fisherman, is at the tiller, his bronzed skin gleaming with sweat; he has a perfect tan, born of hard labour beneath the hot Konkan sun, the same shade that fat, pink Europeans were spending ridiculous amounts of money to obtain. Quite a waste as they all end up resembling boiled prawns.
Suddenly a cry, “they’re there!”
I turn in my seat, seeing Paulo pointing in front of me and there, for less that a second a streamlined, grey shape slicing swiftly through the water, and then it is gone. I feel a strange sense of euphoria; I have just seen a dolphin in the wild! A fleeting glance, but now I am on the edge of my seat, scanning the surrounding sea.
The engine stops. Frantic whispering, Paulo points, then suddenly a long nose, glinting wet in the light lances effortlessly out of the sea, without making a splash it breaks out of the sea, behind it comes the rest of the dolphin, dark grey and moving with incredible grace it surfaces, a great plume of spray bursts from its blowhole, then just as easily it vanishes.
I have not long to wait, suddenly a large mass of dolphin erupts from the sea not ten feet from the boat, it emerges completely, twisting like a ballerina, lights dance around it in the spray, it seems to stop, motionless hanging in the air, then with quite an ungainly slap of the tail it is gone. “He’s showing off”, said someone.
We wait a while and no more dolphin. He, or she has vacated the area. Paulo starts his little outboard and the star begins to move. I ask Paulo whether he has ever seen any sharks, he replies, “where there are dolphins,” (here he pauses dramatically) “there are no sharks. They fight, so we are with dolphin, so no shark.”
Douglas Adams once said that humans think they were the most intelligent creatures on the planet because we have cities and bombs and big wars, whereas dolphins just swim around having a whale of a time (pardon the pun). The dolphins, on the other hand, consider themselves to be smarter, for precisely the same reason. While it is impossible to fathom the mind of another species, the momentary glance I had of a dolphin conveyed a strange sense of playful superiority. I would much rather be sharing an ocean with them than a Great White Shark, though.
I can spot the next dolphins, or rather school of dolphins; there are about six, breaking the water behind us all spurting water from their blowholes before disappearing beneath the surface. Dolphins are incredible, the sheer effortlessness of their movement, the poise and grace of their swimming speaks of a domination of their element, which we can never hope to achieve.
Dolphins are beginning to have a hard time of it, though. Increased fishing has meant that dolphins are rapidly losing their main source of food; large drift nets often catch dolphins that suffocate because they cannot surface. Oil slicks and marine pollution also take their toll. In China, the Yangtze freshwater river dolphin is almost extinct- the Chinese prize them as exotic cuisine, particularly the embryo, so there are less than two-dozen left.
We are returning to the shore, greeted by the now-familiar sight of the golden sand, the waving fronds of the coconut trees as they sway in the ocean breeze and the sight of sunbathing tourists. This encounter with the dolphins has been an interesting experience, an insight into a totally alien world, maybe greater than our own, that we know so little about, but are already threatening with extinction.
-Abhimanyu Arni
Romantic Analogies
Okay, imagine a situation where you listen to say, a song. Clarity, for example (I know it's terribly predictable of me to use a John Mayer song, but Linda Goodman does stereotype me as being predictable in an unpredictable sort of way, so I think I ought to be forgiven that cliché). So to some, in theory, that song has absolutely nothing to do with romance in the literal sense, certainly not in the positive sense, because it's about a relationship being over. To me, however, it's a really strong sentiment, because even though the relationship is over, the feeling is at the point where it's almost overwhelming, because it's real, you know.
I like to think that a good number of people fall into this category of hopeless romantics that I belong to. To people like us, there is romance in everything. And so it is in the end of a relationship. And who knows, maybe there is romance without there being any sort of relationship... or even any interaction at all. Maybe, maybe, there is romance in tea leaves, and crumpled up pieces of paper, paan stains on a wall, or even a guitar with two broken strings. I know it sounds borderline absurd, but really, who decided these things for us?
We're all victims to this, you know. Us hopeless romantics more so than others. If someone ever asked me what my idea of a perfect romantic anything would be, the picture would almost certainly involve a beach and roses. I went out with a guy once who asked me what my favourite flower was, and I said I loved roses. And he said, psh, that's so cliché. You might even say I'm contradicting myself with this whole cliché-non-cliché thing, but that was just to make a point. None of us can really escape it.
I often find myself in a moral dilemma of sorts over these romantic clichés. I mean, upfront I'm all 'women-power, we can open our own doors, thank you' but deep down (sometimes), I think I need to be taken care of by someone. Not that I can't take care of myself. See what I mean? It's all painfully confusing. And then I think maybe it's going to be like this all my life. And maybe it's so because I won't find that perfect romance or whatever, because it either won't be enough, or it'll be too much, 'Claustrophobic' you might even say. Do you see that happening? To you, I mean. Do you think you're content with one idea about anything? Because there's classic, that has always been, and there's contemporary liberal, which is quite clearly the right way to grow. And it's not just these romantic things, it's for all sorts of other situations, of course. I just find it easier to analyse in this scenario, with most of the dramas in my life owing themselves to my romantic history (or lack thereof) and everything. I mean, what's the point of living in the 21st century while still having your thinking being tied down by ancient clichés?
The mind boggles.
I like to think that a good number of people fall into this category of hopeless romantics that I belong to. To people like us, there is romance in everything. And so it is in the end of a relationship. And who knows, maybe there is romance without there being any sort of relationship... or even any interaction at all. Maybe, maybe, there is romance in tea leaves, and crumpled up pieces of paper, paan stains on a wall, or even a guitar with two broken strings. I know it sounds borderline absurd, but really, who decided these things for us?
We're all victims to this, you know. Us hopeless romantics more so than others. If someone ever asked me what my idea of a perfect romantic anything would be, the picture would almost certainly involve a beach and roses. I went out with a guy once who asked me what my favourite flower was, and I said I loved roses. And he said, psh, that's so cliché. You might even say I'm contradicting myself with this whole cliché-non-cliché thing, but that was just to make a point. None of us can really escape it.
I often find myself in a moral dilemma of sorts over these romantic clichés. I mean, upfront I'm all 'women-power, we can open our own doors, thank you' but deep down (sometimes), I think I need to be taken care of by someone. Not that I can't take care of myself. See what I mean? It's all painfully confusing. And then I think maybe it's going to be like this all my life. And maybe it's so because I won't find that perfect romance or whatever, because it either won't be enough, or it'll be too much, 'Claustrophobic' you might even say. Do you see that happening? To you, I mean. Do you think you're content with one idea about anything? Because there's classic, that has always been, and there's contemporary liberal, which is quite clearly the right way to grow. And it's not just these romantic things, it's for all sorts of other situations, of course. I just find it easier to analyse in this scenario, with most of the dramas in my life owing themselves to my romantic history (or lack thereof) and everything. I mean, what's the point of living in the 21st century while still having your thinking being tied down by ancient clichés?
The mind boggles.
Herbst
They drift like crusty butterfly wings,
Dried in the sun, crackling
Over muddy lanes along the trees.
Feet dance over them,
Their awkward movements
Tripping over bending trunks.
Jackets still shine brightly
In the chilly air and as the footsteps
Pick up speed, they start to glide
Home.
Dried in the sun, crackling
Over muddy lanes along the trees.
Feet dance over them,
Their awkward movements
Tripping over bending trunks.
Jackets still shine brightly
In the chilly air and as the footsteps
Pick up speed, they start to glide
Home.
Notre Dame
There was so much space, cast in the old stone
And it rose upwards, towering over the altars
And catching each cross, each sarcophagus
That lined the walls, in flickering light. The candles
Cast themselves in tall shadows along the walls,
Across the dark wood of benches that had been
Pressed towards the floor, softened by hundreds of years
And thousands of people. There was spirit inside,
But ancient spirit, that whispered and almost passed you by,
It was so quiet. A lonely hymn carried it, in the swish of
Thick velvet curtains over the confessionals and the still
Sound of feet along the cobbled floor.
Outside, a man talked on his cell-phone and the pigeons
Jumped for bread crumbs and coins, but the open doors,
Fixed on their iron hinges and carved into the church
Let nothing out. And when I turned back, all I saw
Were the gargoyles, grinning and insane.
-Mallika Leuzinger
And it rose upwards, towering over the altars
And catching each cross, each sarcophagus
That lined the walls, in flickering light. The candles
Cast themselves in tall shadows along the walls,
Across the dark wood of benches that had been
Pressed towards the floor, softened by hundreds of years
And thousands of people. There was spirit inside,
But ancient spirit, that whispered and almost passed you by,
It was so quiet. A lonely hymn carried it, in the swish of
Thick velvet curtains over the confessionals and the still
Sound of feet along the cobbled floor.
Outside, a man talked on his cell-phone and the pigeons
Jumped for bread crumbs and coins, but the open doors,
Fixed on their iron hinges and carved into the church
Let nothing out. And when I turned back, all I saw
Were the gargoyles, grinning and insane.
-Mallika Leuzinger
Album Review: Living With War
NEIL YOUNG
Living With War
Reprise, 2006
A lot of the sixties rockers have survived. Big-time. Survivors of the first order. Paul and Ringo are still around. So are the Rolling Stones. Once the best damn rock 'n roll band in the world and the bad boys of rock they are now more befitting of the title of the oldest rockers on the touring circuit. Dylan is kicking turf in local baseball stadiums on his never ending world tour. Paul Simon harmonizing. The Who are now just two. Like Led Zep. And Neil Young rolls on, regardless.
Neil Young. Gone are the Buffalo Springfield days. And the days of CSNY. S and Y. Gone too those days when Neil Young played with Crazy Horse. Now it is just Neil Young. Even the thirtieth aniversary show for Dylan's back pages and Pearl Jam have been left behind.
But Neil Young still rocks - if you don't believe me listen to Living With War for proof - thre's something very comforting about the album - "I know it's only rock 'n roll but I like it" - it's because it sounds like it's straight out of the sixties but without the urgency of that time to create classics - so the songs end up sounding mellow and soft but the guitar is still rough, the drums still pound, the melody is still there, the bass booms and the lead is predictaby simple. and best of all the lyrics are as protest and folksy as they should be. It's like going down memory lane and reliving the good ole days when the system was something that we all believed we could beat.
It's not a surprise that the album along with Springsteen's tribute to Seeger should have had much success. They're riding the wave of nostalgia.
I have to quote but there are too many memorable lines to choose from. The titles themselves speak loudly. After the Garden. Living with War. The Restless Consumer. Shock and Awe. Families. Let's Impeach the President. Flags of Freedom. Looking for a Leader. Roger and Out. America the Beautiful - yes, the hymn. And yes again, the titles tell us the whole story.
Song after song pounds and drives its way into our ears - sounding similar to one another but still enjoyable.
Neil Young pays an expected tribute to Bob Dylan in Flags of Freedom. Echoes of "chimes of freedom flashing", naturally.
"Sister has her headphones on
She hears the music blasting
She sees her brother marching by
Their bond is everlasting
Listening to Bob Dylan singing in 1963
Watching the flags of freedom flying
She sees the president speaking
On the flat screen TV
In the window of the old appliance store
She turns to see her brother again
But he's already walking past
The flags of freedom flying
Can't you see the flags of freedom?
What colour are they now?
Do you think that you believe in yours
More than they do theirs somehow?
These must be the flags of freedom flyin' "
Followed by - you guessed it - the harmonica.
Not much one can add to that - except perhaps to remember what the reference was about - Martin Luther King and his dream - Dylan and Joan Baez singing, me thinking: "where have all the flowers gone?" - "how green was my valley?" - "oh when will they ever learn? - oh when will they ever learn?*"
It doesn't matter any longer so long as the protests songs keep ringin' - and I can't think of one song on this album I don't like though none of them really stand out - which is pretty impressive for such an old codger - old is sure wise, at any rate. He knows how to keep it simple. Hearken, ye young stupids who are imitators of ye oulde rock 'n' roll gods...
like the chimes of freedom flashin'
like the flags of freedom flyin'
after all, the cause is dead but it's not forgotten.
And yeah, to end - it's not a great album, you say, "but I lahk it."
* Dylan and Baez didn't sing this song or quote that novel but the performance was in that spirit and so the present writer has taken the liberty of doing a little Imagineering here.
-AV Koshy
Living With War
Reprise, 2006
A lot of the sixties rockers have survived. Big-time. Survivors of the first order. Paul and Ringo are still around. So are the Rolling Stones. Once the best damn rock 'n roll band in the world and the bad boys of rock they are now more befitting of the title of the oldest rockers on the touring circuit. Dylan is kicking turf in local baseball stadiums on his never ending world tour. Paul Simon harmonizing. The Who are now just two. Like Led Zep. And Neil Young rolls on, regardless.
Neil Young. Gone are the Buffalo Springfield days. And the days of CSNY. S and Y. Gone too those days when Neil Young played with Crazy Horse. Now it is just Neil Young. Even the thirtieth aniversary show for Dylan's back pages and Pearl Jam have been left behind.
But Neil Young still rocks - if you don't believe me listen to Living With War for proof - thre's something very comforting about the album - "I know it's only rock 'n roll but I like it" - it's because it sounds like it's straight out of the sixties but without the urgency of that time to create classics - so the songs end up sounding mellow and soft but the guitar is still rough, the drums still pound, the melody is still there, the bass booms and the lead is predictaby simple. and best of all the lyrics are as protest and folksy as they should be. It's like going down memory lane and reliving the good ole days when the system was something that we all believed we could beat.
It's not a surprise that the album along with Springsteen's tribute to Seeger should have had much success. They're riding the wave of nostalgia.
I have to quote but there are too many memorable lines to choose from. The titles themselves speak loudly. After the Garden. Living with War. The Restless Consumer. Shock and Awe. Families. Let's Impeach the President. Flags of Freedom. Looking for a Leader. Roger and Out. America the Beautiful - yes, the hymn. And yes again, the titles tell us the whole story.
Song after song pounds and drives its way into our ears - sounding similar to one another but still enjoyable.
Neil Young pays an expected tribute to Bob Dylan in Flags of Freedom. Echoes of "chimes of freedom flashing", naturally.
"Sister has her headphones on
She hears the music blasting
She sees her brother marching by
Their bond is everlasting
Listening to Bob Dylan singing in 1963
Watching the flags of freedom flying
She sees the president speaking
On the flat screen TV
In the window of the old appliance store
She turns to see her brother again
But he's already walking past
The flags of freedom flying
Can't you see the flags of freedom?
What colour are they now?
Do you think that you believe in yours
More than they do theirs somehow?
These must be the flags of freedom flyin' "
Followed by - you guessed it - the harmonica.
Not much one can add to that - except perhaps to remember what the reference was about - Martin Luther King and his dream - Dylan and Joan Baez singing, me thinking: "where have all the flowers gone?" - "how green was my valley?" - "oh when will they ever learn? - oh when will they ever learn?*"
It doesn't matter any longer so long as the protests songs keep ringin' - and I can't think of one song on this album I don't like though none of them really stand out - which is pretty impressive for such an old codger - old is sure wise, at any rate. He knows how to keep it simple. Hearken, ye young stupids who are imitators of ye oulde rock 'n' roll gods...
like the chimes of freedom flashin'
like the flags of freedom flyin'
after all, the cause is dead but it's not forgotten.
And yeah, to end - it's not a great album, you say, "but I lahk it."
* Dylan and Baez didn't sing this song or quote that novel but the performance was in that spirit and so the present writer has taken the liberty of doing a little Imagineering here.
-AV Koshy
My List of the Top Five TV Shows
1. GILMORE GIRLS
“Special? As in stop eating the paste special?”
No one I’ve retold this too ever gets it. And I laughed for ten minutes straight after Rory Gilmore asked Logan Huntzberger thit in a mock-hurt way. Maybe someone else might have caught it too and laughed harder than me. Even though it was delivered faster than brownies disappear in our class. I do hope someone else got it, so I don’t feel like I’m this weird person who only gets the weird jokes and this is a terribly awkward sentence to end. Every episode leaves me with this bubbly-good feeling (except when Logan and Rory break up over and over) and also a sense of amazement at the sheer genius of the writers (Amy and Dan Palladino). And I only ever manage to catch about 13% of the wittier than Jay Leno pop-culture references, which are characteristic of Gilmore Girls.
Minus points: Er…none? This is Gilmore Girls we’re talking about! Ok, maybe Dean is a bit annoying. And Jess leaves too soon! But Logan comes into the picture…
2. CHARMED
I haven't seen a lot of the earlier seasons (which I hear were brilliant) but whatever I saw, I loved! Hello! Three gorgeous women saving the world again AND again, very goodlooking whitelighters to be saved and cool magic-y special effects! Full girl power and everything. Beats Buffy by a mile even though they don't have Spike.
Minus points: Ok, so *sometimes* it does get a *bit* unbelievable...and NO SPIKE (the super cool vampire with a British accent)! And they kill Drew Fuller, though he does come back one last time (*yay*)
3. ONE TREE HILL
Yes, this is a stupid teenage drama show, and no, I cannot relate it to my life (*raises eyebrows in general direction*), but it is SO entertaining! Unlike the OC which is only about you-know-what and gets incredibly hard to keep up with, there is actually a plot here, which constantly makes me squeal "They did not *not* just do that! I WANT NEXT WEEK'S EPISODE NOW!". And of course, it employs James Lafferty =)
Minus points: Luke (Chad Michael Murray)'s philosophizing. Making HIM the philosophical character? What is up with that?
4. LOST
Goodlooking people (and nice hero-type sorts too!) stranded on a mystery island. Where can you go wrong? Danger, mystery and suspense at every step! Enough mindbenders for the intellectuals and more than enough action for the rest. Never bores, always involves lots of bitten nails and edge-of-the-seat-squealing-and-covering-eyes action.
Minus points: The whole mystery thing does get a tad overdone and they never tell us anything, just create more and more *mysterious situations*. AND they killed Boone (Ian Somerhalder)!
5. PRISON BREAK
Would've rated this higher, but I've only seen seven episodes. It is, however, EXTREMELY entertaining and interesting. Goodlooking guy (again!), terribly brainy (this is the different bit) stuck in prison, coming up with meticulous plans to break out, thus its name, "Prison Break". Again, entirely full of suspense and never a lull in the action!
Minus points: A bit too gruesome for my taste...lots and lots of grit and blood.
-Avantika Agarwal
“Special? As in stop eating the paste special?”
No one I’ve retold this too ever gets it. And I laughed for ten minutes straight after Rory Gilmore asked Logan Huntzberger thit in a mock-hurt way. Maybe someone else might have caught it too and laughed harder than me. Even though it was delivered faster than brownies disappear in our class. I do hope someone else got it, so I don’t feel like I’m this weird person who only gets the weird jokes and this is a terribly awkward sentence to end. Every episode leaves me with this bubbly-good feeling (except when Logan and Rory break up over and over) and also a sense of amazement at the sheer genius of the writers (Amy and Dan Palladino). And I only ever manage to catch about 13% of the wittier than Jay Leno pop-culture references, which are characteristic of Gilmore Girls.
Minus points: Er…none? This is Gilmore Girls we’re talking about! Ok, maybe Dean is a bit annoying. And Jess leaves too soon! But Logan comes into the picture…
2. CHARMED
I haven't seen a lot of the earlier seasons (which I hear were brilliant) but whatever I saw, I loved! Hello! Three gorgeous women saving the world again AND again, very goodlooking whitelighters to be saved and cool magic-y special effects! Full girl power and everything. Beats Buffy by a mile even though they don't have Spike.
Minus points: Ok, so *sometimes* it does get a *bit* unbelievable...and NO SPIKE (the super cool vampire with a British accent)! And they kill Drew Fuller, though he does come back one last time (*yay*)
3. ONE TREE HILL
Yes, this is a stupid teenage drama show, and no, I cannot relate it to my life (*raises eyebrows in general direction*), but it is SO entertaining! Unlike the OC which is only about you-know-what and gets incredibly hard to keep up with, there is actually a plot here, which constantly makes me squeal "They did not *not* just do that! I WANT NEXT WEEK'S EPISODE NOW!". And of course, it employs James Lafferty =)
Minus points: Luke (Chad Michael Murray)'s philosophizing. Making HIM the philosophical character? What is up with that?
4. LOST
Goodlooking people (and nice hero-type sorts too!) stranded on a mystery island. Where can you go wrong? Danger, mystery and suspense at every step! Enough mindbenders for the intellectuals and more than enough action for the rest. Never bores, always involves lots of bitten nails and edge-of-the-seat-squealing-and-covering-eyes action.
Minus points: The whole mystery thing does get a tad overdone and they never tell us anything, just create more and more *mysterious situations*. AND they killed Boone (Ian Somerhalder)!
5. PRISON BREAK
Would've rated this higher, but I've only seen seven episodes. It is, however, EXTREMELY entertaining and interesting. Goodlooking guy (again!), terribly brainy (this is the different bit) stuck in prison, coming up with meticulous plans to break out, thus its name, "Prison Break". Again, entirely full of suspense and never a lull in the action!
Minus points: A bit too gruesome for my taste...lots and lots of grit and blood.
-Avantika Agarwal
Ode to Someone Who'd Never Notice Me
I love you so much
But you notice me less than you notice
A scab on your foot.
There, at least, you pay attention to the pain,
And observe the bruise changing colour.
I wilt in front of you,
And if I change colour too,
I'm sure you won’t notice.
You might pretend to, and respond
To my chameleonness
With your ever-infuriating "mmm"s.
Would it surprise you if I told you "I love you"?
How about "I'm IN love with you"?
Or "No one would ever love you more" ?
Actually forget it. Forget everything.
Choose to flick me off your shoulder.
I've learnt, even sprouting wings out of my ass
And offering to take you around the world won’t
Earn me gold stars.
But what if I were to lose 10 kgs, and magically
Blossom into a "hott chick"?
Maybe that'd be the only way you'd notice me.
Maybe after that,
I wouldn't want you.
Maybe you're not the person I thought you were after all.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.
Maybe I still love you.
-Panwaffle
But you notice me less than you notice
A scab on your foot.
There, at least, you pay attention to the pain,
And observe the bruise changing colour.
I wilt in front of you,
And if I change colour too,
I'm sure you won’t notice.
You might pretend to, and respond
To my chameleonness
With your ever-infuriating "mmm"s.
Would it surprise you if I told you "I love you"?
How about "I'm IN love with you"?
Or "No one would ever love you more" ?
Actually forget it. Forget everything.
Choose to flick me off your shoulder.
I've learnt, even sprouting wings out of my ass
And offering to take you around the world won’t
Earn me gold stars.
But what if I were to lose 10 kgs, and magically
Blossom into a "hott chick"?
Maybe that'd be the only way you'd notice me.
Maybe after that,
I wouldn't want you.
Maybe you're not the person I thought you were after all.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.
Maybe I still love you.
-Panwaffle
Lovers and Liars
Pretty flowers that are lit up with smoke
Now he's quiet and then she spoke
The game of life isn't meant to be played
For these few years it could be delayed.
Just when life was good and bad was gone
And it seemed the world had stopped to perform
The big guy knocked on her feeble door
And said with a grin, for all to hear...
I got you, again.
Silent dreams full of siren screams
She'd heard all is not what it seems
Turned out that rumour was so true
She looks at me and she looks at you
The craziness shows in her eyes
The frozen crimes are no surprise
Cause the life she lives is a life of lies
And they had her, again.
And there were empty bottles lying all over the bedroom floor
But she knew that her emptiness was so much more
To fear the truth or be swept away
What more could she do? What more could she say?
The drama queen she knew she was
Writing poetry...or rather, just rhyming words
She knew she had the one real guy
He wasn't her love, he just wasn't a lie!
So she looked up at the cloudy sky.
Did she imagine it or was it about to cry?
She winked and blinked and said with a smile
"You may have had me all this while...
But not this time, not again."
Now he's quiet and then she spoke
The game of life isn't meant to be played
For these few years it could be delayed.
Just when life was good and bad was gone
And it seemed the world had stopped to perform
The big guy knocked on her feeble door
And said with a grin, for all to hear...
I got you, again.
Silent dreams full of siren screams
She'd heard all is not what it seems
Turned out that rumour was so true
She looks at me and she looks at you
The craziness shows in her eyes
The frozen crimes are no surprise
Cause the life she lives is a life of lies
And they had her, again.
And there were empty bottles lying all over the bedroom floor
But she knew that her emptiness was so much more
To fear the truth or be swept away
What more could she do? What more could she say?
The drama queen she knew she was
Writing poetry...or rather, just rhyming words
She knew she had the one real guy
He wasn't her love, he just wasn't a lie!
So she looked up at the cloudy sky.
Did she imagine it or was it about to cry?
She winked and blinked and said with a smile
"You may have had me all this while...
But not this time, not again."
Passing Stars
The stars were dying. It was as simple as that.
An obituary printed right into the sky,
In block letters.
Like faded diamonds pinned unto a plunging
Neckline, nothing for the artist. Nothing even,
For the New York Times, the paparazzi
Whose bowtie was really a camera.
The stars were dying, and the man without an ear was
Already dead. Their passing meant nothing.
No letters to the editor, not even a song
For Lucy. And the girl behind the magazine counter
Smiled.
Her future was free, her astrologist, fired.
-Mallika Leuzinger
An obituary printed right into the sky,
In block letters.
Like faded diamonds pinned unto a plunging
Neckline, nothing for the artist. Nothing even,
For the New York Times, the paparazzi
Whose bowtie was really a camera.
The stars were dying, and the man without an ear was
Already dead. Their passing meant nothing.
No letters to the editor, not even a song
For Lucy. And the girl behind the magazine counter
Smiled.
Her future was free, her astrologist, fired.
-Mallika Leuzinger
Space to write, empty whiteness!
May I jump with joy?
Or why bother- I may hurt my toe...
But that may well be half the fun.
A purple toe is a unique trait.
But,
If it gets infected and swells
And turns green and pusses
And then orange and blue,
It may not be quite the
Fun it promised to be at the start.
-Avantika Agarwal
May I jump with joy?
Or why bother- I may hurt my toe...
But that may well be half the fun.
A purple toe is a unique trait.
But,
If it gets infected and swells
And turns green and pusses
And then orange and blue,
It may not be quite the
Fun it promised to be at the start.
-Avantika Agarwal
The Truly Great
Soccer in Sun and Shadow: by Eduardo Galeano, translated by Mark Fried, © Verso 1998, 1999
The best sports books have a remarkable number of similar qualities. They are concise masterpieces marked by lovely, musical prose and a novel-like air of wonder and magic. They are defiantly untechnical: this is because the best sports books aren’t written by sportsmen or even by professional sportswriters.
There are great sports books that are not defined by these qualities, to be sure. But the kind of book I’m talking about here is not merely great; the list of “great” sports books is an impossibly long one of which I am only aware of a small fraction at best. There are an extremely rare brand of sports books that are truly special. They intertwine history, music, literature, psychology and politics with a profound love of the game to create works of art that while inspired by and deeply rooted in a particular sport, are truly more general works of brilliant non-fiction.
This is why sporting outsiders end up making the finest contributions to the literature of sport. CLR James, the West Indian Marxist who wrote perhaps the greatest sports book of all time, Beyond a Boundary, made his name and career as a historian and social theorist. John McPhee (author of the tennis masterpiece Levels of the Game) and David Remnick (who wrote a seminal biography of Muhammad Ali) never distinguished themselves as players or experts in tennis or boxing. And the Uruguayan Eduardo Galeano, the particular focus of this article, describes himself as “the worst wooden leg ever to set foot on the playing fields of my country”. None of the four ever wrote more than the odd book or piece about the sport they loved, or ever attempted making a career of sportswriting. James’ timeless question, “What do they know of cricket who only cricket know?” is painfully over-quoted, but it serves as the perfect evidence of the belief of these writers that their sportswriting fit within the line of their usual non-fiction work, and the two were inextricable.
Eduardo Galeano is a Uruguayan novelist, essayist, journalist and historian. His works are known for melding fiction and nonfiction and in the process wonderfully capturing the essence of South American life. On the strength of Soccer in Sun and Shadow, read in an English translation, I can readily describe him as a writer of the highest quality, capable of passages containing both lines of heartbreaking sadness and a wry humour that is impossibly enticing. The book could be described as a South American history of football in the form of short pieces in a sort of vague chronological order. It makes no attempt to be comprehensive or even purely factual; indeed its vivid description of several events that the author surely could not have witnessed means that it follows Galeano’s famous trend of writing “faction”.
Galeano uses the medium of football to explore the history of postcolonial Latin America, providing insights on race relations (through the lives and goals of brilliant and underappreciated black and mulatto footballers) as well as lamenting the dominance of richer countries; as he notes, although Europe and Latin America have won an almost identical number of World Cups, almost all referees have been European. Some of his loveliest passages show us the extent of football passion in South America: the piece about “the stadium” tells us that “Montevideo’s Centenario Stadium sighs for the glory days of Uruguayan soccer. Maracana is still crying over Brazil’s 1950 World Cup defeat. At Bombonera in Buenos Aires, drums boom from a century ago”. The inherent wonder of the sport is enriched by Galeano’s prose, which is often as exciting and evocative as that of even better known Latin American writers like Garcia Marquez and Vargas Llosa.
While dominated by South American football, Galeano’s book is an inclusive one, containing snippets of the great Europeans, tales of wonderful goals and pieces on the globalization of football, which Galeano sees as a good thing (he takes justifiable pride in the achievements of non-white players the world over). Yet Galeano the polemicist is just as effective as the usual, celebratory Galeano. His passionate and sarcastic denunciation of Joao Havelange (the man who announced, “I have come to sell a product named soccer), Sepp Blatter and the likes of IMG and Adidas reveal once more to us Galeano’s profound love for the game and the hatred he feels for the grim, corporate forces that in his view are trying to tear the beautiful game apart.
And thus it is Galeano’s love for football, a love that is shared by over a billion individuals on this planet, that leaves the most powerful mark on the reader. Soccer in Sun and Shadow is in many ways a light book, easy to read and dip into at random occasions, since it is not truly sequential or structured. For new fans (such as Americans) it offers the chance to read a beautifully written introduction to the game, its players and history, with a concise and thrilling summary of the events of every world cup from Uruguay 1930 to France ’98. For more knowledgable devotees it is an informed, entertaining treatise. And for the more middle of the road fan like myself, neither novice nor expert, it is richly rewarding both as a book about football as well as a deeply engaging work of non-fiction about Latin America. I end with the closing lines of the first edition of the book, as there are few better testaments to the intensity of Galeano’s passion and the power of his writing:
"For years I have felt challenged by the memory and reality of soccer, and I’ve tried to write something that was worthy of this great pagan mass able to speak such different languages and unleash such universal passion. By writing, I was going to do with my hands what I could never accomplish with my feet: irredeemable klutz, disgrace of the playing fields, I had no choice but to ask of words what the ball I so desired denied me.
From that challenge, and from that need for expiation, this book was born. Homage to soccer, celebration of its lights, denunciation of its shadows. I don’t know if it has turned out the way soccer would have liked, but I know it grew within me and has reached the final page and now that it is born it is yours. And I feel that irreparable melancholy we all feel after making love and at the end of the game."
The best sports books have a remarkable number of similar qualities. They are concise masterpieces marked by lovely, musical prose and a novel-like air of wonder and magic. They are defiantly untechnical: this is because the best sports books aren’t written by sportsmen or even by professional sportswriters.
There are great sports books that are not defined by these qualities, to be sure. But the kind of book I’m talking about here is not merely great; the list of “great” sports books is an impossibly long one of which I am only aware of a small fraction at best. There are an extremely rare brand of sports books that are truly special. They intertwine history, music, literature, psychology and politics with a profound love of the game to create works of art that while inspired by and deeply rooted in a particular sport, are truly more general works of brilliant non-fiction.
This is why sporting outsiders end up making the finest contributions to the literature of sport. CLR James, the West Indian Marxist who wrote perhaps the greatest sports book of all time, Beyond a Boundary, made his name and career as a historian and social theorist. John McPhee (author of the tennis masterpiece Levels of the Game) and David Remnick (who wrote a seminal biography of Muhammad Ali) never distinguished themselves as players or experts in tennis or boxing. And the Uruguayan Eduardo Galeano, the particular focus of this article, describes himself as “the worst wooden leg ever to set foot on the playing fields of my country”. None of the four ever wrote more than the odd book or piece about the sport they loved, or ever attempted making a career of sportswriting. James’ timeless question, “What do they know of cricket who only cricket know?” is painfully over-quoted, but it serves as the perfect evidence of the belief of these writers that their sportswriting fit within the line of their usual non-fiction work, and the two were inextricable.
Eduardo Galeano is a Uruguayan novelist, essayist, journalist and historian. His works are known for melding fiction and nonfiction and in the process wonderfully capturing the essence of South American life. On the strength of Soccer in Sun and Shadow, read in an English translation, I can readily describe him as a writer of the highest quality, capable of passages containing both lines of heartbreaking sadness and a wry humour that is impossibly enticing. The book could be described as a South American history of football in the form of short pieces in a sort of vague chronological order. It makes no attempt to be comprehensive or even purely factual; indeed its vivid description of several events that the author surely could not have witnessed means that it follows Galeano’s famous trend of writing “faction”.
Galeano uses the medium of football to explore the history of postcolonial Latin America, providing insights on race relations (through the lives and goals of brilliant and underappreciated black and mulatto footballers) as well as lamenting the dominance of richer countries; as he notes, although Europe and Latin America have won an almost identical number of World Cups, almost all referees have been European. Some of his loveliest passages show us the extent of football passion in South America: the piece about “the stadium” tells us that “Montevideo’s Centenario Stadium sighs for the glory days of Uruguayan soccer. Maracana is still crying over Brazil’s 1950 World Cup defeat. At Bombonera in Buenos Aires, drums boom from a century ago”. The inherent wonder of the sport is enriched by Galeano’s prose, which is often as exciting and evocative as that of even better known Latin American writers like Garcia Marquez and Vargas Llosa.
While dominated by South American football, Galeano’s book is an inclusive one, containing snippets of the great Europeans, tales of wonderful goals and pieces on the globalization of football, which Galeano sees as a good thing (he takes justifiable pride in the achievements of non-white players the world over). Yet Galeano the polemicist is just as effective as the usual, celebratory Galeano. His passionate and sarcastic denunciation of Joao Havelange (the man who announced, “I have come to sell a product named soccer), Sepp Blatter and the likes of IMG and Adidas reveal once more to us Galeano’s profound love for the game and the hatred he feels for the grim, corporate forces that in his view are trying to tear the beautiful game apart.
And thus it is Galeano’s love for football, a love that is shared by over a billion individuals on this planet, that leaves the most powerful mark on the reader. Soccer in Sun and Shadow is in many ways a light book, easy to read and dip into at random occasions, since it is not truly sequential or structured. For new fans (such as Americans) it offers the chance to read a beautifully written introduction to the game, its players and history, with a concise and thrilling summary of the events of every world cup from Uruguay 1930 to France ’98. For more knowledgable devotees it is an informed, entertaining treatise. And for the more middle of the road fan like myself, neither novice nor expert, it is richly rewarding both as a book about football as well as a deeply engaging work of non-fiction about Latin America. I end with the closing lines of the first edition of the book, as there are few better testaments to the intensity of Galeano’s passion and the power of his writing:
"For years I have felt challenged by the memory and reality of soccer, and I’ve tried to write something that was worthy of this great pagan mass able to speak such different languages and unleash such universal passion. By writing, I was going to do with my hands what I could never accomplish with my feet: irredeemable klutz, disgrace of the playing fields, I had no choice but to ask of words what the ball I so desired denied me.
From that challenge, and from that need for expiation, this book was born. Homage to soccer, celebration of its lights, denunciation of its shadows. I don’t know if it has turned out the way soccer would have liked, but I know it grew within me and has reached the final page and now that it is born it is yours. And I feel that irreparable melancholy we all feel after making love and at the end of the game."
As the Poems Go....
I discovered poetry quite by accident. I'm not talking about the four-line rhymes I fascinated my teachers with in kindergarten, or the angst-ridden scribbles (that scanned far too well!) of my preteens, but poetry. Flowing words, and flowing lines, and emotions that jump out at you from a well-placed comma, a potent full stop. I stopped clinging to my ababa-suddenly-abcb metre and started reading Hardy. And then Shelley and Keats, even the mad, bad and dangerous to know Byron and opium-eating Coleridge, from dust-covered, silverfish inhabited volumes I took, as covertly as possible, off my grandparents' bookshelves. I never memorized stanzas, or knew what they were on about, but it was like nothing I'd ever read before.
Sixth standard came after that, and these books, that for weeks I'd placed under my bed with the most profuse care, were put back unto shelves. I forgot about poetry, and spearheaded myself into gang wars and class politics, and the culture that came with it; "Friends", Nancy Drew mysteries and MSN Messenger. The closest I came to poetry was the occasional internet search that yielded a mixture of Bob Dylan and Coldplay lyrics. And then, our English teacher Mr.Old made us write our first analytical essay. On a poem.
So maybe it was "The Charge of the Light Brigade", a ballad I found immediately irritating and familiar from my grandfather's lively recitations of "Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them", but I enjoyed the exercise, the frenzied activity of discovering alliteration and consonance that swept our class, even so. And suddenly, I felt like writing my own again. Poems, I mean, But proper ones, this time, with serious subjects and clever linguistic features I told myself. A friend of mine was practising her catwalk, and another emmersed himself in history magazines and British politics, making it clear his ambition lay somewhere in the Houses of Parliament, while I decided that T.S. Eliot was God.
That opinion has been somewhat revised since then. But I'm still a fervent admirer, and "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is still one of my favourite poems. I don't know how many times I've stared, fascinated at the lines "When the evening is spread out against the sky/ Like a patient etherized upon a table" and thrown mental tantrums because the "deeper meaning" of the constantly appearing women who talk of Michelangelo evades me....
Now that I've got my own books, thick anthologies of all sorts of poems with coffee stains and somebody else's notes down the margins because I buy them second-hand at Blossom's House of Used Books, or from a three-metre high stack for Rs. 50 a piece on a Calcutta road, I can properly call myself a poetaholic. Or at the very least, a poemaholic. I have struggled for some time now to prove this to myself, with nearly a hundred of my own poetic attempts to show for it, and I'm struggling now to explain it to a wider and less forgiving public. I remember someone once telling me about his own love for poetry. He said, and I quote,
"I love poetry, I love reading it, writing it, thinking about it, listening to it. I think it's the most addictive, maddening and exciting branch of literature. It's the one type everyone can attempt, but only a few can master..."
I couldn't hope to say it any better. From that giddy lightheadedness and rueful envy I feel when I read something by Margaret Atwood to the utter dispair that Emily Bronte can pull me into, those lines express exactly what poetry has, over the years, become to me.
-Mallika Leuzinger
Sixth standard came after that, and these books, that for weeks I'd placed under my bed with the most profuse care, were put back unto shelves. I forgot about poetry, and spearheaded myself into gang wars and class politics, and the culture that came with it; "Friends", Nancy Drew mysteries and MSN Messenger. The closest I came to poetry was the occasional internet search that yielded a mixture of Bob Dylan and Coldplay lyrics. And then, our English teacher Mr.Old made us write our first analytical essay. On a poem.
So maybe it was "The Charge of the Light Brigade", a ballad I found immediately irritating and familiar from my grandfather's lively recitations of "Cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them", but I enjoyed the exercise, the frenzied activity of discovering alliteration and consonance that swept our class, even so. And suddenly, I felt like writing my own again. Poems, I mean, But proper ones, this time, with serious subjects and clever linguistic features I told myself. A friend of mine was practising her catwalk, and another emmersed himself in history magazines and British politics, making it clear his ambition lay somewhere in the Houses of Parliament, while I decided that T.S. Eliot was God.
That opinion has been somewhat revised since then. But I'm still a fervent admirer, and "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is still one of my favourite poems. I don't know how many times I've stared, fascinated at the lines "When the evening is spread out against the sky/ Like a patient etherized upon a table" and thrown mental tantrums because the "deeper meaning" of the constantly appearing women who talk of Michelangelo evades me....
Now that I've got my own books, thick anthologies of all sorts of poems with coffee stains and somebody else's notes down the margins because I buy them second-hand at Blossom's House of Used Books, or from a three-metre high stack for Rs. 50 a piece on a Calcutta road, I can properly call myself a poetaholic. Or at the very least, a poemaholic. I have struggled for some time now to prove this to myself, with nearly a hundred of my own poetic attempts to show for it, and I'm struggling now to explain it to a wider and less forgiving public. I remember someone once telling me about his own love for poetry. He said, and I quote,
"I love poetry, I love reading it, writing it, thinking about it, listening to it. I think it's the most addictive, maddening and exciting branch of literature. It's the one type everyone can attempt, but only a few can master..."
I couldn't hope to say it any better. From that giddy lightheadedness and rueful envy I feel when I read something by Margaret Atwood to the utter dispair that Emily Bronte can pull me into, those lines express exactly what poetry has, over the years, become to me.
-Mallika Leuzinger
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