Sunbeam Motha

In the foggy ruins of time I have met Sunbeam Motha – and not in his musico avatar.

In the early nineties of the previous century, just out of school, I attended a meeting of the Society for Afforestation and Verdant Earth (SAVE) – coordinated by urban governance expert Vinay Baindur and others whose names I now forget – after-hours in the conference room of Electronic Relays India off Residency Road.

Only Sunbeam, of course, was entirely unforgettable.

Then an adolescent with a bodybuilding ego bigger than my corporeal form could ever attain, I was deflated by the sight of his sinewed, veined forearms. They looked immensely strong.

He was also intense and articulate, with a blood-quickening old-world vocabulary completely devoid of all the IT bullshit that has corrupted Bangalorese now. When he spoke, he roused. Over his rugged good looks, he wore an aura of Bodhisattva-like compassion and mysterious free-spiritedness.

It was July, and one evening after a meeting the monsoon held us all up for two hours. Topically, we found ourselves chatting with Sunbeam about rain and rainforests. He invited us over to see an afforestation project he had started near Bannerghatta. The following weekend, my friend God and I trekked behind the National Park to a barren hillside stubbled with new saplings. Sunbeam wasn’t there – probably held up by another of his many passions – and somehow our paths never crossed again. I hope his forest survives.

There was another side to Sunbeam Motha – one every Bangalore musician worth his pedigree knew of and revered. And because Sunbeam is now no more, we will all pay tribute to his memory and to the Music Strip, which he pioneered in the early 1980s. The Strip got its name from the place where it was allowed to be held – the avenue behind Queen Victoria’s statue in Cubbon Park (then, as now, the Police Commissioner forbade holding the gig anywhere else).

Time chases its tail this Sunday, when the Music Strip reincarnates as The Live Gig. Join us and many others at this fond and nostalgic revival. We’re on nearabouts 4 PM.

Sunbeam’s photograph – courtesy Sheila Remedios

Event details on Facebook

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Overheard after Bruce Lee Mani won ‘Best Guitarist of the Year’:

“What da, only this year, uh? He’s been playing bestly all these years, no?”

Happy birthday, Bruce! One more in the kitty, bro. Time for some extra-jolly saapaad!

About the JD Rock Awards, hearsay has it that in inimitable Mumbai ishtyle, all the glitterati descended upon this gala event. Now, now… what should we make of that? We asked the boys what they thought of an Indian rock awards program, and got some surprisingly cerebral answers…

Keep your tongue firmly in cheek, and enjoy!

The post Jack up the volume, boys and girls! appeared first on Thermal and a Quarter (TAAQ).

Ordinary Affair

Some folks never get hitched
Some get a few along the way
Some find too many
Just can’t seem to give it away, away

Some stay married forever
And hate every minute they’re in
Some lose the love of their lives
Before their lives begin

Love life,
No strife
Seems so rare
All smiles,
High fives
Just an ordinary affair

Some men want taken women
And the mistress never gets her man
Married men envy bachelor boys
Footloose and free

Some pick the best from the worst
And stay with the one who cares
Soon the best can’t be told from the worst
And yours is an ordinary affair

Love life
No strife
Seems so rare
All smiles,
High fives
Just an ordinary affair

—————–

Sold

Everything’s on sale sale sale
His language, his choice, his belief, his voice
It’s all for sale sale sale
His work, his play and how he wishes to pray
It’s up for sale sale sale

His point of view and line of sight
His childhood dreams his copyrights
Everything’s on sale sale sale

Keep your eye on the ball son
You are now in the entertainment run
Every shelf on every space
Must have a picture of your face

They can have a slice of your pie
At the cost of one eye
Or have the whole cake and lollypop too
Buy one and we’ll give them two

Now he’s got no body and soul
Digging deeper down that hole
No Family friends or foes
And the stores they’re all closed
Everything’s sold, sold

Keep your eye on the ball son
You are now in the entertainment run
Every shelf in every space
Must have a picture of your face

Pluck out their eyeballs now
And fix them on your walls
Get her, get him, get them, get everyone
Blindly into your store

Everything was on sale sale sale
His language, his choice, his belief, his voice
Was up for sale, sale, sale
His work, his play and how he wished to pray
Was on sale, sale sale sale
And now the stores, they’re all closed
Everything’s sold.

The post Rajeev Speaks – in Song! appeared first on Thermal and a Quarter (TAAQ).

The first, of course, the still mysterious death of Bob Woolmer.

The second, the ignominious exit of Inzamam-ul-Haq from the World Cup and one-day cricket.

And the third, the great party thrown last night by my friend of fourteen years, Rajeev Rajagopal, in expectation of an Indian victory. I do hope your bladder did not reject the copious intake of beer.

There is a line that Bruce Lee Mani wrote in ‘Potatoe Junkie’ – yep, the one that starts with ‘turn it on, turn it on, turn it on, mass communication junkie’. It goes ‘veto is your right, you can’.

And that illustrates why, after much deliberation and many arguments with my wife and turning a tone-deaf ear to the rants of my friends, I took the Luddite, quasi-Amish stance of outlawing cable television from my house. All for reclaiming the one thing that television had killed (along with the radio star).

Conversation.

Which is why when a small band of friends gathered at my place this bygone Monday, they found that the only way they could follow India’s fortunes against Bermuda was (for a price) on their mobile phones, or via my broadband connection. If my home were like any other, we’d be sitting huddled before the electronic teat, suckling away at ads with bits of match thrown in between.

Instead, we had a great time. We made plenty of satisfying, aimless conversation. And everyone, even Nishith Singh, enjoyed the Keema Mutter.

So, my dear Rajeev, I hope you slept well last night. Because the men in blue will return, and the men in blue will reappear on television as if nothing ever happened to taint their blushing blueness. And Mahendra Singh Dhoni will still drive around with his hyper-tinted power windows up, and the righteous cops who book him will be transferred or suspended. And between two slices of a match when Sachin is in reality unhooking his gloves and walking back to the accustomed air-conditioned comfort of the pavilion, he is still guzzling the secret of his energy and swiping his Visa power. While someone else is devouring a breakfast of champions. And still someone else is telling you what you always knew: that wherever you go, their network will follow. And Sehwag’s mom is slapping down a spatula of butter to soothe her unbruised gladiator’s breakfast.

But we at Thermal And A Quarter will keep on fighting till the end.

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