Myself, Other People

Flicker: Someone else

Her name is not that important. Though it was a beautiful, uncommon name, I will grant you that. To this day, when someone says the name out loud, it’s she who comes to mind, and not the flower.

I know what you’re thinking, right now. You think this is a story of unrequited love. Of half-forgotten crushes and missed opportunities. It isn’t.

We were in school together. The same class, and for a few years, the same section, even. We never really talked to each other. We were at that awkward age where if you showed too much of an interest in a member of the opposite sex, people would giggle. Maybe somebody would come up with a story of how the two of you were seen together in the playground (the back-field, we called it), and the giggles would become whispers, and maybe a teacher would notice. So no, we did our own thing, and acknowledged each other’s presence with smiles in the morning, the same polite neutral smiles that was extended to everyone you were not best friends with, in class. Maybe we even sat in the same group during tiffin break, sometimes. I do not remember.

What I do remember was the day I really, really noticed her. It was the day she sang. It was a free period, and the teacher called her to the front of the class to sing. Not her specifically, she just asked for a volunteer, anyone who could come and sing a song for all of us. I think we were all a little surprised that she stood up and walked to the front, with none of the usual squeamishness one would expect from such an exercise.

You may wonder if I am making up these details, considering that its been more than fifteen years, but trust me, I remember it all. I even remember her making eye contact with me as she walked by, and that I looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

So she sang. The song wasn’t spectacular – just another love song of the eighties, something about a girl waiting for a guy and the guy asking her not to love him so much. But her voice was. It somehow got the right inflections, the pitch-perfect emotion that song needed. I remember that it was very very quiet when she sang, and she did not look at anyone in particular, even though all of us held our breath and stared at her. I remember the loud applause at the end of it, and the smile on her face as she walked back to her seat. All of us knew (if you leave aside the fact that we were all 15-year olds who did not really know that much about music), and most of us agreed, when we talked about it later on, that it was Her Song. She had made it hers, that afternoon.

She went on to sing on stage, for school events. They tried to get her to sing that song again, but she wouldn’t. The only time she did was on a class picnic because we asked her to. We sang other songs, that evening, but we felt so happy that she sang that song again. I even threw caution to the wind, went sat down next to her in the bus when we were coming back, and told her how much I liked her voice. She smiled and said something nice in return; I don’t remember what exactly.

This Sunday I was among friends, and we were talking about songs from our childhood. At one point, we began to Youtube those old relics, and by a peculiar daisy-chain of links and melody associations, that song began to play. There was that brief, exultant rush of blood to the head, that slightly off-kilter feeling when you wonder how long it’s been since you heard that tune, and when melodies and sounds bring back a rush of memories buried under real-world concerns.

The song that played onscreen, the one that I hummed along with, was the somewhat-cheesy, slightly mispronounced original that we all know. The song that played in my mind was your song, M. Yours alone.

(She died, or so I heard. Two years after we left school.)

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Comics, Conventions

Going APE, part 1

I nearly did not make it to the Alternative Press Expo in San Francisco this Saturday, thanks to Birdy Nam Nam. The band was due to perform at a French music festival in LA on October 1, and I loved them enough to consider staying back for their show. Unfortunately, they ran into visa problems, and Etienne de Crecy headlined instead. The universe, it seems, really wanted me to be at APE. And since my name isn’t Scott Pilgrim, I do not fight the universe.

The universe also put me in a mild state of euphoria when I got off the BART at the UN Plaza/Civic Center station. I flipped through the last page of The Last Colony, the third book in the Old Man’s War trilogy that I was yapping about a few days ago. Random deus ex machina plot points aside, it was a very very satisfying finish, and it also helped that ‘Saadda Haq’ began playing on my earphones that exact same minute, acting like a closing coda to my week-long read sprint.

My primary agenda of the day was to meet Craig Thompson, he of Blankets and Habibi fame, and get a bunch of books signed by him. Entering the convention center, I tried to mark out the signing spots – the CBLDF booth said that they would have Thompson at 2:30 PM, which meant I could amble around at leisure until then. Which I did, studiously avoiding eye contact with the artists selling their minicomics and prints. No offence to anyone, but I’ve blown quarterly comic/art budgets in the first few hours of a con before, and the most I can do now is to learn from my previous mistakes. No contact = no caving in to temptation.

Until I got to the Lee’s Comics booth. Lee’s happens to be one of the most well-known comic-shops in the Bay Area. I had visited their Mountain View store in 2007, and my I-am-from-India spiel had earned me a hefty discount back then. I wasn’t too confident about pulling that off right now, but as I was gazing through their well-selected con collection, I happened to look more closely the guy Lee was talking to. And realized, with what a pulp fiction writer would call ‘a lurch’ – that Craig Thompson was in the house, yo. Craig caught my eye, called me over and said he recognized me from SDCC – I think it’s more likely he saw the fandom-lust on my face. He was talking to the creator of Zahra’s Paradise, I do not remember whether it was the artist or the writer. As it turned out, Craig was signing at Lee’s comics first, and I was technically first in line, so yeah, whoopee. I told him, as he signed and sketched in my books, how much I had enjoyed reading Habibi, and how it was ironic that Holy Terror and Habibi came out the same week – both centered around Islam, both after years of anticipation and with completely divergent world-views. (A separate post on Habibi and its joys will follow soon, I think)

Just for the record, he was totally nice about my getting multiple books signed. I also bought another book from Lee’s Comics, just to not be a dick and support those guys for getting Craig over. Even went back to the end of the line to not make others in the line wait too much.

Once that was done, I began walking through the other end of the hall. And then the second serendipitous/happy moment of the day – I came across Steve Oliff’s booth.

Who’s Steve Oliff? One of the most well-known colorists of the 80s, Oliff brought computer coloring to comics by working on what would arguably be the most renowned manga of the time, Katsuhiro Otomo’s Akira. How did he do that? By creating color guides using airbrush, watercolor and acrylic, which were sent to the computer coloring team in his studio for reference. This was before Photoshop made pixel-pushing lens-flare junkies out of everyone in the industry, and the results were quite unlike anything being published in the market at that time. Otomo himself approved of the project, and Epic comics milked the hell out of it, making Akira one of the best-selling manga runs, ever. (Read this for more information)

I had met Steve in Super-con 2007, where I bought one of his color guides from him, and he introduced me to the work of Tony Salmons in course of our conversation. He had been a hard man to get hold of, since then. A good friend, on seeing my color guide, wanted to buy a few of his own, and none of Oliff’s online contact information worked. He wasn’t at San Diego this year (he was there as a guest this year, he said, and did not have a booth set up. Ugh!) and we weren’t even sure if he did cons any more. So yeah, meeting him, and seeing the pile of Akira pages in front of him, I chuckled to myself, thinking of my friend’s reaction when I told him that I met Steve at APE. I spent a pleasant hour there, looking through the Akira pages, marvelling at the lovely techniques, chatting with Steve about Otomo art, his experiences and comics in general. I got three pages from him, one of them for my friend, and Steve mentioned that he enjoyed working on that particular page a lot because it had a ‘mist’ effect on it.

It was 2 PM. And Kate Beaton was due to sign at the Drawn and Quarterly booth.

(continued)

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Comics

Holy Terror

It’s funny to read reviewers eviscerating Frank Miller’s latest offering, going nuts over the overt anti-Islamic propaganda and the lack of depth in his treatment of suicide bombers, jihad and the war on terror. It’s even funnier to read readers rushing to Miller’s defence. While I haven’t read Holy Terror yet, there are some things that I want to say, like every comic-book reading webmonkey in the world with time on his hands and an opinion up his asshole.

  • Fact: Frank Miller’s writing has stopped being “deep” and “relevant” about 10 years ago.
  • I do not mean this in a bad sense at all. I adore his work, and his artistic skill is unparalleled. Be it minimalism, symbolism, layout or design, Miller has been ahead of the curve. Remember – he was the artist Jim Lee tried to imitate – and failed. (Deathblow, part of the first wave of Image comics. Sounds like a horror-porn movie, and has contents slightly more intellectual than that particular sub-genre, but yeah, the art’s completely wannabe-Miller Lee) Curmudgeonly John Byrne, who was at the top of his game before Miller and who crashed and burned way too early, acknowledges him as one of his inspirations. This coming from Byrne, who’s not too charitable about the comicbook industry in general, is a ringing endorsement for Frank The Tank.
  • That is primarily because Frank Miller’s art has evolved radically over the years. The Eisner-inspired cityscapes in Daredevil gave way to the Goseki Kojima-influenced inking in samurai-noir series Ronin, after which his style took another leap by the time The Dark Knight Returns came out. He then became more abstract – his Elektra Lives Again graphic novel was more refined than TDKR, and by the time he made his triumphant re-entry into comics, with the chiaroscuro Sin City, Miller had reinvented himself yet again. Miller’s proved time and again that he’s completely fearless in experimenting with format, style and presentation. Contrast the garish, electrifying palette of The Dark Knight Strikes Again with the magnificent dignity of 300, and your eyes will pop in disbelief. Yes, it is the same guy, and yes, he is the best at what he does.
  • That said, I do believe that he has his own ‘house style’ when it comes to his writing. His writing is marked by a distinctive rhythm that echo all the way from his characters’ inner monologues to the snappy ironic patter between protagonists. He started it in Daredevil, morphed it into something gut-wrenching by the time he got to his mid-80’s Batman work, and then proceeded to write books that suited his style of writing. By the time Spawn/Batman was out, it was fairly apparent that he could churn out gruff, raspy superhero antics in his sleep. But – that was it. No evolution at all, nothing that might keep pace with the fact that readers were growing up, and that too much of the same thing is not always a good thing.
  • With Dark Knight Strikes Again and All Star Batman And Robin (otherwise known as ‘the Goddamn Batman’ saga), Miller crossed over into genuinely provocative territory. One might see his interpretations of iconic characters as  both pro-baiting and fan-baiting taken to ludicrous extremes – “You want to see what I got?”, I imagine him chuckling to himself, hammering away at his word processor, “This is what I got. How do you like them apples?” Some fans took it, others rolled their eyes, most complained about raped childhoods. And yet, all of them bought his books, thereby proving him right. He could afford to do what he wanted, and make a shitload of money out of it.
  • That said, I don’t think Frank Miller gives a flying fuck about what his readers think. As far as he is concerned, he has a fan following that will buy his books regardless of what he does or how he does it. Hollywood has given him his fuck-you money, and he has, in the course of his career, earned the right to do exactly what he wants to.
  • Ever since the Holy Terror project was announced, Miller has gone on record, time and again, saying how his book will “piss off nearly everyone”.
  • It’s been 10 years since September 11 happened, and the guy’s kept at it. He’s possibly gone and redone a ton of art because it used to be a Batman project and no longer is, right now. If I were him, I would already be pretty pissed with the mainstream comic-book industry for making me redo my work. If I was trying to piss people off then, I would have become a seething cauldron of rage by now, someone not satisfied until the book is publicly burnt, banned in 16 countries around the world, and someone issues an assassination order against me. That would validate ten fucking years of thankless work on a project even with movies to direct and starlets to bang. How do you like them apples?
  • It’s a fucking superhero comic book. You think there’s been a “relevant” superhero comic book since 1986?

TLDR: Frank Miller does not need to be relevant or politically correct. You will all give him your money anyway. *

*I do not intend to. At least not right away. Probably at a $3 sale in a bookshop/convention sometime down the line. The art looks luscious!
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Books

Naked Fat Book Rave: John Scalzi – the Old Man’s War series

I have not really followed much SF in the last few years, with the exception of writers I already follow thanks to their comicbook credentials. But Scalzi’s name kept popping up in different contexts – the most notable of them being Joe Hill’s Twitter feed. There’s only so much name-dropping one can take before caving in, and I began reading Old Man’s War with slightly more-than-average expectations.

Oh. My. God.

Scalzi can write. No, scratch that, Scalzi can turn reader-ly expectations on their head, craft an engaging story and make me root for his characters. And within 20-odd pages, I had gone from Bruce-Banner-wimpy-reader to Hulk-flip-pages-so-quick-they-combust mode. And that hasn’t happened in quite some time. He unravels the world slowly, peeling away layers one at a time. The kind of smart storytelling that builds on familiar sci-fi tropes, is unafraid to go off the beaten track, and sneak in smug little homages – I cannot believe he name-called Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean in the same line! And yeah, he definitely has a wicked sense of humor.

Basic premise – humans are at war. With everyone in the universe. Space colonization is being spearheaded by the Colonial Defence Forces, with senior citizens as military recruits and third-world countries as colonizers. The first book introduces us to John Perry and his first few years in the CDF, as he takes on alien races, all with different agendas. A lot of well-crafted action sequences. Sex when you least expect it. Shout-outs to other sci-fi concepts and works. Be warned – comparisons to Robert Heinlein’s works of military fiction are inevitable, Scalzi goes one up and mentions Starship Troopers himself, in the second book.

There’s a point in the book where everything goes to hell, and that’s when we’re introduced to the second lead character of the series. No details, but the sequel follows this character, so you will understand. By the beginning of the third book, we’ve moved decades since we first encountered Perry, and it’s thrilling to see how Scalzi manages to weave threads and plot-points so fucking elegantly. I just started Book 3 this morning , and I know there’s a fourth book, the title of which tells me that a particular character is just as important as I thought.

Also, Scalzi seems to be the first non-Indian scifi writer who uses authentic Indian names. Face it, it’s grating to hear names like ‘Muralidharan Singh’ or ‘Hussein Kumar’, where writers mash together names without knowing much about ethnicity or religion. So when you come across names like ‘Utpal Chowdhury’, ‘Rohit Kulkarni’ and ‘Savitri Guntupalli’, and even a goat named ‘Prabhat’, you doff your imaginary topi at the writer, and carry on reading, with even more respect for his world-building skills. It’s always the small things.

Highly, highly recommended. Even more so because when I think about it, these books are unfilmable. You’ll know why when you read them.

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Concerts, Music, Myself

Concert Diaries: James Blake, Live At The Music Box

One of the happiest aspects of moving to LA has been this – anytime I listen to a new artiste, or even an old favorite, I go to the corresponding last.fm page and look at their scheduled appearances. In nearly all cases, the artiste is scheduled to perform in this city. Maybe it’s just my choice of musicians, but the ones I’ve been to in the recent past have performed in small, intimate locations – the Wiltern, the Greek Theater, The Music Box. The last I went to was James Blake, last Monday. I had a great time.

Blake makes my kind of music. The kind that refuses to let me parallel-process as I listen to it. Moody, atmospheric synth-collages dance around his voice, which itself is auto-tuned, flange-layered, digitally masticated beyond recognition. Hearing his self-titled album for the first time was a sort of quasi-religious experience. I remember sitting in a corner that night with my earphones, my eyes closed, trying to take in every nuance of ‘The Wilhelm Scream’ as it played over and over. That particular song touched a raw nerve – a plaintive five-line refrain that whispered and stormed, echoed and warbled, as the world changed around it. I had associated Blake’s style with that of a solo music-smith’s digital experiments, that would lose its potency live. Sometimes, the mystery behind the curtain – the smoke, the mirrors – is necessary to accentuate the musicmanship. Intrigued by the idea of a live performance, I went looking for his videos online. And was blown away a second time.

As a venue, the Music Box falls into the mid-sized category, perfect for someone like Blake. I got there early – not a bad thing at all, as when the doors opened at 8, I headed straight to the front of the floor and stayed put. For what seemed like hours and hours, groan. Teengirl Fantasy took the stage at exactly 9 PM, and played a set that blew ears, minds and expectations. I had never heard of them before, but whew, their sound-cloud offering does not get a fraction of the vibe of their live set, where thumping bass loops mesh with otherworldly sounds.

[soundcloud url=”http://api.soundcloud.com/users/1448452″]

You knew Blake was coming onstage when the stage lights turned blue. (No, seriously. That’s the predominant color on his album cover. I was expecting that, yeah) Right from the opening song – ‘Unluck’, the first track on his album – Blake and his musical cohorts on drums and sampler/guitar seemed to bend the rules of sound and light that night, playing to an appreciative audience that cheered and woo-hoo-ed at every opportunity. Weirdly enough, there were cheers even mid-song, forcing Blake to break character and smile impishly, in the middle of some particularly soulful passages.

Random observations about the show:

  • The way the singer’s voice shattered my assumptions. It surprised me to see just how much of Blake’s voice is really his voice, not electronically manipulated or enhanced – especially in songs like ‘Give Me My Month’, where it’s just him and the piano. He is a tremendously gifted singer, and it was awe-inspiring to see how the vocal calisthenics that appeared studio-tweaked were just raw talent.
  • I liked the way Ben Assiter used both a drum machine and an acoustic drum-kit, sometimes simultaneously. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but I am obsessed with sounds, and this is what I mean by a peek at the bones of a song – the realization, for example, that the sound of the hi-hat on Blake’s cover of Feist’s ‘Limit to your Love’ is really a hi-hat.
  • ‘I Never Learned To Share’ and ‘Lindisfarne’, two songs where Blake actually sequences and layers his voice, gave me goosebumps.
  • The new songs they played, one to close the show, the other in the encore, sounded more upbeat, much unlike Blake’s usual style, making for a concert where the melancholy, sparse melodies were punctuated with very peppy, head-bopping sequences.  And it also makes me happy to know that Blake is not sticking to the style that has worked for him, and is trying out different things. It’s also made me fairly sure that I am going to see this guy the next time he performs in LA.
  • The throbbing bass, oh dear god, especially on the encore track ‘Anti-War Dub’ and ‘Limit to your Love’. Think about the deepest, most gut-rattling growl of a subsonic frequency you’ve ever heard, and you’ll probably understand. Maybe.
  • Blake introduced drummer Ben Assiter and guitarist Rob McAndrews as his high-school friends, who have been accompanying him since the very beginning of his career. That made me smile.
  • My favorite Blake song, in case you haven’t figured it out already, is ‘The Wilhelm Scream’. It was the last song (pre-encore), just like I had expected, but maybe because I had already you-tubed it, the song did not have the level of spontaneity to it as the others. Perhaps that is not so surprising after all, considering how much these guys must have played the track live.
  • This did not however prevent me from recording the song myself, on the phone.

Note: the pictures were taken off the iPhone, please excuse the poor quality.
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