We saw the movie "Rock On" last night. Not the royal "we" as in "we wish to we we" (Queen Victoria to the Keeper of the Royal Chamberpot, 1885) but the "we" as in "we, the missus and I", two jisams but one opinion (the missus's).
But I digress. The movie was nice. Not a classic or anything, though the Times of India critic gave it such a great review that I suspect he wet his pants during the process of writing it. In fact, we (still not the royal "we") watched the movie "A Wednesday" the night before which we (now the royal "we") thought it ("A Wednesday", that is) was the greatest movie we had ever watched in any language including Kannada, Telugu and Malayalam.
What made "Rock On" a good movie for us (the royal "us") was, and this is heresy in Bollywood, that it happens to have a story line and the songs are completely relevant to the story. I know what you're thinking. You are thinking hai ram what is the world coming to and that this is the thin end of the wedge. You echo our (the royal "our") sentiments. But again I digress. Sometimes I get the feeling that I write simply to fill up the page.
Anyway, my point was that the music left me limp. The lads, on the other hand were grooving away to the numbers, imaginary guitar and mike alternately in hand and moving the pelvis in what one strongly suspects is the mating ritual of the orang utan. I thought oh my god, what rot this rock music is. Only sthaayi, no antara. And only one taal, eight beats. And the "virtuoso" guitaring was so elementary any eight year old sitar player would have done it in his sleep. I told this to my sons. They looked at me like I was a minor Biblical prophet and they a couple of Philistines. "Annie!" the elder one reprimanded me. (A foot note is in order here. For obscure reasons, the boys call me "Annie", much to my mortification, and no inducement will make them do otherwise. Add to this the fact that for some obscure reason Victoria's Secret has got it into its head that I am a major potential customer and keep mailing me all the details of its latest designs, strangers rather tend to draw away from me sharply, their worst suspicions having been aroused).
And thus my rock music appreciation classes have started. Today I was initiated into the celestial music of a band named Linkin Park who seem to make most of their music by clanging steel utensils in a close space. My tympani are close to handing in their dinner pail. I plan to slip in a bade ghulam cd into the player at night, but the sentries are too watchful.
Watch this space. Dementia is imminent.