The title of this post is a little unrevealing, but makes up for it in its adequacy to describe the situation. And little would one know that this is an account of a reunion. Intended, atleast. Also, I have delayed this post a week, and for good reason.
So they plan out a school reunion, neat idea and all. Ambitious though, keeping it open for all the batches that have attended the school. What I knew was most likely no one from my batch would turn up. And why I did not trust that instinct is a matter of introspection and solitary scorn. To top that, why I decided to perform there, a humble compilation of 'classic rock' songs is a question that shall haunt the better half of my musical lifetime.
In our immense naivety that dealt with a premise that holds the assumption that the crowd will be what I would later end up calling "Musically literate", we walked into "Garage", a club, so to say, with two acoustic guitars and and a spirit to tribute our God's of rock. The "we" here is me and my childhood friend Debanshu, who is an immensely talented guitarist. That we enter using the service door, was a spoiler alert for a more denuded evening. The first look of the place was scary. Flashing lights and deafening throbs of bass that doesn't follow a sane time signature. We were the first to arrive, apart ofcourse from the organiser.
The entourage of insanely "dressed for the occasion" arrived, in a painfully long wait. And without preamble, found comfort in the incarceration of the dance floor and shot definitely not so dance approved poses to the onlookers and the stray polaroid. There was a mentally depraved and totally unskilled DJ at the console. He took immense pleasure in a masochistic control over the crossfader and was muting out random parts of the song. It was moronic, if anything. But what amazed me was that the people on the dance floor were actually lipsinging the tracks that I had NEVER heard in my lifetime, and had no ounce of regret for my ignorance about.
We sat fumbling with our guitars, eagerly waiting to play some songs, but the gradual understanding of the musical inclination of the crowd was horrific, and we had quite a good idea of the inevitable. So we waited for 2 and a half frikkin hours for the "media" had yet to arrive, that would cover the event in their vile exaggeration and unethical alteration of the truth. Anyhow, we reached the opportune moment, and after painstakingly explaining the modus operandi to drag 3 bar stools from the counter to the dance floor to a really annoying and very primitive attender, were planning on the soundcheck. For those keeping record, there was one mic, to be shared between us, which included alternating solos and vocals. Diana (the prime organiser of the event) conformed to the job of mic-keeping. So here we are, deciding what to play for soundcheck, Pearl Jam or Beethoven. We ended up playing the first half of Fur Elise, classical guitar to a crowd that busied themselves with fench fries and bewildered looks. Not a good sign. I asked them have we any "Metallica" fans here. They were half as silent as a graveyard, and twice as dead. We continued to play 'Nothing else matters' to the last note, to no applause or swaying or any form of known audience activity. Next we decided to play a really famous classic number, 'Knocking on heaven's door' and no one had heard that either. They were consistently unresponsive to 'Hotel California' too, which we stopped playing midway, and no one even noticed. To sum it all up as a classic failure, we ended the show with an own composition called "When tomorrow meets today", thanked the crowd for being silent, disinterested and lame before we walked away.
We had a couple of drinks (The bartender refused to make me a Mojito or a Daiquiri or a Margarita. He had trouble bringing up spring water too. And the moron offered to add ice to it...) and left the place. Now that I look back upon that day, I wonder, would they have even realised had we honked Vuvuzela's rather than soloing on guitars. No. Because what we had was a handsome group of musically illiterate individuals, who cherish looking flashy under UV light and can lips senseless tracks and seem all rave, but will find themselves in a horridly awkward situation were they to be found in a music cafe, where everyone sings along to the "real" music. We all have our comfort zones. I chose the one that is higher on virtue and regardless of ostentation.
Epic fail. To cut a long story short. Anyhow, we posed for the "media" before leaving hoping to see our photographs in the local daily atleast. But, after a week of baited breath, here I was, looking at the review of the "re-union". We apparently played "Purani jeans" and "Yeh Dosti", Diana was a band member, and a party hunk was found quoting that he has vivid memories of the 3 of us participating in singing competitions at school. His statement is wrong on several levels. To start with, we had no singing competitions at school. There was just one (in 12 years). Thats all. No one participated. Secondly, Debanshu is not in the same school, so I wonder how could he have participated in the virtual event. Thirdly, for the love of god, get the names right you half wit morons feeding on maggots and moths. Its "Debanshu" and not "Divyanshu", losers. There was no accompanying picture of either me or him. He has been saved the humiliation of being there. They got his name wrong and invented their own playlist. He can as well deny having attended. I so envy you...
I shall although not deny, the fact that my white T shirt was glowing purple in the UV light kept me hooked and interested just long enough. The fret markings on the guitars also glowed. And the white part of the converse. I was afraid to smile.
Next time I have an opportunity to perform to a similar musically disgruntled crowd, I will consider the Vuvuzela alternative. I should not be denied the pleasure of annoying them. And when they are least interested, FTW!
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