Red oxide tiles alternating red and green. Teakwood doors, century old iron padlock, hand-made, crude and transports you in one touch. Sunlight streaming from Kerala windows, through India red curtains. Semi conscious, nostalgic about the present. And on the back of the teakwood, sits a cut out from a magazine. On Brando. Best Italian mafia don ever. Large forehead, hair combed back, horizontally striped Italian men’s cardigan. And the article talks about how Brando is black coffee. Smile.
And now, Indian psychedelia. If that is not enough to make you sit up, get this: peppered with rock meets underground, slick, jazz funk boogie, earthy rustic sexuality, firang waif prettiness and tall strapping undescribable. Pimps, bright satin shirts, huge rings, black lips, crassly emulated moghul architecture, noir, asbestos shutters, garbage, Indian decadence. Solitary, spoilt, rotten, spoilt rotten. Gorgeous. And all this worn simply.
The movie begins and sucks you into the real real world. The phone conversations you’ve had. Hopefully you’ve had them. The extravagantly flattering wastrel. Sans ego, fully delicious. Beige trousers, beret, 70s flower power on eyes, ankle socks and oh-those shoes! Cruising life chewing salted carbs.
Teach the nation how to wear denim. Unhealthy thin, wiry, lean, lazy. Indian trance to Underground. Psychedelic anger. Stumble, stop, move, stumble. Yet slick. Oh to walk through noir streets. Vodka carton, leaning saunter, unashamed. Crusted lips, stubble. Rock music.
Brilliant musical. Unabashedly Indian, touching UK underground with rusticity. I mean think about it. Think about music which actually uses slick underground baseline percussions with rustic Indian vocals, throws in a bit of the Beatles India Tour after effect, a little bit of a grown up Kurt Cobain vocal sensibility, with a Mojo Risin attitude. Brilliant! Our own foolishly brave, Indian, manic depressive, addictive, bipolar – in all the Indian grandeur possible. The music rises up pointedly and then lingers above in space, undulating and sinewing across and around. Topple, tumble, revolve, trip. And then guess what he does. He wham bams the Indian shaadi brass band in your face. And that too, because it is supposed to signify ‘his’ whole world crashing down and clankering apart. Stabbing you with the perfect ‘emosanal atyachar’. Ridiculously over done bollywood lyrics, modern swear words and qawaali bravado in tight elvis suits. I mean come on! Such musical incest and incredibly evolved humour directed at self cannot go unnoticed. It IS the Devdas, Indian Ishtyle. And this is the new psychedelia. Bright, garish, colourful and obsessed with the grand fall. It’s simply unfair. To get it so right.
Smearing turmeric on sleeve and chest. Active colour. Leave the stain. Smile. Dimple. Hurt.
Misunderstood love, misplaced arrogance. Smile. Poignant. Lose innocence fighting for it. Extravagant out there drag queen in waif. Bright. Red. Gold. Loud. Pornographised silence. Loud loneliness. How brilliant! Face paint to make him smile. I can’t write anymore.
3 comments:
Braver and braver you are getting I say. More power to your words. And this time I WILL SAY. I HOPE NO ONE ELSE GET'S IT!!! HEHAHAHAHAHAHA
You do know your stuff...But then you know that. :)
But more importantly, you feel it even better.
Im glad you finally got down to the ode. Im glad you waited for it to sink in and mould you.
Love you,
K.
Well, one had to make up for the lukewarm appreciation it received from certain quarters of the bong...er... movie connoisseur community.
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