musings and misdemeanors of a british asian video maker in the making...
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Those Were the Days [part 2]
So my screening was last week. It was a quiet night at the ICA, last year this was the festival finale event hence more wine, women and song in the after-party. Fortunately, Bombay Bronx is on that same night, we have an after-party regardless of the outcome.
The attraction of film festivals for me is to have a short, that I made, screened CINEMA SIZE with SURROUND SOUND...
It feels not too disimilar to standing on stage yourself, when it starts rolling a tingle of nervousness sets in...
I dare not glance around, as much as I want to see the expressions on the audiences face, my eyes stay fixed ahead...
The screenings ended, eleven films in total... Some were stunning, some weren't so... A guest speaker stands for a closing comment and the delivery of some awards. He describes how the winning films *not only demostrated a good film practice but also the way that sound was utilised to enhance the edit.
Those Were the Days was awarded 'Highly Commended Short Film'.
I had stand to collect a certificate (school geek flashback) but I didn't get a chance to thank all those that helped... - Sinbad, Jimi and Ammo aka The Twilight Players, thanks for believing in what was just an idea on paper - Nina, Sureeta and Dean, the shoot crew... a director can't do much without them! - John at Wades Barbers for the vintage location - Thanks to all my 'over-extended family' aka my 'friends' for showing your love and providing the vocal sound system of support.
*Gaurav says that he was talking about my film.
(As soon as I've compressed it, you'll be able to see this film here...)
'Those Were the Days', a (5min) short film featuring The Twilight Players was made by myself last year. The idea came about from a dance for screen film festival, but the performers I had in mind were beyond being dancing monkeys, they were true characters. I wrote a script extrapolating how the three brothers would interact, I knew them as 'them' not as figments of my imagination from which I could construct fiction. Sinbad's sarcasm of an older sibling, Ammo's inquisitiveness and Jimi's refusal to accept anything less.
A polite request to Sinbad paaji (he's like an older brother to me) of the Twilights asking him if he would be in a short film. His response "If Jim and Ammo like the script and music, we'll do it", I sent the script and played the music, the brothers approved and we were shooting a couple of weeks later.
THOSE WERE THE DAYS, a SHORT FILM from MANDEEP SINGH JUTLA, feraturing THE TWILIGHT PLAYERS... A swift tale of three guys reminiscing on what was or that which might have been, did it happen or was it just their dream...
This post links back to the Shaanti post near the bottom... The next morning Hard Kaur and I flew out to Mumbai to shoot her new music video for the forthcoming release 'Look 4 Me'. The last time I visited India was over 7 years ago, this time it's business we're here to work so all-night raving is out of the question. We flew over with Emrites, with a transfer at Dubai (they even have palms inside the airport, albeit artificial) we stopped at the Irish bar where a pint costs £6, "I want a beer, not crude oil", the barman appeared unimpressed but I knew deep down he wanted to crack a smile. We opted for lychee juice instead. Ahead of was another 5 hours of aviation, the boredom was numbed by 'Emrite's award winning ICE system'.
We arrive at Mumbai and are recieved by Sahil and Danish, they're our Mumbai connection and have hooked us up with our own flat for the duration of our stay. We're staying in Lokhandwala, not too far from Juhu and Andheri but well away from the smoke of central Mumbai. The first thing that hits you is the heat, like opening the oven door and having the moisture of your eyeballs wick away. It's winter over here but averages 27-30 ℃. Our body clocks were around 4am, local time was just after midday and I was famished. We stopped for crepes, I wasn't particularly drawn by their appearance and decided on a fruit salad instead. While having brunch we confer on our battle plan, the video is the reason we're here, this is not a holiday. For the coming days I averaged 5 hours sleep a night, but what I love about Mumbai is the lack of any restrictions on trading hours you can get anything at almost any time. We often ate dinner around midnight, don't even start me on the food... It was amazing. We had to become mobile, so we signed up for our India mobiles with Hutch, an affiliate of the 3 Network. Fortunately I could use my existing V3 handset saving the discomfort of having to purchase a phone for the sake of 10 days.
TOURIST INFORMATION: If at any point you may or think you may need a blood test, do not hesitate to contact the highly commended, internationally reputed and downright fine medical institute located somewhere in 'Saat Bangla'...
Being a coastal city, you can imagine Mumbai has the most amazing seafood... It was confirmed. Mahesh's in Juhu, had the most succulent Rawas (a white fish, not too overpowering similar to Cod but less flaky) cooked in a dry tandoor served with garlic naan and all the relishes. This was so fresh, I had to check if it was still living. It melted in the mouth and was cooked to perfection.
TOURIST INFORMATION: drink Aquafina NOT Bisleri. They had a scandal recently where used bottles were being refilled with tap water and sent back out. Always check the seal. The waiter would come over and present it as if it were a vintage Chateu de... to which I would sarcastically respond "well done", "charming" or "can I taste it?". It emerged later that this presentation would be for me to confirm whether it was cold enough.
TOURIST INFORMATION: How will I cope with the language?
Almost everyone, with exception to street people, and some auto-rickshaw wallahs, can generally speak english. Don't over complexify conversation with someone who you think will unable to understand... Then again, don't insult their intelligence by assuming that they don't.
Another evening after a hard days rehersal, we decided to let our hair down a little... We met some of our Mumbai chums at the celebrity haunt, a resteraunt/bar named Zenzi. Here I bumped into Belal, I knew he was over from London but had no number to contact him on. He's a Mumbai regular, when I don't see him around London I know where is instead of enjoying the great British weather. So we shared some cheer and he joined me in a beer. Kingfisher is King out here.
We met Farishia here too, she told me that the food was amazing here, so far the food has been amazing everywhere. I ordered a sesame coated Tiger prawn stack served with sticky abruro rice drizzled with lobster sauce... It made me feel like a little kid, it was warming for the soul... Not many notable faces around, other than Ekta Kapoor (not a great face either) but she holds alot of power around here. She's the owner of Balaji Telefilms, they make nearly all of the dramas/serials that are seen on Star and Sony TV (the two biggest TV channels for Asian programmes worldwide). I wasn't inclined to ask for a role in one of these homogenous programmes, 'Idle women shows' as I describe them. Take any one, they're all based around the upper-crust of society and the patriarch is the owner of India's biggest industrial conglomorate. All the women-folk of the household are always dressed to hilt in the finest silks and approximately 3¾ kilos of gold, from the moment they rise to the moment they rest, a hair is never out of place. These women have no need to work in their house, so an idle mind is the devil's dancehall and these women tango, foxtrot and peddle all their venom to bring ruin to other peoples lives.
We moved onto the club across the road, nice venue, shame about the music policy. Dance is prevelant in Mumbai, we entered this place to the sound of hard house, I didn't find it particularly endearing. Enough said. Our group then decided to head back to the flat, we had a couple of crates to be dealt with... On route we heard a lovely sounding Harley, but there wasn't one in sight, "Sahil, you've got a flat tyre". Mumbai folk are spoilt, nobody needs to do anything for themselves when you can pay someone else do it. "Have you got a jack?" I ask Sahil, he has one but doesn't know what I intend to do with it... Next came the fastest tyre change this side of London on a flyover in Mumbai. I didn't have a stopwatch but it took me the same time to do this as it took Farishia to smoke a cigarette. Murray Walker would have been proud. After this pit stop an impromptu party ensued, we chilled until the early hours in good company.
AN ODE TO GANESH
Ganesh, elephant headed Hindu deity who is known as the remover of obstacles. Son of Shiva the destroyer, received his elephant head courtesy of his own father... Ganesh appears, not as a apparation, but more as a metaphor whenever I'm in India. My last visit, many years before I was on excursion to Goa. This was just me and a friend riding shotgun on a fistful of sterling aka minimal budget. So we roughed it (it wasn't too rough, we had an AC Sleeper class train) to Bombay (it was still called that back then) and then on a rickety bus to Goa. Before we left Delhi, I was at a friends apartment, his servent was called Ganesh, he greeted me well. I bought myself a Ganesh necklace carved from wood (not seesham wood, it was too light). When we arrived in Bombay, we travelled with Ganesh Tours to Goa. Upon arrival, as I jumped off the bus I called the first cabbie I saw, in his cab on the dashboard was a little statue of Ganesh...
This time round in Mumbai, I have another run in with Ganesh. A street kid in a deep saffron shroud we see one night while filming. He is familiar to Danish... This time I gave something back.
On a random night out, actually this was the night we landed Danish had hooked us up with VIP at some club in central Mumbai called RedLight... The area in which it was situated reminded me of Holborn, why I not. Once you're inside, it's like any other club anywhere else, crap sound, expensive drinks* and sweaty, snooty socialites. HKs bit of a celeb in India, she always gets spotted, then no party is complete without HKs 'Glassy' being played out at least 5 times... Let's all sing along yaar! "ek glassy, do glassy, teen glassy, char..."
*Drinks, I go to the bar, (or what was supposidly a bar... felt like an old mango wood door with black curtain draped over it) and order a double Black Label. The glass had more watermarks than an olympic pool, the ice was grey. 'Rs 900 please sir'... Mental math, Rs 80 to Sterling... so this drink is £12?! "Are you taking my piss?", is what I was thinking, what came out was "keep it, get me a Kingfisher". I could understand over-inflated prices if I was in The Collection or Kensington Roof Garden, but I'm in India with the exchange rate on my side everything should be cheap(er). Beers were Rs 150-200 in a decent bar, that's about £2.40 - £2.90.
The following day, to lighten our mood we decided to have lunch at the Marriot. This may not sound much but the Marriot in Juhu is the place to stay, to eat, to party in Mumbai. Rather than the Travelodge-esque versions we have here, outside this one has burning torches of gladitorial proportions, their Marriot has a sweeping split driveway to walk up to the enterance. This is only to house the two storey water feature that imposes the forecourt. Every member of staff is an all-singing, all-dancing ode to good customer service. Every greeting is warm and sincere, and ever hopeful of a tip.
A live band plays Goan-Portuguese mellowness through the foyer overlooking the resteraunt, we are greeted at the door and escorted to the resteraunt. The views of their grounds and the coastline in the horizon are relaxing yet distracting through the 15metre glass window. Window? The whole side of the resteraunt is glass. We both choose buffet; cold meats, smoked salmon, eggs benedict but I still opt for the idli, samber and pakoré. We glanced around, this place is suited for those with a tendency to people watch... HK spots Madhuri Dixit (she's the Bollywood equivelant of Julia Roberts, not as hairy though) sitting with her two young sons, sister and parents. I didn't notice her because she was engaged in a plain family meal, away from fans and pappz. She couldn't resist herself, had to go and talk to the late 80s superstar... "what would you say?" I ask, "I don't know, but something will come out"... HK returns, beaming like a kid with extra flake, nuts and strawberry sauce. "She recognised me too, I'll send her a copy of the album". We then buffet'd the dessert, such an exotic selection but the attraction was the freshness. I couldn't resist but take a picture...
Gulab Jamun, strawberry, papaya, carrot cake and thick Malai... These tastes complimented each other and was an orgy of natural sugartastical delight.
We waved Madhuri goodbye, and onto the next resteraunt... only joking, oh the mirth!
On the subject of food, another gastronomic excerpt: I was out early one morning with a camera assistant, (he comes with the camera when you hire one), nice chap but a bit on the quiet side. We had to eat, more that I had to but nevertheless food was on the agenda. I wanted somewhere 'local', not streetfood but cafe-like. My accomplice took me to a canteen hangout where traffic wardens ate beside their roadist comrades the auto-rickshaw wallahs, sat together in formica coated MDF boothes will little 'chotoos' running the tea errands and the flicker of digital order screens in the periphery of my vision. This is the nexus where the traditional meets the modern, and together they dance in rapture. Both of us ate Dosa, a south Indian regional dish constisting of a rice flour cripsy pancake the size of the Daily Telegraph stuffed with spicy potato, or paneer, served with a coconut relish and Sambar (a watery dahl, to whet the whistle). A bottle of Limca followed by ginger tea. It was all fresh, clean and safe and this lot came to Rs. 52, so that's under one English pound. To Eat the same back in London, would cost around £15, and it wouldn't be the best Dosa you've ever had either.
TOURIST INFORMATION: STREET KIDS
The picture below at first glance may seem an exploitative cheap laugh for a tourist but allow me to contextualise... These are street children, they all look similar but are each individual personalities, you may come across endearing charmers almost the Dickensian 'Dodgers' of downtown Mumbai just as you could also meet the son of Yamdhoot (Ambassador of Death, Indian grimreaper). Remeber that they are exploited victims of a very seedy, well co-ordinated racketeering system*. It works (in variations) like this... (1) The street kids beg, (2) Their collections are taken by older or bigger kids... (3) This is paid to the top-boy who collects from all the sub-groups: street kids, pick pockets, prostitutes, street-sellers and hawkers.. (4) This is paid as protection money to the local 'Bhai' whose protection a territory is under... (5) He pays his boss and upward the chain it goes until it reaches to Overlord chilling in his Dubai apartment.
This kids caught me filming near Chaar Bangla and were captivated by the camera kit, I always have a little 'point 'n' shoot' with me so snap was definately in order. First they posed, and then I asked to imitate my physical obscenity. They were amused as much as I was with the result. Inevitably they asked for money, I opted for the fruit vendor nearby and bought them a couple of kilos of fruit. They shared it amongst themselves on the pavement, it gave them more fulfilment than any amount of money could then. You want to help these kids? DO NOT GIVE MONEY, instead feed them... Usually within spitting distance there is always a fruit-cart or pani puri stand... Take them with you and pay for what they eat. However, in your good samaritan's deeds, don't draw too much attention to yourself. Move swiftly.
*Film: 'Traffic Signal', 2007, Madhur Bhandarkar's film demonstrates this system too well.
Every morning I would awake to the chaotic yet beautifully beguiling dawn chorus of auto rickshaw horns and the general shuffle of movement in the outside world, a rinse of the face and scrub of the mouth before a hop, skip and a jump down three storeys (I would use the lift but it's one of those vintage victorian-style contraptions which I have no qualms with it's just the annoying monotonic bleeping to the tune of Beethoven's 5th Symphoney that I refuse to endure. Many sounds of warning are to that tune, when vehicles reverse: Beethoven... Doorbells: Beethoven... Mobile phones: Beethoven... If he was on royalites through IPRS, he would be minted (but dead still). I always salute the watchman on the way out, they always get excited. A quick duck and dive through the traffic to the Chai-wallah (Tea guy) for two cups of 'cutting chai'. Sometimes brewed with a little ginger, this quick shot refreshment is suitable any time of the day. Poured into small cups from altitude more than height (this knocks air into the tea to give a smoother, lighter texture) it's a nifty little booster of downtown Mumbai recharging cops and robbers alike. At only Rs 2½ it's the driving force behind the worlds next economic power. The most endearing part is that I take the cups back up to the flat and need not return them until the following morning. Now that's service.
So a run down of places I would reccomend: - Zenzi, Waterfield Road, Bandra. Tiled and terracotta bar area with and airy tropical shui. A wonderful restaraunt for summer evening dining.
- Mahesh, Juhu. The best seafood in the Juhu area, It's a lunchroom so it closes early. The Coastal Rawas is a must.
- That Cheap 'n' Cheerful. Tell the auto driver 'Charbangla' it's on the corner. Fresh, traditional food for the locals, by the locals.
- Alfredo's. College student hang-out serving a poor arribiata but an excellent Lychee Frappé.
- Mista Paaji. Good old fashioned Punjabi food, the concept of this place is that the owner left his homeland for NY taking his beloved tandoor oven and bhangra music. He returns triumphant spreading the gospel of Punjabi food and culture. Served on hand beaten brass and copper crockery this is a 'roll up your sleeves and get stuck in' genre of retstaraunt that pumps all the bhangra classics at full volume.
- Urban Tadka. Gimmicks is what make this more of an experience than just a meal. The walls are decorated with Punjabi artifacts such as Dhols, Manjé and fine fabrics. The menu is characterised by giving the dishes amusing names that include punjabi phrases with the actual food... Such as: Balle Balle Cholay, Brrrrrha Kebab etc. Well worth a visit.
- The Marriot, Juhu. Over-priced, considering how much everything else costs everywhere else. Nothing 'mind-blowing'. As Danish would say to condemn anything "that's fock all yaar!"
VIDEO SHOOT
We're not on holiday, this is business. But the pace in India sometimes makes everything like an oxymoronic 'hectic siesta'. In Film City Mumbai (ironically, at the Balaji Telefilm studio), we're here to shoot a video for the first single of the debut album. A little ditty called 'Look 4 Me', produced by D Boy (he was also in India at the same time recording in Delhi, a cameo in the shoot is requisit). The Director is Sumit Dutt, he's worked in France and the States on documentary projects as well as fiction. The concept of the video is all chroma-key (or 'green-screen') and will be heavily post-p with video graphics. My role is as Creative Consultant, liasing with HK and Sumit on the creative, image and art aspects of the project.
The video features a local lad called, Mickey, selected model for his 'cuteness and boyish charm'. His character is chasing and attempting to woo HK. There are also dancers, 4 guys in two different looks. Choreographed by Harshil/Vital, who trained under Bollywood Über-Choreographer: Farrah Khan (not to be mistaken for Louis of the Nation of Islam), we were in safe hands. One thing I noticed was that everybody had an assistant. HK had two make up artists, one was the assistant because the main one was too important to merely do touch-ups between shots. There was someone else to do her hair. This is a peculiar rule of Film City in Mumbai, or the industry as whole... That make-up artists cannot be female and that hair-stylists cannot be male. I thought it odd but didn't bother questioning it. There was a sprat hanging around outside the trailer, he wanted a job... He wanted to be my assistant. At Rs 200 a day, which is steep considering the lighting boys get paid about Rs 150 to handle kilowatts of electricity, I thought why not hire him. He turned out to be a cheeky little shit. Anytime I wanted a drink, beedis etc., I would give him the money (I could get the location manager to get them for free) and he would keep the change. I don't have a problem with that, keep it as a tip. I ran out of things for him to do... He was seen snooping around the trailer. The next day I told him I won't be requiring his services and asked him to kindly piss off.
It's one thing that people may not like about India, I certainly didn't, which is the way that people with power can talk to people who are oppressed. It's a harsh reality but if you ask rather than tell, things don't get done. This extends beyond the film set and into every day life in India, from Rickshaw wallahs, bus boys and street rats. If you don't have money you are usually spoken to like shit. Some decent folk don't talk to them like shit, but still address with a hint of inferior manner. It's a sad situation, but as Sahil and I conversed; most common people aren't caught up with the pretence of politeness. They want what they want, it's a 'me first' culture so 'please' and 'thank you' kills too much time and ultimately an oppurtunity. One tourist with a conscience isn't going to change the mass of people, especially when they don't want to.
Now a word from our sponsor, SOMA CHATAI WALA. Hauté Reed Mats, fresh from the sweatshop.
Times Now, India's hot new music channel wanted an interview with HK. Rupali was the interviewer, I've met her from before when she was filming in London. She's a little vacant, sometimes. Between interviews and Red Bull I was generally a menace on the set, snapping away like a Japanese tourist and keeping HK hyped. " It's great so far, now we need some extra energy from HK in the next shot" said Sumit...
"Bring out the hot pants" I replied.
The track, produced by D Boy has thumping kick with a cute little flute riff contrasting HK's lyrical delivery all sweetened with the honeyed vocals of Ash King. You could point at D Boy from across the room and say "that guy, he's a cool guy". Never stressed, always smiling that's D Boy. Respect.
The shoot lasted two days, we began early everyday and didn't wrap up until midnight. On the final night after we wrapped it was the first real moment that HK and I could relax a little, we packed away our stuff and bundled it into Anwar's car and headed for Urban Tadka for a late night dinner with Sumit, Eara (Sumit's beloved wife) and Anwar. The relaxation kicked in well, we feasted on fresh lamb tikka, garlic naan, sweet butter chicken and in true desi style made merry by singing the old-skool Punjabi paeans. We rounded off the night with a traditional dessert of Jalebi with Rabdi, Sumit demostrated the multi-functional facets of this ancient recipe...
We had about 8 hours until our flight was due to leave, HK rested after performing like a pro for a two day shoot. Sahil met us back at the flat, and D Boy joined us to. His flight was in few hours and needed a place to hang. What better than our place. We reminisced on a premature nostalgia of events that were only hours old, smiled and sat back content....
A few weeks later HK flies back for a tour and returns with the video edited, video-graph'd and hot... Enjoy...
Before I left for New York, I had a spare weekend to film and edit a short film and enter a film festival by the name of Tongues on Fire, and this years breif was 'Bollywood and beyond' to be interperated in whatever manner possible. At the festival I didn't see any Tinto Brass inpsired renditions of Bollywood.
I toyed with the notion of diffusion and affirmation of culture. Bollywood, to an extent, mediates the image of the Non-Resident-Indian, we are often emulated and mocked at the same time. With this short, the main character Munda Lafunga is a Non Resident Indian imitating a Resident Indian who is emulating a Non Resident Indian... confused?
'That Bollywood Preview Show' was the name of my short (15 min) film. It's a behind-the-scenes-type with a bit of rove-reporting concocted into a satire-of-the-fact that non-of-this-is-real genre of film. The concept is like this... 'That Bolywood Preview Show' is a fictitious TV show on some Indian cable channel which goes behind the scenes of Bollywood films with exclusive access giving the audience interviews with the stars. This week 'TBPS', with it's lovable rogue of a host, Munda Lafunga is on location in London with crew of the film 'Dilwale Mujhe Kuch Kuch Pyaar Hogeya Hain Tumse Sanam: a Love Story'. (This translates roughly as 'Courageous heartful one I have a little little fallen in Love with you beloved: a Love Story').
The film (within the film) is a love triangle in which there are two guys and one gal. Raj (Sunil Suryavanshi)* is the son of a high flying Indian businessman, Pooja (Sexina Kapoor)* is the daughter of another high flying Indian businessman and Rahul (Bobby Bhola)*. Both the parents of Raj and Pooja want their children to marry, so they can forge a strong business alliance but Pooja is free spirited and has no interest. One day Pooja is cruising along enjoying her freedom and her car breaks down, out of nowhere she is ambushed by thugs who want their wicked ways with her... Also, out of nowhere, Rahul the knight in shining armour (local garage mechanic) comes to her rescue. Inevitably she falls in love with him and makes excuses to see him, but he doesn't feel the same way.
One day, Raj follows Pooja to see where she goes to and this is the moment when Rahul sees his true calling manifest in his feelings for Raj. A love triangle indeed.
These actors are interviewed, each represents a certain aspect of the Bollywood film industry... Sunil Suryavanshi: his name means Dynasty, he represents nepotism Sexina Kapoor: she represents the sleaze of the casting couch Bobby Bhola: his name means Bobby Naive, the hopefuls that flock to Film City every day
Bhaiya Bhai* [producer]: he represents the underworld involvement, converting black money to white. *Bhai, 'Brothers', or bigger brothers are the gangsterism or mafioso of India.
Chintoo Mahachor [director]: represents wholesale piracy "my film is an exploration of the nexus where the storylines of Something about Mary, Sholay and Star-Wars meet".
The Actor who was playing Chintoo pulled out at the last minute, so in true Bollywood fashion I killed him off and dedicated the film to him.
There were also rushes of Munda Lafunga interviewing members of the public about their views on Bollywood. It's amazing how many people (when faced with a camera) will pretend to know about something they really don't just to appear broad-minded or intelligent. My finest hour was when a group of American (who else?) student girls asked if Munda Lafunga was famous, to which he retorted "in my country I am". To the delight of the groupies he was happy to pose for pictures with them, while his hand was stuck in a pillar box (don't ask). Now some American girls somewhere beleive they have had photographs with an Indian TV personality when really he was just some guy from West London!
On return from New York I arrived to the news that my film will be screened as part of short films for Tongues on Fire and will be shown at the ICA [Institute of Contemporary Arts]. That night, is another blog entirely...
My first visit to the US of A, why haven't I been before? Never really had the desire to see a gaudy extrapolation of westernism (I don't mean 'Cowboys') and even on this occaision it was for business (family) not pleasure... My younger cousin, who is only 18 is enduring the ritual of marriage. "Bhaiya*, you must come, I'm getting married!". She of all is the most excited yet relaxed about the whole affair.
*Bhaiya. Meaning brother, in (any of the 17 odd) Indian languages there is no word for cousin, hence we're all brothers and sisters. Bhaiya or Paaji is what I'm addressed by younger cousins, out of respect they do not use my first name. That's reserved for the elders.
I spent 10 days in New York, staying in Queens (LL Cool J's stomping ground) venturing out to Manhatten most of the time to catch the numerical oddities that are the roads "don't get lost" my aunt calls just before I leave...
"How could I? I'll just count my way around!"
My luck would hold for me mostly unpleasent yet tolerable stay in the Big Apple, there are a few issues I would like to take up, with whom I know not but I'll mention them anyway...
[1] Tax. It's as simple as this, if I have $10 in my sky rocket (pocket) and something in a store costs $10, I still cannot afford it. Tax will make it an illogical amount like $11.48... Go figure as the locals would say.
[2] J-wallking. When on excurison with (another) one of my (numerous) cousins we wanted to cross one of the main roads near Broadway, probably named 'Main St.' or something simple along those lines, we had to trapse a good 400 metres to the next crossing. "Why can't we just cross here?" I ask "You can't, it's called J-walking, it's illegal" my cousin Karan responds. "Do you do that in England?" To which I respond "we cross where we like, providing there aren't any oncoming vehicles, your safety is your responsibilty"
[3] The fake realsim thorugh the pretence of 'politeness'... I ask a cop/store clerk/bum for directions and 'thank' them ("Thank you") to which they respond, usually through gritted teeth without eye-contact "you're welcome". If you don't mean, don't say it! Am I just behaving like a neurotic tourist? Could you blame me when everywhere I went I got 'you're not from around here, are you?'... What gave it away? My stupid accent or my stupid clothes?!
[4] Being unable to find clothes that fit me. According to the American way, my clothes are too tight (no, I don't wear leotards nor are my clothes painted on). I Asked Karan, what would my clothes denote? With little hesitation he responded, not to my surprise, "fag". Thanks for the vote of confidence, at least I admire his honesty. Anything I found, to my very discerning taste, was only available in XL as the smallest size, the one place where clothes are in 'European' sizes? Hennes and Mauritz, that's right, H&M. I flew x thousand miles to shop at H&M?!
Every cloud has a silver lining, be it only silver plated... Although with family, I was mostly alone. After 5 days spent in the family wedding what was one to do with the remaining 5? Armed with a copy of TimeOut (and lack of company, all my cousins were 'minors', not the ones with pick axes) I set out to discover the streets of New York, in my days there I managed to see
- The Spanish Harlem Orcheastra at the Blue Note (the Apple's equivelant of the Jazz Cafe), they were amazing though the experience was dampened by having to pay $30 to stand in the bar.
- The Whitney Gallery... One of the installations I saw was large room with a dividing drywall, this wall had a huge hole blasted through it with that section set a metre away from the wall. I was looking on the white walls for photography, paintings, something... the hole was the art. How post-modern!
- The Galapogas Art Space, Brooklyn, hosting a Burlesque night called 'Free Smut', just the name enticed me into these jaws of sleaze. It opened with a monologue from a man that looked remarkably like Philip Seymour Hoffman displacing the desires of a woman who sleeps with men depending on their materialistic value... their cars, their TVs, their bonuses. In turn she uses their assets to turn her on and ulitimately uses them as a sexual commodity. The lyrical prowess of this man was astounding, considering he introduced me to a new word... 'Spooge'... use your imagination...
I also had the pleasure of meeting a burlesque queen and the host for the evening, The World Famous *BOB*, she noticed I was alone and we spent the evening drinking Whiskey* together.
*Whiskey, I never drank this before but since my arrival in New York the 'men-folk' of the family have taken me under their wing and it is the birthrite of every Punjabi to drink if he wishes. I've grown a taste for whiskey since, but the finer examples for I have exacting requirements. It must be at least 12 years matured. While in New York Mr. J. Walker and Mr. C. Regal became very good friends of mine!
- RJD2. I managed to catch the end of his set at this venue (the name I forget) which is a converted church. Inside, over-21s are given armbands to allow purchase of drinks, this was a tasty luminous pink that complimented the colour of my eyes. The alter is where the DJ is staged, stained glass is backlit overbearing at almost 12metres high. It literally embodied the phrase, God is DJ.
- Basement Bhangra @ SOBs (Son of a Bitch, I assume). Over a week in 'Nu Yoik' (phonetics for the locals) and my nearest experience to a good old Punjabi get-down was the family wedding. "Maybe you'll find a nice girl" says Mother, but the wedding offered about 3 girls of which 2 were with their (peculiarly) groomed (shaped eyebrows and coloured contacts) boyfriends. The other was my mother, and I'm no Oedipus Rex. A random glance in the TimeOut highlighted a Bhangra night, right here in New York! Due to lack of fake IDs, none of my cousins could come along, did that stop me? Hell no, I'm a Lone Ranger a skill I have developed through a year of networking and 'bar-flying'. It forces you to meet new people, and others approach you when they see you're alone. I arrive at SOBs, before I continue, allow me to say grace for the Subway (not the sandwiches). The subway allowed to venture out until whatever AM because I was safe in the knowledge that I could get home. We need 24hr public transport in London, and I don't mean more rapist taxis. SOBs, the bar/club had a Cuban Latino feel with amber lighting and cane (not ratten) furniture. Firstly they didn't let me in, on account of my Timberlands... well I would have rocked some All-Stars but it was sub-zero out there with inch thick crunchy cornflake snow on the sidewalks. They gracefully 'let me off' after noticing my accent and that I was prepared to walk away if they continued to act like pricks. Now I'm inside, the evening began with a Black Label, no ice.
I befriended a fellow drinker, he was a Brit too so we shared a collective moment of internationalistic happiness. Peter, charming chap, worked for some IT company in Manhatten. He'd been before, and what he was telling about the evening was a little far fetched but when it began I was in awe. Rather not disimilar to the Salsa nights we have in England, in NY the have Bhangra nights were novices can learn moves and sequences to rock it like the ethnics do. Flailing arms making shapes in 'Big Cs', 'step to, step side' and 'bouncing shoulders' in a sea of mostly white Americans dancing in the old Punjabi way brought the largest smile (and almost a tear) to me. The tutor was brilliant, not particularly amazing in his execution of moves but more the way in which he engaged the crowd. It's a collective theory, be stupid on your own and you look stupid, all be stupid together and it transcends to a level of coolness. While observing the dance tutorial, I was approached by DJ Rekha, the organiser of this night and we got talking. She's listed by CNN as one of the 10 most influential women in NY. Bhangra Basement isn't a fad, it's celebrating it's 10th birthday this April. After the tutorial, Rekha took to the decks with devastating effect and turned out the classics as well as the future, accompanied by a VJ who visualised the American political events affecting Indians. That week George dubya Bush was on a state visit to India, a pop-art esque, cut 'n' paste, Pingu inspired sequence between George and Manmohan Singh (India's PM) ensued: slapstick yet satirical, with undertones of Commedia del Arte. The evening continued drinking and dancing away with Latinos, Jews and White Anglo Saxons... Certainly a lasting memory.
This guy was called Prince, as soon as I snapped him he started playing with more fervour. He emplored that I join him on Tour (of all the Subway stations I imagine) as his 'Official' photographer, I humoured him, took his number and bid him farewell.
- Random Son of Random Aunty, back in London before leaving for New York while boarding the plane, I saw an 'aunty'* struggling with her hand luggage. I extended an offer to help her and placed in the overhead compartment, and she thanked me in that aunty way by placing a motherly hand on the side of my head and smiling. Later in the flight, my mother and random aunty got talking. She gave the number of her son who was staying in New York, an actor performing off-broadway for a one week run. I called Adil, her son on the last day and we met up for a chat, he introduced me to the little known Vietnamese area on the edge of Chinatown and the Italian quarter where we had the most amazing sandwiches (the size of your forearm) for under $3!!!
*Aunty. An Asian woman of similar peerage to your mother so out of respect you do not address her by her first name.
* This blog is a tribute to Adil Akhtar, the random son of a random aunty I helped on the plane. Respect is due for those $3 sandwiches. peace.
The awkward pose is actually Adil demonstrating his theatrical skills that will propel him to stardom. "Shall I pose like a freshie, you know that perplexed look of excitement when they get off the plane"
