Hard, soft

There was a time in my youth when Scorpions and Bon Jovi sounded like real rock bands. I mean you could headbang to their music. Years later, they both still rock, but it sounds a lot softer. Bad Medicine, Rock You Like A Hurricane, et al, could only move me to move my feet a bit and roll my head as memories came flooding back. Maybe your ears get attuned to a harder sound over the years – Metallica, G’n’R, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Chilli Peppers – that old rock sound softer. Another sign that I am growing old, I guess.

Drum beat

I saw Jon Bon Jovi and Scorpions perform. The thing that struck me most about both was the drummers. Tico Torres for Bon Jovi and James Kottak for Scorpions. Torres’ drums had perhaps the best sound I’ve heard for a major concert. Torres himself played out of his skin, giving the Jovi classics and even their sugar-coated rock anthems the deserving drive they needed. Then there was Kottak. Not the Scorpions original drummer. Not that anyone would notice. For showmanship, drumming capability and sheer head-bangingness, Kottak killed it. It was cool to see rock drummers steal the show.

Let's rock'n'roll

Once you’ve been in a band, even once if you have ever got on stage and held a microphone or even just connected two wires, your view of ‘live’ concerts changes forever after that. You walk in and eye the band, look for the sound console and the positioning of the speakers, and where the bass player is going to stand and what brand are the monitors. All this is irrelevant really. But, hey, you were in a band, not like the other 19,999 people here who are only interested in the music. So here’s what I saw recently…

What can I say, man! U!

I’m a superstitious sports fanatic. Among my more prized possessions is my Manchester United jersey, an original, from Old Trafford mind you. Last year. Man U lost a game I watched with the T-shirt on. I never wore it again while watching them play… until last night. When Ronaldo missed his penalty I felt so much pain coming on that in a fit of madness I took out the colour and wore it. Two kicks later, in perhaps the greatest single moment of my recent life, Man U won the Champions League. I haven’t taken off the T-shirt since.

A Jovi-al moment

At one point in the Bon Jovi concert I attended yesterday, I just lay on the ground and closed my eyes and felt like I was in heaven. Not because of Bon Jovi, but I just felt blessed to be able to that, with Bon Jovi playing live not 20 metres from where I lay. It was like I hired the band to play for me in my backyard. Only, of course, it wasn’t my backyard. It was the Emirates Palace grounds in Abu Dhabi. And I was sharing overall space with 20,000 other people. Still, it felt good.

My So(u)n(d)

Yeah, at the risk of overwriting my male progeny, this boy really does come with his own soundtrack. He cannot speak a sentence without adding a sound effect afterwords. A conversation with him would go like this:
What’s your name boy? I am power rangers, biff, dish, dishkayaon, pffst, spfft blam!
What did you learn at school today boy? Ouffs, thst, shmst, shmast, ABC.
Mind you, they might sound like the guttural utterings of a Neanderthal, but when you listen to him 'live' you will see they are not. They are a soundtrack to whatever he is saying. Ebay?

That's my boy! (Groan)

My son’s present raison de etre in life is to embarrass me. It’s actually been his raison whatever from day one. The latest scheme is to ask total strangers to buy him things. I’ll be at a mall or restaurant, get this, buying him something, and the moment I look away, he will stroll up to a total stranger and ask him/her if they have money and if they will buy him something. He makes it a point to ask if they have money first. I’m thinking of putting him on ebay. He even comes with his own soundtrack.

Allez, allez, Justine

Justine Henin retired today. I had the chance to watch her live twice. Once when she was unbeatable. And this year, when she was at the nadir of her form. Henin is not a great on-court personality. She is one of those players who let her racquet do all they talking and so a great champion but boring player to watch.
Henin was about precision and stamina. Like Ivan Lendl. Not a pretty sight, believe me, especially if you were on court, at the other end. She had a crazy following though. So for their sake, allez, allez Justin!

Mian Rushdie

In the same week that Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children makes the Booker of Booker’s shortlist, I find myself reading the book. No, I hav’n’t read it before. I said to a beloved soul recently, just because one reads a lot does not mean one is well- read; at least not in terms of marquee authors. I did not read Rushdie earlier because I made the mistake of starting with Satanic Verses, an insufferable indulgence. (All authors are allowed one.) Midnight’s Children is in a class of its own. Rushdie is a better author than he is a storyteller, though.

Mum's the words

My mom reads my blog My mom does, you know. Which is why I can’t use abusive language here. Which is quite challenging for a free-wheeling writer like me. I’m very orthodox when it comes to my folks though. Can’t abuse, can’t smoke, can’t get wasted in front of them. Behind their backs, fine, but not in front. As hypocritical as that sounds, it sits fine with my conscience. Not using the F-word in your daily rantings is a small price to pay for having mom log on to read, when the rest of the world passes you buy.

Go ManU!

And so it all comes down to this. Ninety minutes of football. An entire year of heart break, euphoria, discussion, forecast, analysis, calculations and never ending chatter and its down to one match. By 8 pm my time, either Manchester United or Chelsea will be crowned Premier League Champions. I always rate winning the premiership higher than winning the Champions league. It calls for more consistency. After all its 37 games that the team plays, as against the 10-odd for the Champions trophy. And to win both, is truly to be the best club in the world. Go ManU!

I, May

May has always been more than a month for me throughout my life. During school, it was the month for summer holidays and therefore, was easily the most eagerly anticipated 31 days for 12 years of my life. Summer days are longer and the sun would refuse to set, at times till 7 in the evening. That meant more time to play. However, later in life, May came to mean the month that dragged on and on. The month never seemed to end and next month’s salary always seemed very distant. In the Gulf, it drags on even longer.

The F-finger

The joys of parenting are pockmarked by milestone moments of infinite discomfort felt by the parent. Like this for example. My daughter, all of 7 this June, comes home from her coed school and asks me to explain what the F-finger is. I told her such a finger does not exist. She then holds up her middle finger to me with all the panache and attitude that is needed when resorting to the ‘up yours’. A boy in her class showed her the finger and called it the F-finger. I told her I’ll get back to her. Any suggestions?