Kanye West is a visionary and other critical musings

Take a good deep look at that chiseled face. I'll wait.

That, my friends, is what visionary looks like. Now I'll admit, I am not a huge rap/hip hop person. Sure I do love me some old school Snoop 'doggy doggy' Dogg Lion but I am not what one would call a fanatic. Occasionally I listen to some Jay-Z as well.  

But Kanye? Man he blows me away. His songs are symphonic. Perfect blend of melodies, rhythm, lyrics creates a pretty powerful experience. I understand he probably has a whole army of sound engineers, sound technicians, sound advisers, sound managers, sound quarterbacks whatever tweaking every little note but the finished product still carries his stamp of authority and approval.

Here's 'Homecoming', a great example of what I mean by symphonic:



The dude from 'Coldplay' is on the piano and the song begins with a beautiful piano riff that forms the backbone of the whole piece. It was everything, the clever puns, a catchy refrain, good meaningful lyrics. Pretty powerful song, really, that stays with you long enough and succeeds at evoking strong nostalgia and a tinge of wistfulness.

John Coltrane, the legendary Jazz innovator and renowned saxophonist, pioneered a technique called http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sheets_of_sound"> 'sheets of sound'

with his improvisation and creative arrangements. I think Kanye does something similar with his songs. He puts in a lot of thought, a lot of effort into creating the right blend of sound. Pick up his new album 'Yeezus' and listen to any of the songs on there ('Black skinhead' is my favorite) and you'll see what I mean.
Kanye may be a jackass, as President Obama so memorably called him in an off-the-record remark during a routine interview, but damn he is a visionary.

And since I promised other critical musings in my title to the post, you will be rewarded aptly:

Back in black!

We're back! Back in black! Back in black baby! Ok I think that's enough. By the way, what does back in black even mean? If you ponder it hard enough you realize it makes absolutely zero sense. Thanks AC/DC for popularizing this meaningless term. Speaking of, here's an enjoyable AC/DC tune to keep you company (and no, it's not 'Back in black' - that would be way too obvious):



Moving on. A little update on what's been going on lately. I finished second year of med school literally yesterday. And now I can operate on your brain and remove complicated pancreatic tumors. No, clearly not. But I can tell you 10 random facts about 'Chronic granulomatous disease' or 'Paroxysmal nocturnal hemoglobinuria'  - two insanely rare conditions. So I guess that's an achievement of sorts.

In less than 4 weeks, most of us will be taking an eight hour long test, the USMLE Step 1. Your score on this test marks the price of your soul is a crucial factor in ultimately deciding where you go for what specialty. Competitive fields like neurosurgery or dermatology traditionally require higher scores than others.

Most of my classmates will then go on to the hospital to do clinical rotations, while I will head over to the greener pastures of basic science research, spending time amongst pipets, gels and ELISAs. Interesting times lie ahead.

Randomness of music on the car radio

Listening to music on the car radio carries hazards as well as rewards. Hazards first: you get stuck listening to absolutely terrible commercials or (heaven forbid) pitbull. Since radio stations (Top 40 especially) tend to play the same 40 songs over and over again, the songs start sounding really old and chewed up after a while. Some, of course, deny this and embrace the repetition. It all depends on whether you think Gotye's "Somebody I used to know" is an overplayed piece of shit or a soulful ballad of lost love.

On the rewards side, it's always a pleasant surprise when a song that fell off the radio landscape resurfaces after several months.

That's where Selena Gomez comes in. In the early months of 2012, "Love you like a love song" was all the rage. You couldn't turn on the radio or walk into a coffee shop without catching wisps of that song. It's your standard mass manufactured pop song: catchy beat, healthy dollop of auto-tune, moderately good voice and an overdone topic. I didn't mind it too much. Pleasant enough song. Then it fell off, like these songs do, to be replaced by the Carly Rae Jepsen juggernaut "Call me maybe" and a respectable onslaught by Gotye as well.

So when it popped back again on the radio last week as I was driving to school, a slight smile crept up on my face. I guess I missed you like a love song. Well here is the link to the youtube version:

Starry starry night: musings on the tragedy of van Gogh

My good friend (let's call him PH) here introduced me to this gem of a song by Don McLean (he of "American Pie") last week. Most of you might be familiar with it; I wasn't. Now I am a hooked.

It's called "Vincent" and it's McLean's beautiful homage to the life of artist Vincent van Gogh.



McLean's voice is so clear and gentle in this song. And the lyrics. Oh man, the lyrics.

Starry, starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Frameless heads on nameless walls

Such amazing poetry.

This song set off a period of van Gogh obsession for me. After making an obligatory pilgrimage to his wikipedia page, I was astounded to learn how difficult and tragic his life actually was. Prior to this I always assumed he became famous during his lifetime and suffered from mental problems toward the end of his life due to mercury or lead poisoning.

Turns out he spent most of life as a failure, forever frustrated, both at himself for failing to achieve goals he set for himself and at the world for not reciprocating his earnest attempts to define it. Vincent was a veritable Europe-trotter, moving and staying in various towns and cities across multiple countries. He wanted to become a priest and enrolled multiple times in schools, but always found himself getting thrown out (once for being too spartan and austere - he slept in a stable because he believed he should suffer to enhance his piety). Periods of apprenticeship in art shops and schools also ended in failures.

Vincent wrote a lot of letters to his brother, an art dealer, and much knowledge about his life comes from those letters. He struggled with loneliness and terrible mood swings. He contracted syphilis (much like Nietzsche), which almost certainly contributed to the neurological symptoms later in his life.

But through it all, he kept drawing and sketching, down to the last days of his life. At age 37, after multiple visits in and out of sanitariums and asylums, he shot himself. Reportedly his last words to his brother were, "The sadness will last forever."

Trumpeter with a mohawk - an evening out

I am huge fan of the St. Louis symphony. Its repertoire is broad and enjoyable, its performances warmly received, and its hall beautiful. Students are treated like royalty - for a measly ten bucks you can get a seat only a few feet away from world class pianists and violinists.

Last Tuesday the symphony awoke from its ritual summer slumber and put up a performance free of charge to kick off its upcoming tour of four European cities. Tickets were gone hours after being made available couple weeks ago, but I was agile enough to snag one for myself. At 5:15 pm I wheeled out my bike and pedaled over, taking special care to snootily sneer at the large "$10 for parking" sign outside the hall.

The musicians were tuning their instruments, shuffling chairs around, ruffling papers and all that jazz. It took me a few seconds to realize something was odd. Normally these people dress to impress. Somber, elegant black, faces placid and studiously bland. But today it was all about t-shirts, scruffy beards (as a connoisseur of facial hair, I have a keen eye for such things) and mischievous smiles.

And a dude in the back row brandishing a trumpet had a freaking mohawk!

This was awesome! I am always allergic to dressing up for classical music (in fact I ranted about it in this post a while back) because it makes the genre seem so pompous and stuffy.

Minutes later, the conductor bounded on the stage, also sporting a festive t-shirt.  Mayor Francis Slay spoke for a few minutes.

This was one of the best performances I have attended. The conductor made some nerdy music jokes before the start of each piece. There was a freshness to the whole performance. The audience enjoyed it immensely. We were treated to not one but two encores at the end.

The good people of London, Berlin, Paris and Lucerne are in for a treat this coming week.

Why do I need to dress up for classical music?

I am a big big fan of classical music in all its glory and magnificence. Be it the quiet yet forceful presence of a Chopin etude or the grand opulence of a Shostakovich symphony, each piece is a profound experience in and of itself.

I've been to many concerts, both back in LA and here in St. Louis, taking advantage of generous student discounts. And every time I get into a discussion about my sartorial choices. You see, I refuse to dress "up" for classical music. Instead of busting out my neatly pressed dress-shirt and red striped tie, I show up in my day-to-day outfit: jeans, sweater or a jacket, and a shirt.

I've asked many times why it is necessary to dress up for an event like this and have never received a convincing response. Here is a sample of responses I normally get:

"My funny valentine" by Miles Davis

Miles Davis was a pioneering jazz musician, trumpeter of highest caliber and an all-around badass. His innovations in the field of jazz inspired generations of musicians and have triumphantly stood the test of time. Davis swayed millions through his soulful instrumentals and maintained a famously flash lifestyle off the stage, riding around in Porsches and sporting stylish sunglasses.

"My funny valentine" is a well-known jazz standard that had been recorded many times by many different people before Davis recorded his take on it. Regardless, it sounds fresh. I like the arrangement of the piano (and the prominent part it takes towards the end) and the sombre interjections of the trumpet played by the master himself.

Vladimir Putin is a man of many talents

Russian Prime Minister (and soon to be President again) Vladimir Putin is a man of many talents. A super master spy, martial arts expert, political manipulator, Siberian tiger hunter and so on. Add pianist and singer to that list. I spotted this youtube a while ago. Putin and other glitterati were attending a charity concert when he was invited to sing on stage. Epicness ensued:

Sunday saxophone

I am a huge fan of the saxophone (wish I could play it). It has a very soulful, evocative tone that stirs deep emotions and induces a blissful reverie. I could spend hours listening to the great John Coltrane on the sax.

Although the guitar doesn't usually match up to the sax in terms of depth (with a few exceptions - see Hotel California), the combination of these two wonderful instruments in famous rock songs has produced some very legendary tunes.

The first one is Pink Floyd's "Money". Apparently it is the only song with a 7/8 time, whatever the hell that means (I am ignorant when it comes to the theory of music). The guitar work is impressive, but it's the brief sax interlude that steals the thunder. Absolutely mesmerizing:



The Rolling Stones abused their fair share of guitars during their heyday to produce some classic tunes, and they also produced this kickass track with a very characteristic sax part. The sax in "Brown Sugar" is irreverent and flamboyant, much like the Stones themselves.



Finally, here is Bill Clinton playing a surprisingly good rendition of Elvis Presley's "Heartbreak Hotel" in 1992. Clinton, the young, charismatic governor of Arkansas, was running for the presidency and made an appearance on the Arsenio Hall show to woo the youth of the day. Look at him rock those stunner shades:

An Indian summer - 6: Rain over me

I went through a string of insanely lame subtitles like rainman, rainmaker, rain rain please do come and so on before settling down on rain over me, a reference to the totally badass The Who song "Love reign o'er me". I was even nice enough to link you to it so you can enjoy it.

As you might have guessed (doesn't take much to make this guess, BTW) this post is all about rain in India and how awesome it is. For the sake of gratuitous plugging, let me link to an older post from last year where I waxed lyrical about how I love the rain.

Ok let's move on then. India is one of those places with a regular, well-defined monsoon season. Traditionally monsoon arrives around mid-June and lasts till late September. In the last few years, however, it has rarely followed that schedule. This year was no exception. I arrived here June 22 (Operation Barbarossa, anyone?) and was sorely disappointed  to find no trace of this bratty rain. While Mumbai and even other parts of Gujarat enjoyed healthy showers over the next 10 days, I waited and waited, desperately ready to settle for even a teeny trickle of rain.

He finally decided to show his face yesterday (I use the pronoun 'he' because rain is often referred to as megha raja lit. cloud king). It began like a [insert your favorite musician/musical group] concert: magnificent streaks of light racing across the dark, overcast sky followed by self-assured rumbling. Soon the light and sound show was complemented by the rhythmic pitter-patter of roundlets of rain gliding across window panes. I was visiting my elementary school teacher with a few friends, and we eagerly opened the main door to let the soothing sound effects in.

Of course there was the question of going back. You see, I hitched a ride on my friend's very capable moped and now we were left facing the prospect of driving about 3 miles in this formidable downpour. I fantasized about this moment many times over the last four years. When I still lived in India, I loved racing my bike across rain-drenched streets, splashing water all over the place by zipping through large puddles. Now I could do it again! The journey was very eventful. Midway through a really large puddle (the size of a modest koi pond), our trusted ride sputtered to a stop. Uh-oh. These scenes are all too common during these rainy spells: hapless riders pushing their vehicles through ankle or knee deep water. Our ride started almost immediately and none of us had to wade through the water. I guess it was a tiny tantrum. By the time I reached my home, my shirt weighed twice as much. My hair leaked water. My sandals were drenched. And I had one of the best nights in this vacation. I can go back to the US a content man.

UG Sports - 15: The ballad of Tim the Linecum

So unless you lived under a rock last October, you have probably heard of Tim "The Freak" Lincecum. There's something about that guy that strikes me as awesome. Maybe it's the fact that he's a power pitcher at 160 lbs or maybe it's the fact that he looks like Michael Phelps with girl hair. Or maybe it's the fact he listens to this song before every game.





This, by the way, was written by a close friend. I think he wishes to remain anonymous, but I couldn't take all the credit for writing this. He emailed me this piece saying this was his imitation of my style.

Russia's greatest love machine

Hey all, just got back from an exhilarating road trip to Northern California. Took tons of pictures in San Francisco, and on the 5 south. Also got to see Apple, Google and Facebook headquarters. So cool! Will have selected pictures and a good-sized post about the trip tomorrow after I get a good night's sleep.


But in the meanwhile, enjoy this off-beat song by a little known (at least in the US - they were massive in Europe and South Asia) 70's group Boney M. 



I want to highlight these particular verses from the song:

RA RA RASPUTIN
Russia's greatest love machine
It was a shame how he carried on

Damn. Despite the dangers of meeting an ungainly and unseemly end, I would not mind being Russia's greatest love machine.  

The antithesis of music

According to facebook, a total of 1,900,411 people have shared it. The event based on it has 291,277 confirmed attending guests. Its youtube view count is a staggering 9,568,832. And this is the official version alone. There are countless other clones cluttering up youtube.

People have reported its strangely addicting qualities. Its effects, although not fully understood now (science may have to advance another hundred years before we can examine this question), are may very well rip a giant hole in the space-time continuum. 



"It" is a dungpile masquerading as a bona fide song. Say Hello (or more accurately, Boooo) to Rebecca Black's "Friday".

My roommate (and my fellow comic strip artist over at On Bogosity,our webcomic) is a gentle soul and tried to rationalize her journey into the abyss of horror as a smart parody of Justin Bieber and other teen singers. Quit it dude. Even you have the full license to unleash your anger at this travesty of everything that is pleasant on this good earth.

Her work is such a monumental atrocity to our hearing faculties that I wouldn't be surprised if, a decade from now, the toddlers of today decide to become ENT doctors just so they can fix the incurable damage caused by it.


Plug your ears with cotton and be ready to take the plunge:


"Where is your music video, eh ace? After all, you are so eager to bash her", one might say. But you see mi amiga/o, that's the point. I am prudent enough to realize my limitations. I wish well for my fellow human beings, sojourners on this bewildering journey we call life. Which is why the world will never hear me record anything of any kind. So long.

Saturday song

As we all prepare to plunge an hour ahead, enjoy this killer of a song by Arcade Fire:



Trust me, you will doing yourself a solid favor by listening to it. Guaranteed to take you through all your terrifyingly arduous finals (even the gorier ones).

And of course Henry the Horse dances the waltz!

One of the loopiest and certainly one of the most delightful songs ever:

Being for the benefit of Mr. Kite by the Beatles (from Sgt. Pepper's lonely hearts club band)

The story goes that Lennon spotted an old poster advertising a circus act featuring Mr. Kite and that every act/person/animal featured in the song was taken straight from this poster. Also, the zany sound effects in the middle of the song were supposedly created after the producer instructed the technicians to chop up the physical audio tape into pieces, throw them in the air, and randomly re-join them. As with all Beatles stories, one can't be too sure about the absolute veracity of this one. Very interesting, nonetheless.

The fifth Beatle?

1964 was one hell of a time to be a Beatle. Beatlemania was raging across the world like wildfire, mop top was astronomically hip, and a seemingly endless supply of teens swooned at the merest glimpse of anything Beatle. Amidst this hubbub, the Fab four planned an extensive international tour, stretching from Denmark to Australia.

As June arrived, they began preparing for this tour in earnestness.

When one oh-so slight snag hit them smack in the faces. Or in the tonsils. Ringo got struck down with tonsilitis.

Uh-oh. Ringo was never that prominent in the vocal department (at least back in those days), but he did get by with a little help from his friends (sorry, I had to use that. There is an obligatory bad pun rule when discussing anything about the Beatles).

In any event, our heroes had two gut-wrenching choices: cancel the extravaganza or leave Ringo behind and find a replacement. Ever the supreme perfectionists, the band initially pondered calling the whole thing off. Enter manager Brian Epstein.

The mercurial Epstein (sometimes called the fifth beatle) had taken control of the band from the very early days and he firmly believed that the show must go on. If that meant overriding the most brilliant musical minds of the 20th century, the hell with it. Epstein summoned all his skills to conjure up an eleventh-hour replacement.

The replacement drummer was a chap called Jimmie Nicol. He literally packed a couple bags and hopped on a plane. The next day, a dazed Nicol played in Copenhagen. He was given a crude mop top haircut, and he even wore Ringo's suits (leading one of the Beatles to telegram - yes they still existed then - Ringo that Nicol was going to wear his suits out if he didn't get better soon).

Over the span of two weeks or so, Nicol found out what it feels to be a rocket. He went from dirt to stratosphere at a dizzying pace. Soaring above, he got a glimpse of the good life. Romping in the Amsterdam red light district with Lennon, sight-seeing in Hongkong, reveling with screaming fans....

John, Paul, George and...Jimmie?[beatlesagain.com]

And it all ended. Ringo got better and flew out to join the band in Australia. A platoon of policemen were deployed to guard their motorcade. That night the Beatles threw one of their legendary parties that lasted till 4 am. Nicol wasn't invited. In the morning, Epstein drove him to the airport. He didn't say goodbye to his "bandmates" because he didn't want to wake them up. At the airport, he was given 500 pounds and a gold watch. His name was spelled wrong. "Thank you Jimmy", it read.

One would think some of that magic dust would have worn off and he would find huge success in his later ventures. Instead, his life took an inexplicable wrong turn. He floundered from band to band, rarely finding any stability or success. Less than a year after his stint in the stratosphere, he declared bankruptcy.

Nicol withdrew into his shell and despite rumors of his death, a Brit newspaper tracked him down in 2005. He lives in a tiny apartment and doesn't talk to anyone - including his own son, who is now a sound engineer himself. Apparently, Paul offered Nicol some money to be in a Beatles documentary in the 90's but he refused.

Jimmie Nicol in 2005 [pmouse.nl]

Thus endeth the ballad of Jimmie Nicol. Fame is fickle, folks.

My favorite things

I am sure all you have seen the movie "Sound of music." I have seen it too, and to this day I have not yet recovered from the scars it inflicted upon my psyche. Those terrible terrible wounds will perhaps never heal...

And yet, the only part of the movie I liked is the song "My favorite things." Over the years there have been a TON of covers/tributes/interpretations/reinterpretations of that song by high profile entertainers and two cent schmucks. Like your annoying hipster neighbor looking for the right time to release his thereminized version of the song.

What I am about to show you, though, is absolutely breathtaking. This version is by the Jazz ubermench John Coltrane. Coltrane brings an amazing tenderness  to the song, taking his time meandering and brooding over the oh-so-sweet melodies.

Post-finals euphoria music

Hokey so...finally done with finals (sorry that's the best I can come up with right now). Ten quarters done, two precious ones to go. On my way back from the classroom today, I had his spontaneous urge to start humming AC/DC's Girls got rhythm . Naturally the first I did when I got to my apartment was to flip open my laptop, head straight to youtube and play it.

He starts off so imperiously here too: "I've been around the world..." and that gives the song an irreverent, cocky tone throughout (which, I have no doubt, is precisely what Messrs. Young and Co. had in mind).  Really infectious riff here. And the screeching, rather than being obnoxious, just adds to the magnificent aura of this song. Cheers: