Three Bluesmen Who Shaped Rock and Rhythm N Blues

This blog has way many more followers that any of my other blogs, perhaps because most of them lie untended. It makes it a good platform to promote posts that would otherwise not get read. 





For those of you who enjoy rock and R&B or just music in any of its myriad forms, and those who do not follow my blog on music, The Operative Note, here is a close look at three blues guitarists who shaped much of modern music - The Unholy Trinity of Robert Johnson, Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton. It is not an introduction to these musicians or their work, but more of a critique of their contribution, both positive and negative, and a questioning of the mysticity of their lives.

I would love to know what you think of it. I know, the pictures have dates.

Salutations to the Sun



My life,
My seasoning, my reason,
My reasoning, my seasons,
My riches, my Eden,
My bearing, my North,
My courage, my learning,
My yen, my diet,
My redeemer, my comfort,
My mystery, my lotus,
My document, my script,
My morning, my noon,
My being, my bravery,
My light, my air,
My sex toy, my sanctum sanctorum,
My spring, my fall,
My melody, my counterpoint,
My hemlock, my truth,
My pulse, my heartbeat,
My onion, my universe,
My raised letter,
My inclination, my Eiger,
My beginning, my end,
My hopium, my aadhar,
And then just numbers, values, dates.
My! My!My! My!

February 14, 2018
Hyderabad

Music For Those Who Listen

Most writers write with the purpose of being read. Therefore, nothing such writers write is personal. Pitches to publications, revisions suggested by editors, all of it serves to remove all that is personal to be replaced with market politics or universal marketability. My journey of trying to be a writer, one who considers writing his primary occupation, has thus far indicated otherwise. I am not talking about one trick pony theories that suggest that everyone has a novel in him or a story in him, his own, and after that, zilch. My limited reading of the masters, classic and contemporary, seems to indicate that what one writes about has to be personal to possess enduring value. And I feel that is true of all arts, visual, music or words.

The trouble with the personal lies in the conflicts it triggers in living. I see my life as a classic example, since no one is really qualified to comment on the life of another. If I were to make my innermost thoughts public, it would land me into a fair deal of trouble, with my friends, my neighbors, my insurance, my parents, my siblings, my spouse, and my children. Oh my, my!



Having Dad around hasn't helped much with resolving this dilemma, since he turns into a duck's back whenever I bring up the question of an artist's priorities and commitment to the truth. But this question haunts me more than ever as I grow older, move into newer territories of relationships with self, society and state, new worlds of the mind and the spirit, . I am not Prince Rama, nor was meant to be, but heck, I wouldn't mind putting a few of my conflicts to rest.

Millennial Lessons from Sanjay Leela Bhansali's Padmaavat

How could I not have a Padmaavat post on this blog? Even if it is the 3000-word rant that you have come to expect on this blog, even if it is a commercial Bollywood, pseudo-historical film with its standard share of songs and violence, even it is a subtle nudge towards reigniting the fire that consumed women of honor in the 13th century, a post was in order.


The run up to Padmaavat and the content of the film itself has a lot of lessons for those who are going to run the world the next few decades. This run up did not start a few years back, but can be traced back to the early days of Independence. It is one that validates and justifies intolerance and hatred in the name of identity. It is one that drowns out the equality, of nations, ideologies, classes and gender that should be the beacon of our times. The recent years have only seen a growing acceptance and institutionalization of this rabid movement. Everybody who is anybody now has an identity that needs to be defended. The parallels of the religious and gender levels of this oppression is frightening when not sickening.

This is not a review of the film. With everybody posting reviews, I have little new to add. I believe films, like all art, has the ability to profoundly influence our worldviews and the beliefs based on which we make choices. Very often, especially with popular cinema, this messaging and learning is unconscious.  The unquestioned objectification of women ties in with the gender violence we are seeing today. The nationalist films of the 70s and 80s have shaped our collective understanding of Hindu-Muslim dynamics and the attitude towards a land that was once a part of India, Pakistan. Along with this, there has been the rise of voices that object to art that opines on matters in a way that is not comfortable. Whether it be Hussain with his Hindu deities, Rushdie with his Satanic Verses, or lesser known painter who get their exhibitions vandalized because of nude subjects, freedom of expression is limited to the convenient and the universally acceptable. Step out of line and the baton comes down.



Sanjay Leela Bhansali (the guy who gave us Black) has been in this kind of trouble before, and there has been speculation that the protests might have been engineered to boost publicity for the film. The last time, he offended Ram-worshippers by naming his film Ram-Leela. The workaround seemed just as absurd as the dropping of the letter i in the case of Padmavati. I like his work (not that the guy who gave us Hum Dil De Chuke and Sawariya) and after Ram-Leela and Bajirao-Mastani, I was looking forward to Padmavati. The controversy and the hype took away a lot of the fun of waiting, but there we were on its first weekend, catching a late, late show on a large, large screen, 3D glasses and popcorn in hand.

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