There is the hardcore, brandy drinking, son of the soil type. He sneers at a world filled with pretentiousness, where the only sign of pretence might be a decent grasp of English, a leaning towards Hollywood films or women who are confident and self sufficient. He won’t like you if you are a Malayali who cannot discuss the UDF/LDF saga or the fact that you refuse to take a political stand or do not see every problem as a symbol of oppression. Every opportunity is taken to prove a point. A typical conversation about someone at work who is ‘too smart’ will usually end with “Avanu nyaan oru pani koduthu, enthe adutha kalli?” No one, but no one messes with him.
Then there is the crossover Mallu. He loves hip hop, wears the latest bling, probably has an expensive and intricate hairdo and is extremely embarrassed when his Mallu roots are identified. These types are found DJing pubs, being the popular guys at bars, usually with a very attractive crowd, filled with non-mallu people, to reassert their total abdication of their roots. They are mildly amusing, and usually young. They always bear the albatross of having a name that is so Malayali (Cijo, Thomaskutty, Krishnakumar) that they probably have an anglicized nickname.
And then there are the types who don’t really fit in anywhere. It is tempting to slot myself and some of my friends here, but then there will be a Mallu who will judge me on that, so I will leave the self-definition out. Basically, they are comfortable with their identity, and also with the fact that that very identity will probably have different effects at different points in time, in different places, with different people.
They are also guilty of falling into one of the above two (or any of the many other) categories of Mallus, depending on the situation. So they can treat fellow Malayalis with respect, caution or apathy – based on what is required. They are chameleons who can slide in and out of conversations without revealing their betrayal to Type 1 or their amused contempt for Type 2.
In a city, especially one like Bangalore, one comes across all these types very often. A few years back, the Mallu was seen as the typical immigrant, arriving in hordes, consuming the city’s resources and shrugging off snide remarks about the Mallu mafia. I think that argument has been more or less put to rest in Bangalore, through the sheer numbers that have made the city their home.
But despite that, I have always imagined a defensiveness in our manner, a furtiveness in our eyes, and an overt eagerness in our discussion of all things urban and Bangalore. I guess we all know that we have to work that much harder to be taken in by the people of this city, to be accepted as a citizen.
Now, to a city filled with Mallus of all types, comes Avial. This, I thought, would be an interesting spectacle. I was eager to go and watch them perform, not just because I love the music of Avial, but also to see what kind of a cross-section of my brethren the band would attract. In my discussions with friends before the show, we surmised that the place would be packed with Malayalis, in a kind of KKK demonstration of Malayali Power.
We went to the venue, sure we would get to hear some excellent music, and absolutely unsure of everything else. Le Rock was filled to capacity. “Only standing space,” the bouncer told us, which was fine. We squeezed in, got our beer, and waited for the show to begin.
I looked around and saw every single Mallu stereotype in there. There were the kids wearing Slayer and Lamb of God tees and screaming at the top of their lungs to (sigh) Creed and Marilyn Manson.
There were also guys straight from office, full sleeve shirts not tucked in, bags with laptops and the essential dog tag. They reminded me of the guys who always did well in college and took their final year projects seriously and probably could still explain the Carnot cycle (with graph) to anyone who cared. They looked out of place and never really got around to getting a single drink from the bar, but I was happy they were there. The music had made them move out of their comfort zone, and here they were, good job!
There were also many women, representing the female side of the spectrum. Many dressed in skimpy tops and well cultivated twangs, with piercings and tattoos, and many in Salwars and plaited hair, extremely freaked out by the crowd and hanging on to their mustached male escorts for life.
We downed the first of many beers of the evening and waited for the show to begin, and by the time the second round of pints were dwindling, Avial was ready to rock. There was a loud round of cheering, during which I caught many Malayalam words being shouted out.
Then there was the anticipatory hush, as everyone waited for the music to start. Tony, the lead singer, held the microphone, leaned forward, and said “Namaskaaram.”
That was it.
In that one moment, the Malayalis owned the pub. No more faking, no more protesting, no more complaining. They were there, there was a kick-ass rock band from Kerala on the stage, the lead singer had just addressed them in Malayalam and was about to start singing in it as well, and everything was just the way it was supposed to be.
All kinds of madness broke loose. The boys in the death metal tees, who till then sounded like they had escaped from a Fort Minor video, were waving their hands up in the air shouting “Adi poli aliyaaaa!” The old man with a white beard standing next to me screamed “Polikyadaaa!”
I could barely hear what my friends were saying to me. But I didn’t have to. These were guys with whom I have watched Roger Waters twice, Ozzy Osbourne, the Stones, Motherjane (another favourite) and many other Indian bands. Yet it was clear from the expressions on their faces – this was something else and it wasn’t just about the music.
I think it was more of a feeling of seeing change. As a Malayali, you are very used to the idea that back home, nothing is ever going to change. And then here was this band, excellent riffs, great tunes, good stage presence, rocking out like mad, in Malayalam! Something had happened.
It was also an opportunity where all the different types of Malayalis could let their defences down and be themselves. No need for fake bravado or fake accents, no need to hide with a hip crowd and hope no one picks out that one word you can never pronounce in a non-mallu manner. They were all there, they could all sing along, and what they wore and how they spoke and the jobs they did – none of it mattered.
There was also the enjoyment of watching the few bewildered non-Malayali faces in the crowd, trying to figure out just what the fuck was going on. We the Malayalis, had beaten them at their own game. Irrespective of what kind of Mallu we were, we had come, taken over the bar, rocked out in our language, and connected with the band, like many of them never had, and probably never would.
The band started with ‘Chekele’ and the crowd sang along. I don’t remember the exact order of the tracks. I think it was 'Aranda' next, followed by 'Arikuruka.' And for every track, the crowd sang along. That was another sign that most of the people there had not just come for the novelty. They had listened to this band, they had favourite songs, they had had discussions about the album, they were there as proper fans, and not just to make up the numbers.
After a few tracks, Tony leaned over the stage and asked “Enganey, Kollammo?” The crowd again did not let him down.
The band took a break, and we headed to the bar for a refill. One of my friends said that they had really a great business model with this idea. He said “I mean, wherever in the world you go, you will have an audience that will understand what you are singing, come long distances to watch you, connect with you, evangelize you and promote you. And you don’t even have to be a Big Band. There are Mallus everywhere, the audience is captive, the band just have to show up.”
This was true. Mallus were everywhere. This very scene could have played out in any city in India, and perhaps in many other cities around the world. This is not to say that the fact that they sing in Malayalam, excludes the rest of the world from their music – no. Their music is fantastic, and anyone anywhere should be able to enjoy it. It’s just that with the way the Mallus connect with the entire song, rather than just as a piece of music, gives them an edge over other traditional Indian Rock bands that sing in English.
I must confess I have heard of other bands that do an equally good job in their regional languages (The East India Company?) but haven’t had the opportunity to listen to any of them.
The mark of a great album is when you talk about it to your friends, and everyone has a different favourite song. My personal favourite is Karukara. Another friend loves Aadu Paambe, and yet another Ettam Pattu.
I have scoffed at people who have only heard Nada Nada and nothing else, and I have pushed them to discover the other songs on the album.
I have asked them to listen to Karukara with their eyes closed, and told them to imagine the rain that the music describes. I have explained the background of the audio samples from Doore Doore Oru Koodu Koottam (Jagathy Sreekumar telling kids to go to class) and Spadikam (Thilakan, the dreaded math teacher, insulting his own son in math class) used in the song Arikuruka.
Each of these songs, as well as the rest of the songs on the album, is exceptional in its own way. I am no rock critic, but I will say that I think this is the best produced rock album to come out of India.
When they began Karukara, Tony held up his hands and said "Respect, respect - Kavalam." I'm not sure how many of the people in the crowd understood what he meant. One of my friends who studied in a Malayalam medium school, held up his pint of beer to me, and said in a mix of happiness and awe – “Do you think Kavalam ever imagined his song being performed here, like this, by them?” No. Of course he hadn’t. Neither had we. But it was great, and it sounded right and that’s all that mattered.
(Here is the link to the original - first and second track on the page)
They ended predictably with Nada Nada. At the end of the show, to the ususal chants of “We want more” Tony replied with a rhyming chant of “We don’t have.” Which was true. They had performed every single track on the album, and they had done extremely well. The lead guitar was exceptional as always, with Rex wielding his axe to perfection. There was a six string bass guitar played with elan by
Naresh Kamath who had played bass on the CD was not present, and I do not know if he is still with the band. The same goes for Anandraj Benjamin Paul, who originally sang Nada Nada and others.
Once the show was over, someone announced that we could buy CDs and get them autographed by the band. We rushed at the opportunity. When we got all the way to where they were standing, we realized that there were no markers to sign the CDs with. So I ran down and out of the bar, and bought a couple of permanent markers, and ran back.
Rex was obviously tired, but he was all smiles and very soft-spoken. I got one CD signed for myself, and one for my Mom, who also loves their songs. When I told him that, he asked for her name, and actually wrote “Dear _____ Aunty, thanks for the support” on the CD! For all the exceptional guitar play he had just demonstrated, he was incredibly grounded and accommodating.
We shook their hands some more, and then decided to find Tony, who seemed to have disappeared. We asked the waiters, and said we needed autographs, and showed them the signed CDs. They pointed us to a back door that led to a staircase, which in turn took us to a small open space, like a private alley, next to the building in which the bar was. A couple of people were hanging around, talking and smoking and drinking beer. They looked like they were with the band.
At the end of the alley, Tony stood talking to Vasundhara Das and some two or three other dudes. One of them was even wearing a hat! We stood behind them for a few seconds, and then one of my friends, AK, asked Tony for an autograph. Without turning around, he waved us back and said, “Wait a second” and continued talking to Vasundhara Das.
Now we weren’t sure what to do. Here was the guy having what looked like a deep and involved conversation with Ms Das and her friends, about some band and their music. There was some talk of lyrics and production, and this and that. And we stood there, squirming slightly, unsure of whether to up and walk away, or wait a while to get the damn signature on the CD.
A few minutes later, the guy with the hat, pointed to us and mumbled something to Tony, which sounded to us like “They’re waiting, maybe you want to…”
He shook his head and said “Yeah that’s OK, let them wait.”
At this, my friends indicated that they’d like to leave. I shook my head and stayed put. I wanted to see how long they would go on and ignore us. We stood there like idiots for about 5 minutes more, when Ms Das again seemed to tell Tony that maybe he should sign the CDs. Again he refused.
That was it. We turned around and left.
On the road, just outside the bar, some of us lit cigarettes, others drank water. Somehow, the euphoria of fandom, and the excitement of having seen an excellent show were dying out.
Someone said “What the fuck man!”
Someone else said “We are not groupies, we are Band Aids!” and everyone laughed. Ms Penny Lane’s words eased the mood up.
“Or maybe be we should have said we are from Creem magazine.”
It’s amazing how a movie we all loved, seemed to provide the perfect words to what we all were feeling just then. We had just been told to go back to the ramp with the other girls.
I turned around and looked at everyone.
“Didn’t we just watch a good show?”
Everyone agreed that we had.
“And won’t we continue to support the band, despite what just happened?”
Everyone agreed we would.
“So what the fuck man. Tony is a Mallu and he is the lead singer. If he didn’t act like an asshole, I would have been astounded. It would have been an insult to Malludom. Of all the people we have to have the lead singer pull rock star on us. It’s kind of fitting, though I don’t know how to explain it better.”
Everyone agreed to that as well.
So we had watched a great show, we had got the autographed CDs from half the band, we had been part of a euphoric crowd – I guess one can’t ask for more from one evening.
It probably would turn into an industry of cool, but hey we could enjoy it while it lasted.
It was our first show as true fans, and I think we did pretty well.
