Last evening was more pleasant than what it was turning out to be. Bombay Black -- a band whose claim to fame is that they opened up for Aersomith somewhere in the world -- and HFT, a cull-style of Jazz-Blues-Rock, and a great reputation for their 50-something hippie looks -- were meant to play.
A plan I was fixing since a week ago. Seemed half n' hour before the show that no one was likely turn up. Called Vaz and his brother Chazz, and luckily they promised they'd come (good ole' Mayoites). But they arrived a bit late.
The show didn't start for quite some while. Luckily for me, Trip, who I absolutely adore landed up after a message that she would be there in 'ten'. Now what could ten be, 'minutes' or '10 pm'? It was something in between, but I didn't care. She was there all right, and the brew on empty stomach was hitting the head.
Turquoise Cottage -- after abandoning them for almost ages -- seemed a good surprise. Also, I noted, that if you attend a music show here as opposed to the 'Media Nights': you are bound to have a better time.
First of all: Delhi doesn't and seems never will understand good music. So in a music show (damn right, you can't ask them to play your fav Punjabi number), they don't have the patience to sit through some quality music.
Two: Nobody in a music show gives a shit about the dancefloor.
Although the first band wasn't that good, and they weren't Bambay Black which we figured half-way through. Trip seemed to like the jazzed-funk, while the beer now more in my head than in my stomach seemed to like the drum beats.
Somewhere, out of nowhere, a spliff came to me. Now how that happened, I don't know. I never will. Its like you're in the middle of the Atlantic ocean almost drowning, when a Baywatch lifeguard saves ya, you know that feeling? But that's also Delhi for you: expect nothing, and it all comes to you. I saw Warrior' (who passed the j to me) face turn into a blur. The people who were pushing me here and there, I didn't seem to mind. The beer felt even better, but dry (now wait-a-minute, I know it wasn't wine, then why?).
Vaz and Chazz landed up, Trip's companion also landed up.
Her boy-friend seemed like a nice guy. He handles the Defence beat at Exp, and he seemed to have the reporter-look about him. That one, dear readers, is a lot lot different from that of an ordinary-looks of a sub.
But what surprised me, the guy had a fuckin' good idea of music. Now there aren't very many people I find who say that their favourite Dylan song is Desolation Row. He knew Donovan, he even knew Cohen. So I should say, well-done.
Bombay Black was haze of new sound, I didn't like them but then at the same time I didn't hate them. When HFT came, I knew that everything would be more 'mellow' and settled. Even voices in the handkerchief-spaced bar quietened down. The riffs were jazz, not blues (damn!) -- but were assuring that they were brilliant.
By this time, all the pseudos had left. Only us were left, with some fuddy-duddies, two fat look-alikes, some hot chicks, and some weird rockers. Trip and her bf left sometime later. But I was happy at least she was around. Out of 15 people, at least she turned up.
The evening ended in style, real style. My misery and depression was lost in a Kingfisher-Happy-Houred-drunken-stupor, waiting for morning to resurface again. Cheers!