NOTES, HIGH AND LOW

Weird are the ramblings of fate. It throws up booby-traps on the smoothest of roads while leaving the most mishap-prone junctions unpatrolled. All through his bibulous exploits, Eric Clapton was revered for his rhythms while his off-stage persona was left alone. Disaster had to strike only while he was in rehab, in the form of his infant son’s death. It is another matter though that he wrote some of his most soulful lyrics while trying to recuperate from the tragedy. History is littered with the hundreds of buds that bloomed while there was grief in the air. The apocryphal Nero chose to play on while his city went up in flames; Beethoven’s 13^th symphony was written when the legend was on the verge of turning deaf. So for that matter was Sgt. Peppers’ Lonely Hearts’ Club conceived when McCartney was no longer in talking terms with most of his band mates.

Back home, AR Rahman wrote the notes for Mani Ratnam’s Roja while trying to come to terms with his newly-proselytized Muslim identity in a country as prejudiced as ours. Unruly, too, are the mannerisms of bliss. Rahman will vouch for that. Of all the albums he has composed, SlumDog was the one that he hoped would go unlauded. Why for that matter did Kurt Cobain receive multiple record offers for the exact track (NeverMind) that studios had rejected while he was in a teenage band?. Eric Clapton though beats everyone with his intemperate importuning. Wonderful Tonight and Layla were written while he was going delirious brooding over the fact that he needed to get drunk every time before getting things started with his wife.

 Most musical careers have not been as linear as Michael Jackson’s. When there was glitter, it outdid all sane expectations. But when the abyss happened, it was never-ending, culminating in one of the most horrific (and enigmatic) of deaths in the public arena. But what had me throwing up was the cover story two days before the catastrophe. After thirteen years, the Slash-devoid Guns and Roses finally manages to come up with an album (a decent one at that) only to have its enfant terrible Axl Rose go missing since its release. Booby-traps are everywhere – at least the man whose name is an anagram for oral sex should have known that.