The first time I heard the Beatles was entirely for the wrong reasons. Growing up during the zenith of the Rahman era, I was surrounded by melodious and catchy songs. Singers whose voices were flawless, unquivering at the highest notes. And in contrast, it seemed like rock bands were just a bunch of men with long hair and makeup, spewing their frustration towards the world. So I guess it was understandable that at twelve, rock music was a definite no-no. But as we were leaving school for the summer vacation, I spotted a cute white button on my friend’s backpack. It was white and shiny, with “The Beatles” written neatly on it in black.
I went home and promptly asked my father if he could buy me that pin. He just gave me a blithe look and said, “You don’t even listen to the Beatles!” But I really wanted that pin. By then, YouTube had become ubiquitous, so I clicked on the first Beatles song I could find, Let it Be. The song and its soothing lyrics just washed over me. That year had been very difficult, and it felt like the mess of the year fell away with the calm of the music and the thought of summer ahead. The voices weren’t as smooth and the recording was much less technically advanced as some of the songs I was used to. But it had a soft quality to it. And surprisingly, I found myself listening to the lyrics. It wasn’t just that I was hearing them, this time I was actually listening to what they were saying. Unlike what I had heard before, it felt like I was tapping into some ancient wisdom. Hope, love, sadness, music, places and travel—they sang of so many things, and in so many different ways. I think that set them apart. The timing was perfect too. Summer lay ahead—cricket matches, gentle sea breezes, mangoes and whatnot. I became much more excited about these little things. And to date, The Beatles are beloved to me.
Six years later, I discovered the Tamil pop rock band Kurangan. For decades Tamil music had been tied to the maestros like Raja and Rahman. While their work was heavenly, there was a dearth in music that addressed more immediate and “happening” themes. So Kurangan created a splash in the music scene. I started with the breezy ‘Vasanam’ and went on to songs like ‘Manitha Subhavam’ and ‘Sudhandiram Oru Dabba’. Some songs challenged me, and some seemed underwhelming. Lately I’ve found myself listening a lot to Sudhandiram Oru Dabba. Especially when I feel frustrated or worried. And sometimes simply because the chorus seems so interesting and alluring. The song starts pleasantly with a plain yet upbeat drumbeat, joined quickly and softly by the guitars. The song itself has a winding quality corresponding to the cry of the singer: that we have settled into banal lives. It occurs to us that we must break out of this, but then we just drown those thoughts with the comforting monotony of mundane activities. Slowly the song gets intense, and the highlight for me really is when it builds up to a crescendo as the singer belts out the chorus:
Sudhandiram Oru Dabba,
Indha Naalu sevuthukulle
vaazhka vazhndha thappa?
Freedom is actually a box, and is it wrong to live within the four walls of that box? The song is sort of like an internal monologue of how we settle into the mundane, drowning our doubts about the way we live. Just doing the basic seems to take up most of our energy and there isn’t any left to think of doing any more.
Kurangan is special to me for another reason too: school was a fairly elite place. Children were much more comfortable speaking in English than their mother tongues. Those that spoke easily in English fit in easily with the culture. It just seemed like they were more thoughtful or intelligent. The notion that important and intellectual things are said in English was subtle, but that did not mean it wasn’t there. And I think it is, everywhere. It is this notion that Kaber Vasuki and Tenma, the founders of Kurangan, were hoping to break with their music. In an interview, Kaber said, “Most of the country suffers from severe colonial hangover. That’s a simple fact, but it’s changing.” Slowly it seemed like that hangover fell away. There was so much more appreciation for Tamil music too. Somehow, it prompted me to revisit evergreen hits, anything from a time before—search for some timeless wisdom, if I may.
When I was asked to write about my “Music Story”, I found that it was a Herculean task. What is a music story, really? And as much as I like Kurangan, there is so much out there. How does one really choose? Because I still love my Rahman and Raja, and sometimes classical music and sometimes pop. I think it’s the same for everyone. A few days back I was listening to my Kurangan playlist. It was remarkable, the variety of emotions they sang about. Hope, love, sadness, music, places and travel. This song seemed to have acquired a literal dimension this year, that our freedom is a box. But then, the jitters of the week seemed to fall away just a little bit as I heard the song. It was then that I spotted the camera zooming in on the guitarist. His shiny black guitar was held in place with a worn looking strap. It was a faded white, with black lettering: “The Beatles”. And just like that, I felt like I knew what to write.
Listen to Sudhandiram Oru Dabba by Kurangan on YouTube and Spotify.
Edited by Abhirami G
Article 19 