Your candy's harder, Madonna! (There, I've said it!)

And so it is that everyone's been circling it warily. Forming a not- so-merry-go-round around it, sort of teasing and poking it, but nothing more. Madonna's latest album. Nobody wants to say the obvious, but brave souls that we are, high on derrin' do, we will. Bhagvad gita pe haath, aur dil pe patthar rakhke, that is. It's a bummer, Hard Candy. Not 'sticky and sweet'. We've worked (hard) on a detailed analysis of that in our next edition (June 2008), which we're currently wrapping up. And so it is that for now, we're just about adjusting to the changed shape of the world (a world where Madonna can err and bring out a bad album, an entire bad album), by recapping on our Best of. We needed these 4 minutes (off the to-do list) to save our world, in which to make a different list (if it weren't for lists, I tell ya!).

So, our most-est favourite Madonna albums, in random order, here:

Ray of Light (1998) The streak and bright spark of living and loving the world. Trippy title track, her post-Lourdes epiphanies (Drowned World/Substitute for Love), and an urging to convert (Frozen) in a parched landscape of your head. The one she's trying to talk to - 'You
only see what your eyes want to see/How can life be what you want it to be?'.

The Immaculate Collection (1990). Okay so it's not really an 'album' album. But we all bought (into) it, right? These were the days when we didn't care for (or indeed knew about) that concept - Greatest Hits Compilations. We just found them all and loved them all in one place.
Cherish, Like a Virgin, Borderline, Lucky Star, Material Girl, Crazy for You, Into the Groove, Live to Tell, Papa Don't Preach, Open Your Heart, Like a Prayer, La Isla Bonita, Express Yourself, Vogue, Justify my Love, Rescue Me. Neat. And for the taking.

Confessions on a Dancefloor (2005). All hail Stuart Price! Or the po-mo Thin White Duke (responsible for the sound). Once it was obvious that all she cared for now is to make people move and only in one way. This one's all volume, discoballs, groove, D.A.N.C.E.

Erotica (1992) Most favoured, I confess. Just the range of this takes my breath away. Not one track out of place, this is a perfect, genuine Madonna album. Why's it so Hard, In this Life, Secret Garden and gang take you through it all. Getting even (Bye Bye Baby), cunnilingus (Where Life Begins), feeling lust in your veins that's almost spiritual (Deeper and Deeper), loneliness (Rain) and infidelities (Bad Girl). Besides a cover (Fever), a brilliant gabfest (Words), Waiting, Thief of Hearts and the one she still performs (Erotica). Beautifully lyrical, with compositions (and awesome videos) to match, this one's in its own league. A Madonna album that gives the rest of them serious competition.

American Life (2003) By this time, things had started getting dangerously Madonna-esque. Taking on the unrenounced possessions (nannies, agents, bodyguards, trainers, private jets, lawyers) in a critical appreciation album, self-consciously cerebal. But the gimmicks
worked, no matter what most people said, since tracklist included Hollywood, Die Another Day, Nobody Knows Me, and a stance that might've been politically weak, but then, that was the only weak thing about it. Also, this gave us Stuart Price in an underrated X-Static Process.

Bedtime Stories (1994) The lash-out feminism after she was lashed out upon, post-Erotica. 'Oops, I didn't know we couldn't talk about sex', 'Would it sound better if I was a man, would you like me better if I was?', and such conundrums in Human Nature (with THAT video!), sexy
sexy Secret, before you even understood 'Until I learnt to love myself, I was never ever loving anybody else'. Or maybe YOU did. And of course, Take a Bow, for those who thought she's always about the sex.

Music (2000) Uff! Title track to celebrate the diva's roots moved bourgoisie, rebel and everything in between. Plus, there was Amazing, the amazing cowboy fetish-ised Don't Tell Me, the impressively, almost depressingly written What it Feels Like for a Girl (with Guy Ritchie
making that fabulous video outta it), Gone, Impressive Instant, Runaway Lover.

floatin' (now awaiting her next album)

what we're listening to: Moby's LAST NIGHT

Play it loud. Loud. At least upto track10. Track 11 onwards, things tend to spiral down. Starting from a number aptly/ominously called Degenerates (!), moving onto Sweet Apocalypse (!!), signing off with title track, which you’d think Moby walked out on in the studio or something, it’s that forgettable. But, I’m stepping on my toes here. So, rewinding… Last Night, the album, is the closest we get to come to Play, this side of the wonder years. And that’s the best news since what, Madonna took up Pilates? A clubby thankyou homage to his years of partying in NYC, Moby wants you to up the volume and tubthump but not drop off. And for a good chunk of it, this is what you’d call intelligent dance music, a shout back to classic Abba shimmer (brilliant opener Ooh Yeah) and a giant nod to House (the hidden uncut diamond that is Disco Lies), obvious Moby influences. There’s a partial affinity for groove, sometimes at the cost of layer and texture, but I’m not complaining. Everyday it’s 1989, Alice, Hyenas, I’m in Love, I Love to Move in Here, all run off Moby’s DJ console-setup-bedroom-studio just as they should. Like a retro pick for Moby’s time well-spent (and can you believe he’s 42?) ‘… out in New York, with all of the sex and the weirdness and the disorientation and the celebration and the compelling chaos’. Some people and their luck, I tell ya! So even if you miss the shiny discoballs (hey, go back to Confessions on a Dancefloor for that), you wouldn’t miss a beat. Nope. You’re in decent safe twilight zone with Last Night.

overheard in delhi.com

At beauty parlour. Attendants discussing a model-type:
“Phir aa gayi sookhi.”
“Yaar, maine nahi karna sookhi ka pedicure.”

At workplace. 20-something girl:
“Remember when we got out of school and bought Limchu? Now, children head straight for McDonald’s… Someone should pay our generation to stay alive.”

At local McDonald’s. Aunty planning bachcha’s birthday party:
“Why can’t we have face painting?! If Ronald McDonald can’t make it to the party, then we should have face painting.”

At yoga studio. Indian-American:
“Do you know a good homeopath doctor who can help my son? He’s having adjustment problems at school, because he doesn’t speak Hindi. And I believe that homeopathy can cure social maladjustment?”

At movie ticket queue. Lady on phone:
“Yeh dekhna hai aapne? Koi Kate beck and saale hai. Horror hai.”

In the Ed Room:
What do you call someone who’s committed suicide?
Dead?
No! What’s the word?
Deceased?
No! Never mind.

At the café:
Boy 1: Why doesn’t Beyoncé come to Delhi?
Boy 2: Because the Metro is not fully functional yet. After 2010, just watch out for Delhi! Sab aayenge.

At the metro station:
Boy: Do you think that after we’ve hosted the Commonwealth Games, we’ll host the Olympics also?
Girl: For that, we’ll have to wait for Rahul Gandhi to become Prime Minister.
Boy: But they’re keeping him low profile. That won’t happen.

Wotcha been overhearing in Delhi, lately, Delhi?

get some action

Got the Thursday endorphin bubbles, just thinking of where you could be dancing the night away this weekend? We make your life a whole lot easier, giving you all the options on nightlife in Delhi: the bling and the grunge, the hip and the be-seen, the new and the ultra new.
Beginning carefully timed midnight (or 11pm) entries, at all the new its. For late night bootie calls...
KUKI E-7, Greater Kailash II, Ph: 29225241
What it’s like: Spangles and mirrors, a shiny disco ball perched Atlas-like, on delicate giant wings of butterfly, so it’s not only the people that go an enticing, jaw-dropping bling, bling. And a bar that’s crushing fun ‘cuz there’s very little choice of seating that involves a backrest (the three sofa corners are taken up before you can say ‘What’s Kuki?’).
What to wear: Sharp cuts, cocktail dresses, stilettos and gold sequinned scarves around men’s necks (I swear, teamed with a lilac shirt), multi-layered taffeta dress tied down to your midriff with a buckling chain that would give way if you were to actually dance.
Crowd: The kind that loves its party, revved up a few notches and silver-speckled. A fair sprinkling of expats midst rich south Delhi kids blowing up daddy’s quick bucks, enthu uncles and aunties.
Music: Shoulders-bumping kinds as owner-DJ Rummy packs it in with Gaurav, and they play the popular but not the commercial (know what I mean?), getting the crowd collective soaring to R Kelly, and trippin’ on Idacore the next instant.
Anything worth eating/ drinking: Appletinis (Rs. 365), Kuki’s brilliant signature drink served on a bed of dry ice, or try your beer with a shot glass of Jagermeister liqueur. And at hungrous can’t-remember-how-long-I’ve-been-here, Mum’s Secret Recipe Arabic Kebabs (Rs. 355) could save your life.
fBAR AND LOUNGE Hotel Ashok, Chanakyapuri, Ph: 26110101
What it’s like: Like the newest it, duh. It’s where you categorise your friends-in-high-places, ‘coz a lift-kara-de up the three levels - from masses to elite, ‘Lifestyle’ to ‘Diamond’ lounge - is according to how rich/ famous you can get.
What to wear: Bling it on! The f is for fashion, so that sassy dress/ so-this-season designer shirt you got? This is the opportunity of a lifetime to flaunt it.
‘Crowd’: Good, bad, ugly. But more of the first two, ‘coz they’ve got some strict entry codes.
Music: Saturday night’s full on appease-the-crowd, the hit-number-after-another pace hots up around midnight.
Anything worth eating/ drinking: The seven-liquor bumper drink.
BAR SAVANH @ INDOCHINE Aurobindo Marg (Behind Qutub Golf Course), Lado Sarai, Ph: 29523330
What it’s like: Glam. The kind where reds have the swish of flowing silk, blacks shine swank, there’s élan in the soaking, the snacking, the nightclubbing, the people lounging (uncomfortably but prettily) on ottomans and low tables lined along plate-glass windows.
What to wear: Straps, struts, spurs even, so long you exude cool chic.
Crowd: The kind that likes its mindspace and dancefloor-cum-lounge space to unwind.
Music: DJ’s ambient spin.
Anything worth eating/ drinking: Swill champagne and peach in a fluted glass that comes as TLC, and get the night’s revelation in your delish relish of a Cheese Roll Platter and Miang Tofu (eight pieces, Rs. 300, Rs. 350). Pick and choose from the lounge platters with their fantastic assortment of the eclectic and surprising ‘Pan Asian’ flavours.
WEEKENDS @ SIXMONTHSTORY Hotel Daffodils, Chhatarpur, Ph: 9910169749, 9810148084
What it’s like: Like a laser show in a warehouse, without the coolth of what that sounded like. They’ve given you what you need to move till the wee hours; a floor, lights, and that sound system. But most of all, they’ve given you kick ass electronic musicians who do it all live in the last stop live-dance-gig set-up in town.
What to wear: Whatever glows in the dark.
‘Crowd’: Changes from hour to hour, but you can almost guarantee meeting your gang from the live music circuit. Here, you’ll see them dance, of course.
Music: Live electronic music. Not-live electronic music. The only thing that changes as we hurtle towards morning is the beats per minute. This weekend, the overhyped Santana challenge, so get your jugaad skills in action, for passes.
Anything worth eating/ drinking: Bloody Mary and the LIIT. Though beer is a personal favourite here.
WEEKENDS @ HEADQUARTERS Hotel Samrat, 50-B, Kautilya Marg, Ph: 26110606
What it’s like: Like a place you could spend more than a few hours in, sitting, dining, and finally moving to what is easily, one of the best sound systems in town.
What to wear: Oh it’s one of those purgatory zones; your TC gear will fit in as well here as your Kuki ensemble.
‘Crowd’: If you watch any television, you’ll know what partying in any ‘world city’ with ‘world citizens’ is like.
Music: It’s original and there’s Iggy and Monkey Loop, with the odd Bollywood night which is nothing to be scared of.
Anything worth eating/ drinking: Mojitos, Veg Platter and the Non-Veg platter.

Junebugs

It was a (late) night show of Juno, which ended early Thursday morning. Or so it seemed. I was giggling through the film much like I giggle through most of my Friends re-runs, except less hysterically, of course. Maybe because Juno was so clever-clever that I only giggled, and dropped numbered tears, and didn’t wheeze and die during the closing scene when the revelation that is Bleaker (Michael Cera) lay down beside her. I wished she hadn’t been so, well, quick-lined. But when I woke (late) Thursday morning, there was a gooey ball rolling down my oesophagus, only to bounce in my abdomen and sing. And I started to feel that I really like Juno. The way I really like Banana Shakes. Juno’s mouth, Bleaker’s eyes and (as I found out) Kimya Dawson’s poker-voice bubbled through my fresh, nourishing breakfast. It was similar to how wholesome-fullsome I used to feel when I watched The Wonder Years. More edgy though, but whole, is what Juno made me feel.
Because it’s Friday, and today, I love Juno.
Punky PJs, of course, as she’s prone to do, got right to its bone. “…and I was like expecting something really rotten to happen. Like some calamity, some catastrophe. And I realised how we're so used to this shit.”
The opposite of jaded is a part-time lover, full-time friend.

And while we’re handing out Pulitzers for pop poetry (in a soundtrack that gets you smiling Silly-Lee), here’s my humble nominee –

Here is the church and here is the steeple

We sure are cute for two ugly people

I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else

But you
…
Squinched up your face and did a dance

You shook a little turd out of the bottom of your pants

I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else

But you….

Du du du du du du dudu

Du du du du du du dudu

Du du du du du du dudu du

But you...

- Anyone Else But You by The Moldy Peaches


I like my new bunnysuit

I like my new bunnysuit

I like my new bunnysuit

When I wear it I feel cute
- So Nice So Smart, Kimya Dawson

go(ld)phish

she came to me in my sleep and stole my thoughts, i swear

I once knew a little girl who liked to smell books. She would take the book in both hands, then dip her head so she smelt the cover first, then the spine. This foreplay lasted several tender minutes; even when she finally opened the book, she couldn’t resist shutting her eyes for a moment and inhaling deeply. Only then was she ready to pay attention to the words on the page.
I don’t know if this girl grew up to be a woman who reads and loves books. Let’s hope she did, because she had a headstart. As a girl she already knew that a book is a body that can be smelt and touched. It’s a body that becomes yours because you get to know it alone, in the privacy required for any real intimacy to take place.

There are readers and there are book lovers; there are book lovers and book collectors. Sometimes, in an excess of blessing – or curse – the same person is a reader, a book lover and a book collector. I put it like this in the interests of fairness; secretly I believe you can’t be any one of these things without being the other as well.

No book lover is a monogamist though…

Githa Hariharan, April 2008, First City

go(ld)phish

NORTH CAMPUS RIDGE BIRDCALLS

would not have heard 'em without Ranjit Lal

It’s eight am, a bit too early says Ranjit Lal, “Things quieten down around ten,” he mutters, as we make our way into the disappointingly organised face of British common sense, a hundred and fifty-eight years later. “The whole ridge has been planted by the British because they had a very bad time here, in this northern Ridge area. They were camped out here from May to September and there was not a tree. Not a tree - just scrubs and bushes. From Flagstaff, they could actually see the Red Fort, and the bridge of boats across the Jamuna. And they could actually see the so-called rebels cross that bridge during 1857, it was completely barren. I think more of them died of fever, malaria, cholera than of the actual fighting. So they planted these vilayati kikar. They planted it all, which I don’t think we would have ever done. We would have put up DDA flats.” he says, though DDA could have fooled me, with their park benches. The Laughing Clubs with their, well, (is that?) laughter. The lone walker with his monologue, which, unknown to him, was being said out loud. “That’s why, I come here around ten to birdwatch,” sighs Ranjit. “These guys have all gone to work by then and then maybe we can finally hear something,” he says, only once interrupted by a series of sneezes befalling a sincere practitioner of pranayam. And we walked determinedly on defined paths, avoiding canine and human traffic, only to be cheeked over by the original inhabitants of any place, those darned monkeys (“It’s best not to look at them. Don’t stare.”). They who, as if in tune with the constant Barbetts (“Typically summer-loving birds, very difficult to see but sometimes can. You can hear them the whole of summer – they drive you crazy. Winter mein chup ho jaate ha.”), trapeze across branches in pure defiance of your early-morning effort. Some a baby in tow. Some being followed by a brown winged entourage. “Now, these are the Jungle Babblers (photo 1 by Ranjit Lal) – yeh to aam milte hain. They’re known as the saat bhai. They always remind me of Delhi cops. Look at the frown on his face. They like travelling in groups. They don’t like anything better than preen each other; they put their beaks in each other’s necks and have this expression of utter bliss. It’s almost as if they’re trying not to enjoy it but they can’t help it.” And as if on cue, I squash a bug on my neck.
A rush of parrots, a spring of mynahs and a ringed dove are leading us to the pond pleasantly referred to as the Khooni Khaan Jheel. “The doves and crows are perpetually at loggerheads. And the doves chase the crows, it’s quite interesting to see sometimes. Probably, over nesting because they must be getting after the bachchas.” Ranjit eases my neck by offering me the binoculars, and a black winged span darkened my world. “Oh it’s the Jungle Crow. These crows just monopolise the proceedings,” he says, as we make way through what seems to be their diwan-e-aam. An eerie feeling follows us. “It’s the Crow Pheasant,” says Ranjit, reassuringly, though the dusk scene from Evil Dead II plays vividly in my head. And the sun struggles hard to find me here, anyway. “See, it’s like the jungle crow but its wings are russet. They generally skulk around the bottom of hedges since they get a bit clumsy while flying. They actually belong to the Cuckoo family,” and while you still saying the sentence out loud for the first time in your life, “In the evening it can get quite gloomy under the trees, and if you hear them on the way out, you tend to rush a little. They’re resident and actively hunt out nests. Eat other baby birds.”
At the first watering hole I’m too distracted, and can only partially concentrate on the monkeys’ tantrums. There’s a dark patch in the sky that insists on moving faster than I can say, “Kite?”
It is, and we had to follow its whisper up and down the woody paths for a while, before it relented. In the meanwhile we had spotted a rufus female Redstart, a magpie going chichichi (“They will start breeding, hence the singing has started…”), jumped over a squirrel’s nest (“Sometimes they carry so much material they can’t see where they’re going”) and discussed an ornithologist’s nightmare. “These Warblers I tell you…this tiny flitting bird! They’re normally, very irreverently called Little Brown Jobs because it’s very difficult to tell one from the other. Even by Salim Ali…”
Which is when we reached the KhooniKhaan Jheel. With its’ fountains on for the cavorting ducks out for a bath. With it’s unabashed rainbows and multiple urban legends. “I’d based one of the scenes from my story over here (in his book Aaltu Faaltu, a soap opera with monkeys as characters). One of the climax scenes. When the monkey princess was ready to commit suicide by jumping into this. Soon after that they put up this pinjra thing because some freak from DU came drunk and jumped in it. Though I say it’s because of my story. Apparently, after the 1857 mutiny a lot of people drowned. That’s why it’s called the KhooniKhaan Jheel. It’s supposed to be 80 feet deep. But I can’t believe that.”
And on we go, though the spray from the bloody pond hasn’t dried. The mauve lantana spreads ever so gently. The motia bush gets rougher, untamed. And in the same line as the tip of my head (straight up), there is a sound that makes Ranjit exclaim,
RL:“That’s the Coppersmith Barbett! Barbett ka chhota bhai. It has a face like a clown. My friends used to say that birds are just black specks flying around. And then I bought a binocular and saw them…. And I thought, agar uska shakal agar aisa hai, then there are 1300 other birds…what will their face be like?”
Me: It does look like a clown!
RL: Ya, why don’t you look through the binoculars?

go(ld)phish

The Vinay Pathak Outtakes (as floatin' doubletakes)

V: I talk too much. My mouth's dry.
Me: Do you want some water?
V: That means you agree! 'Ya, ya, tell me about it', you’re probably thinking! Sheesh! Whatever happened to being diplomatic?!
Me: Hmm

Madhyaantar

Met Vinay Pathak for a chat, a rollercoaster chat, a full-on session of umm, essential bakwaas.
The full blown story in the March edition of First City. At the newsstands, for 30 bucks.
Here's what's still rolling on my dictaphone:

On his health trip, all-new-all-thin persona:
"I eat fruits everyday in different kinds to make it interesting. An apple a day keeps the doctor away. And keeps the fun away too. So, if I decide to be on a 'healthy' trip, I have to make it fun. Otherwise, screw healthy!"

On Chunky Pandey's origins:
"See, 52 years ago, Chunky Pandey would’ve been at least 35, right? But… if you’re a superstar in Bangladesh, you’re not doing bad in Bandra as well. But anyway...
Raat ka samay sochiye. Mangal Pandey hai jail ki kothri mein. Mangal Pandey ki biwi andar aati hai. Haath mein naujaad bachcha.
Mangal Pandey kehta hai, ‘Kya hua, Radha?’
‘Aapko beta hua hai ji’.
‘Wah. Kitni achchi baat hai, pichle chaar saal se main is jail ki kothri mein sadh raha hoon. Mujhe aaj beta hua hai. Beta dikhao’.
Cut to beta, with full moochh.
‘Wah, bilkul meri tarah hai’. ‘Dhanyavaad, Radha. Main tumhara yeh ehsaan kabhi nahi bhooloonga’.
‘Kya baat karte ho ji? Aap iska naam rakjhiye aaj’.
‘Iska naam? Iska naam hoga Chunky’."

On public etiquette:
"In Japan, picking your nose in public is allowed. But blowing your nose is frowned upon. And places that have been influenced by the Britishers, it’s the opposite. In the western world, blowing your nose is fine, but you can't pick your nose. What's up with that? Hamaare yahaan, of course, sab kuch kar sakte hai. I'll blow my nose, and then I'll pick it."

On the Behenchod Theory of Acting School:
"I'm going to start one, and years later, you'll see students say, 'Chal yaar, late ho gaya hai. Behenchod Theory of Acting School ka time ho gaya'. Very seriously.
Now see, behenchod. Gaali nahi hai yeh. Yeh toh meri teri hai. It works as subtext.
For example, take Romeo of Juliet. I call it Romeo of Juliet, not Romeo and Juliet. Theek hai?
Now there’s a balcony scene when Juliet comes and says, ‘Romeo. Romeo. Wherefore art thou, Romeo?’ Very difficult line for an actor to make their own. You say this line and all of a sudden, the body becomes Elizabethan. Automatic. You know what I’m saying? That’s where the Behenchod Theory of Acting comes into play. It works. As a prefix, ‘Behenchod. Romeo. Romeo. Wherefore art thou, Romeo?’ Suffix. ‘Romeo. Romeo. Wherefore art thou, Romeo? Behenchod.’ Or use it in the middle. 'Romeo. Romeo. Behenchod. Wherefore art thou, Romeo?’ It just connects!"

floatin' (still cracking up)

'catchy tune', he said

What was boat-rocking, floor-smashing, mind-possessing, life-breathing, can't-get-you-out-of-my-head-ing, in the Department of Catchy Tunes in 2007?
Is not rhetoric, nay; here's the (sifted-through) list. Yeah, right.

Umbrella - Rihanna. Ella ella ella till you dropped dead, man!

What Goes Around Comes Around - Justin Timberlake. Equal parts catharsis, anger, sadness and blockrockin' beats. Damn, wish my break-ups had been this catchy!

I Got it from my Mama - will.i.am. 'If a girl looks fine, nine times outta 10, she's fine just like her mama'. Brilliant, william, hip hop teacher of genetics and other themes concerning biology! Now the world knows how you put the Brain in the Peas.

It Really Makes me Wonder - Maroon 5. Look good, play pop, pose in business class. And wonder 'if I ever gave a fuck about you'.

I Wanna Have your Babies - Natasha Bedingfield. Classic catchy in that annoying way that goes round and round in your head till you're singing it at the most inappropriate moments.

Mauja hi Mauja - Jab We Met OST. Makes you wish you could pull off the Punjabi. Again! So, let's do the step again for now... Jag saara, jag saara nikhar gaya, hunn...

Love Today - Mika. From the time he exploded on the screen right upto the exact moment that Star World adopted the tune for keepsakes. So, shock, shock me, Mika!

Move your Body - Johnny Gaddar OST. P'raps the single most underestimated dance number from the single most underestimated film of the year.

Rehab - Amy Winehouse. Disaster never sounded this good. Ever.

Bartender - Akon. Very useful song.

Khoya Khoya Chand - Khoya Khoya Chand OST. Words that mean so so much mingle with an old world melody that haunts forever.

Do it Again - Chemical Brothers. Infects. As you hum 'bubblegum', 'a little fun' between the 'hmms'.

Gimme More - Britney Spears. 'It's Britney, bitch'. Sigh but true!

Chick Fit - All Saints. Omigawsh! Welcome back, girls!

Crazy - Gnarls Barkley. Did the hook hook you in, or the madness of his poetry?

Laaree Choote - Ek Chalis ki Last Local OST. A subtle pull-you-in-rhythm you thought you'd never remember.

Give it to Me - Timbaland feat Justin Timberlake and Nelly Furtado. ALL HAIL TIMBALAND! More power!

Nite Runner - Duran Duran feat Timbaland. Nasty boys stick together. On the verge of bringing in 2008 and a Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame.

Add yours...

floatin'

what we're listening to: songs about girls

SONGS ABOUT GIRLS
will.i.am
It’s got that great track about genetics, which could be used in classrooms, methinx. ‘If a mama’s real ugly, I guarantee she’d be ugly like her mama; if a mama’s fine, I guarantee she’d be fine like her mama’… et cetera et cetera. Termed the thinking man’s My Humps, I Got It from My Mama is very good, very BEP, especially with Fergie’s vocals. But here’s the thing, it’s not the awnly super duper asset on will.i.am’s debut; it’s all good here, with only those slight traces of forgettable also-rans. Songs about Girls is not a BEP sound, and that is the coolest thing ever. It’s clearly a will.i.am wet dream, and though he could’ve done an all that jazz knockout with all his friends and collaborators (Justin Timberlake, among them), he’s done what he wanted to do, and only he could.
Kickstart breakup song Over gets you there on push play. The message is loud and clear, this is not mindless hip hop or rap, but intelligent, kickass funk, and will.i.am is one of the meanest ace producers around. The ass-ets tracks are here. Of course. It is The Donque Song featuring Snoop Dogg, giving us new lingo for bum once again. Impatient is the disco track, brilliant electronica-type shiny disco balls, and One More Chance is the one on the airwaves, with the very will.i.am words - ‘I’ll be loving you like blah blah blah’. Which, you gotta give him, is more sensitive than ‘I know you want more than a dick in ya’, which also features in this one. Course, Spending Money (a true bonus track) has the most sincere expression of love ever, on planet will.i.am: ‘Let’s go shopping’. My favourite meaningful line on this album, however’s gotta be ‘Everyday should be your birthday, hon’. Fantastic, Fly Girl, Make It Funky, Invisible, are all great, totally firecrackin’, as is Get Your Money. A must must-have.

Even Better: Food Issue 8

What to expect -

God is a DJ: Where you’ll find the groovemasters, and what they’ll play you.

Mid-week Partying: So those Wednesday blues dissolve and blur.

Back to Base-ics: From Sake to Vodka, the best drinks, no matter what your poison.

Budget Pub-Hop: Sort and swig. Sasta aur tikau.

Rasta: Street food for 5 pm hunger attacks.

Naashta: Breakfast like a king. On pauper budgets.

What’s New: Best of Food & Nightlife, 2007 .

Tried and Tasted:Recipes tested by the chefs at the home we call FC.

Curious Finds: The quest for that eccentric, essential ingredient. When you're all INA-ed out.

Organic recipes: How to get right, wholesome and delicious.

Revisiting: What's even better today. A list of places, one cuisine at a time.

On the newsstands. 30 bucks.

what we're reading: dandy in the underworld

"Depression is melancholy minus its charms."

Sebastian Horsley (b. 1962) is a Soho-based painter, writer, self-professed dandy, columnist (Erotic Review - 1998 to 2004, sex advice column in The Observer until his column was discontinued, following complaints against its graphic content). He famously, voluntarily, crucified himself in the Philippines (2000), as part of his research for the series of paintings he was planning around the Crucifixion. He is the elder son of Nicholas Horsley, the millionaire chairman of Northern Food, and the Valerie (Edwards) Walsmley-Hunter, a Welsh typist who once worked as an assistant to Billie Holiday. Both parents were alcoholics and indulged in numerous affairs before divorcing in 1975 (Horsley writes: Clearly everyone in my life who should have been vertical was horizontal). Dandy in the Underworld is an account of his life.

"I always hated hippy’s: Incense Incenses me. I deeply mistrust the free and easy hippie culture. I like the guilt, the repression, the tension."

Italicised portions from our interview with the author. To read more, get First City's Dec 2007 edition. On the newsstands now.

Khoya Khoya Chand: A Making Of

"The film is not the minute details. Yes, in a minute detail of something, you can express so much… But, at the same time, we cannot allow the detail to take over the film."

"I’m not trying to move away (from Hazaaron). But you change a bit… One story stops you from saying another story… It’s the discipline of storytelling. That was 2004. This is 2007."

"After 25 years in the business, you think there were so many fights, so much aggression, so many relationships lost. All because of ambition here in the movies, and all for what? Where have you come? Where have I come?..."

For more, read First City, Dec 2007. On the newstands.

what we're listening to: lennon reloaded

MAKE SOME NOISE: SAVE DARFUR
Various Artists
Amnesty International, Rs. 645/- (Double CD)

Everybody wants to cover Lennon, and most of them here, do it bloody damn well. In a compilation brought together to raise awareness about the extreme human rights violation in Darfur, Sudan, the biggest peace symbol of them all lends his serene face and life-changing words to every artist you can think of in the next two minutes. So Duran Duran does an edgy Instant Karma (and so does Tokio Hotel, a high-energy version and U2, as an opening track) and REM does a #9 Dream as well as Youssou n’Dour’s version of Jealous Guy, Green Day’s very popular Working Class Hero you must’ve heard by now, Jack Johnson’s Imagine is characteristic (as is Avril Lavigne’s) and The Postal Service’s Grow Old With Me is a good surprise, though Lenny Kravitz’s Cold Turkey is even more than that. Black Eyed Peas go wrong rarely, and they are as good as their word on Power to the People. If you’re still not impressed, the collection also features The Cure in a distinctly Cure = Life sorta equation (Love), Corinne Bailey Rae (I’m Losing You), Regina Spektor (Real Love) and as many more. You don’t really have a choice, you know. Just go get it.

i lost my watch: notes on jetlag

Shaken, not stirred.
Dunno about martinis, but it's not how my insides wanna feel again. Ever.

When I glanced at the flight plan initially (across continents, 3 days flat), the enormity of it didn't hit me. Only when I had that time behind me, no ON me, did that word (are those 2 words?) begin to make sense (or not make sense, rather).
Jet Lag.
Jetlag.
Lag caused by being inside jet.
A TIME lag.
The feeling that if you were back home, time would be on your side. You'd be sleeping when you're meant to. Watching back to back movies when you're meant to. As god and time intended it. Not in this topsy turvy way, when you're wondering if headstands would help. And how long could you look at the world like that?
And how very Pink Floyd it all is. What is it about the sun being the same, relatively, but you're older?! By staring at a flight screen that shows you the three diff time zones - where we left, where we are, where we're heading etc etc - you can actually feel your body clock getting warped by the second. Wondering, "Why this added mindfuck, people? Is this how you ensure I have 'a pleasant flight'? By showing me three time zones that I don't connect with?!"
Swooshing, stumbling, not floating, across 3 countries in 4 days, you realise how much you cannot trust.
Your watch.
The sunshine outside.
The smiles on rested faces.
The way your body feels. (Gawd, no! that's the biggest bitch!)

And when you're back home, lord and master of time, or so you think, suddenly there's this wave of sleep that crashes through. That you gotta succumb to. No matter where you are. Who you're with. That lasts for days after...

floatin'

PS: What stayed with me through the mind-numbing, time-warping flights? Nah, not the in-flight movies (though Hairspray's bloody good!). How Delhi looks minutes before landing. Gorgeous! No other city comes close. It's breathtaking to get back.