In Search of Lost Songs

Retro Hits

A few weeks ago, I was standing in a serpentine check-in queue, waiting to assure the airline staff that I had not, in a moment of absent-mindedness, stowed explosives in my suitcase, when I felt the urge to listen to music.

This was soon after the Coldplay concert in Mumbai. Their set-list had not included a song I used to love — In My Place, in case you’re curious — so I dug out my headphones and opened Spotify. In truth, I had not listened to the song in years. If it were not for the concert, I may have never remembered the track existed. But when it started playing, I surprised myself by singing along, the words pouring forth from some obscure recess of my mind.

Celine knows the feeling. Image Credit.

In his magisterial book Behave, Robert Sapolsky discusses the mysterious ways in which memories are formed. He writes:

In circuitry terms, if neuron A synapses onto neuron B, it means that an action potential in neuron A more readily triggers one in neuron B. They are more tightly coupled; they "remember".

When the song ended, Spotify unfurled a playlist of recommendations, and some of the names — Snow Patrol, Lifehouse, Dashboard Confessional — fired sparks of recognition in long-dormant neurons. In the past two decades, these bands had faded from my consciousness, retreating into the shadowy depths of my cortex. Now, they were emerging out of exile and were hungry for my attention.

At the security check, I was humming along to Switchfoot. While buying a coffee at the airport cafe, I was bobbing my head to a beat by Matchbox Twenty. The algorithm had divined my musical past. Every time I tapped the heart icon it served up another forgotten favourite until, inevitably, we reached the realm of my teenage obsession: punk rock.

And that was how the people waiting to board a flight at Terminal 1, were afforded the unique opportunity of watching a thirty-seven-year-old man sing — his face contorted with passion, his fists clenched — the verse:

I’m just a kid

And life is a nightmare

I’m just a kid

I know that it’s not fair

Nobody cares

Cause I’m alone and the world is having more fun than me, tonight.

---

Green Day was my gateway to punk rock. In 2005, I listened to the first half of their smash-hit album, American Idiot, on the shop floor at Music World. The outlet had these kiosks, with record players and headphones, where you could sample the featured artists before making a purchase. Using the kiosk for more than a couple of minutes was deemed discourteous, but good manners were a luxury you could ill-afford when you were a student with paltry resources. If you could ignore the glares of other customers, always pivoting to avoid eye contact, you could hog the headphones until a staff member physically intervened to separate you and the earpiece. By then, you would have decided it was not worth blowing half your monthly allowance on a cassette anyway — especially when you could get it for free.

Back then, we were all brazen pirates. Music, movies, books — we smuggled every digital artefact via torrents. Blackbeard may have bristled at these pickings but to us they were invaluable treasures. Our computers were full of contraband art downloaded from the internet or copied from compact discs that were passed around like frisbees. In the mid-2000s, my music library was the place where copyright law came to die.

During my visits to Music World, I’d listen to snatches of some new releases, then make a list of songs I’d later procure from the seedy underbelly of the world wide web. American Idiot was different. It’s top single, Boulevard of Broken Dreams, was already a mainstay on MTV and VH1, and after listening to the album for the first time, I was convinced it wasn’t even the best of the A-side tracks. My ethics, at the time, were quite elastic but on that occasion, buying the tape felt like the right thing to do. And so, that album became one of the few records I’ve ever legally purchased, joining the hallowed ranks of Guns N’ Roses: Greatest Hits and The Platinum Album by Vengaboys.

Why were we all singing this song before we’d even hit teenage?! What was going on? Image Credit.

When you were growing up, did you have one of those obnoxious kids in your locality? The one who didn’t smoke or drink. A puritan who never loitered in the street corners, whiling away time in idle chatter. Someone very mindful, very demure. Why can’t you be like that, your parents likely chided you, every time the cretin offered to carry their grocery bag home. Did you wonder, whenever you saw this Vitruvian soul, how a person could be so bloody square?

I know I did. I was that kid.

As a teenager, I was less edgy than a stainless steel ball bearing. It was not by design, I assure you. I was academically competent, did not take to smoking, liked reading books — and these meagre virtues saddled me with the moral responsibility of the neighbourhood. I was anointed the bhalo chele, and it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. In those years of public propriety, punk rock became my act of private rebellion.

I had been tutored in the basics of English rock music by my friends. But punk was a genre I discovered all by myself.¹ Green Day was followed by a host of bands — Blink 142, Sum 41, MCR — that together became my staple. The frenetic drumming, the tinnitus chords, and the whine-shout vocals were an antidote to my suburban, sedate existence. It was music that was petulant and juvenile and glorious. In my iPod Shuffle, I had bottled the way teenage was actually supposed to feel.

Soon, I realised merely listening to the songs was not enough — I wanted more. So naturally, I did what any self-effacing introvert with a love for music and debilitating stage fright would do. I went and formed a band.

Image Credit.

We were a five-piece unit called Trial Room, composed of friends from school and University. One drummer, one bassist, two guitarists, and — now would be a good time to put your mug down, if you’re drinking something hot — I was the frontman and lead singer.

It’s been over fifteen years so I can be honest: I must’ve been the worst frontman in the history of rock music. I do not mean in terms of talent, of which there was but a whiff. I refer, instead, to my utter lack of stage presence. When we performed, the microphone stand had more character than me. Our band, and my presence in it, was proof that when you place friendship before ambition, your enterprise is destined to fail.

But we did have fun.

We had a multi-lingual repertoire: English, Hindi and Bengali pop-rock songs, from which we would choose our set depending on the occasion. For open band competitions, with entry standards so low so as to be subterranean, we opted for the English hits. For the local para performances, a mix of Hindi and Bengali tracks was de rigueur.² More often than not, a couple of punk numbers always made the shortlist. For half a decade, we revelled in our status as ersatz rockstars.

In 2010, the band died of natural causes. All of us had graduated by then, most had moved to different cities. No recordings of our musical shenanigans exist. (And if they did, you’d have to prise them out of my dead fingers.) I only have a few sepia-toned memories: the euphemisms the band-contest judges used to not break our eager little hearts; the stony expressions on the faces of a genteel Bengali gathering whom we assaulted with our cover of Holiday; the screech of feedback that invariably interrupted our performances; and that one time when a girl ran up to us as we were stepping off the stage, took my picture, and then melted away into the crowd, giggling all the while.³

---

In the 17th century, the French art historian André Félibien categorised the types of paintings in the following hierarchy:

He who produces perfect landscapes is above another who only produces fruit, flowers or seashells. He who paints living animals is more estimable than those who only represent dead things without movement, and… he who becomes an imitator of God in representing human figures, is much more excellent than all the others.

This classification has courted controversy since its conception. But it captures an elemental truth about human nature. We have a tendency to rank one artform over another, to bestow more prestige on some genres and treat the rest with disdain. In music too, these orders exist.

Patrons of classical music often sniff at the head-banging acolytes of rock. Hard-boiled rockers, in turn, have little patience for synth-pop. And I think we can all agree that EDM is an abomination.

My beloved genre of pop-punk occupies the foothills of this order. We’re not quite as uncouth as the techno folks, though we don’t fare much better. It’s not difficult to see why. Pop-punk music — with it’s hormonal themes and clamorous arrangements — has a peculiar appeal when you’re young, but as you grow older the attraction fades. When you’re pulling all-nighters at work, listening to people moan about High School can feel a little tedious.

Once the sun set on my time as a student, I drifted away from punk songs whining about being a lonely and unloved teenager. Instead, I developed a fondness for gentler melodies — acoustic compositions that expressed more age-appropriate laments, like being a lonely and unloved twenty-something.

Akon knew me. Image Credit.

In time, I swapped my iPod Shuffle for music streaming services, and my bootlegged collection of punk became digital debris. The songs disappeared from my playlists. The band names became a distant memory. And my punk rock era ended — until these past few weeks.

My re-discovery of pop-punk may have been serendipitous, but my subsequent immersion in the genre has been wholly intentional. On March 9, Green Day will perform in India for the first time. My nineteen-year-old self would have sold a kidney to see them live, and while I’m grateful he never got a chance to act on that impulse, I do owe it to him to attend the concert. I have been revising my Dookie and Nimrod. Spotify and YouTube have been leading me down alleys which end with me squealing, Do you remember this song?, and my wife rolling her eyes.⁴

I know this phase won’t last. I don’t have the vitality, the bull-headedness, to stay with the music for too long. This foreknowledge, however, has only made this concert feel all the more special. Is it weird for a thirty-seven-year-old to be so excited at the prospect of watching a triad of fifty-two-year-olds sing of teenage angst? Absolutely. But I suppose I am a melodramatic fool who knows he’ll have the time of his life.

---

Hello! Thank you for reading this issue and for your continuing support. Writing this newsletter over the past 3 years has led me to some great experiences, the latest being my first appearance on a podcast!

I am grateful to Abhishek for reaching out and making it happen. I was a bundle of nerves but he was a wonderful host. We chatted about life, law, and writing, and an hour went by in a flash. A YouTube recording of our conversation is linked below. If you, understandably, don’t want to see my face, you can access the audio link here.

Until next time!

1. And I went deep down the rabbit hole. These expeditions often rewarded me with gems, like this stupendous cover of My Heart Will Go On. Turn the volume down a smidge when you play it.

2. Localities in Kolkata are famous for hosting ‘cultural performances’ around the year. We would harass our neighbourhood cultural committees for stage-time during these events. We were never paid for these gigs, of course. Although one time, a kindly uncle did feed us biriyani.

3. Perhaps she wanted to issue notices to ensure I’m never allowed back into her street — at least not with a microphone.

4. My friend has even ordered custom-designed t-shirts. Our fun is serious business.