How Rock Music Kept The Zing Alive
I was born in a household where music was a form of worship, and hence very rarely was anything except classical music and elite folk music to be heard in our house. My father, like his father before him, had developed a love of Western classical music unusual for an Indian — some of the first music I ever heard, therefore, was orchestral music by the great Western composers of the 18th and 19th centuries. I wouldn’t know about the effect on a savage beast, but I can tell you that Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos had charms to soothe the months-old me right off to sleep in minutes. Even as a toddler I could recognise classical music when it played on the radio or our stereo system, and that instinctive love for Handel, Mozart and their brethren has only strengthened over the years into the musical genre I still revere above all others.
As I grew up and attended school, music became a defining factor in your social status. You either listened to the popular songs that everyone else listened to, or you didn’t belong. It could be problematic for puritanically raised kids like me, but on hindsight I find it amusing how conformist we were back then. You simply had to dance along to the latest Bollywood songs, ideally the exact same moves the film star was doing on-screen. Musical statues and dance contests were fixtures at every birthday party ever hosted, and if you didn’t play those Bollywood songs, no one danced. (I recall a disastrous birthday of mine where my parents played Rabindranath Tagore’s songs for the dance contest. Fortunately for my already-poor reputation, I got them to turn it off and cancel the contest after the first song or two.) International music was something we listened to after we’d grown out of frilly frocks and started hosting birthday parties at restaurants, and the same conformity continued. It was Blue, Backstreet Boys, Vengaboys, Barbie Girl, Asereje and Macarena all the way. While my parents refused to buy me cassettes and CDs of popular music till I was 11, I managed to keep up with my classmates and develop an excited, almost guilty fondness for the foot-tapping beats that were taboo in my own home.
The first rock song I ever heard and recognised as such was the Green Day hit, Boulevard Of Broken Dreams. All through 2007 and 2008, the entire school was obsessed with this song. This was music of a different kind from the party pleasers — there were loud drums and louder guitars, and the songs were something you sang along to but which weren’t quite meant for dancing. I remember singing enthusiastically along every time someone played the track or did a cover at a school concert, girlishly giggling through the “what’s f****d up” line and clapping between every “uh-uh”. I felt an instinctive closeness to this kind of music that I never felt to dance tracks — partly because I could sing along without being worried about any teasing about my less-than-graceful dance moves, and partly because this music was deeper, more reflective of reality than the airy beats of dance numbers. One by one, rock songs trickled their way into the popular rotation of our school, from the melancholy of Maroon 5’s She Will Be Loved to the this-is-me aggression of Nickelback’s Rockstar. And I rocked on, dutifully and happily, humming to myself as I went about my daily routine and earning the disapproval of my parents, who were convinced that I was getting “ruined” by this “degenerate” music.
Two things happened in 2008. I turned fourteen. And Linkin Park released “Minutes to Midnight”.
By now I had come to associate rock music with a cacophonous homogeny of drums, electric guitars and screeching people. And black clothes, they almost always wore black clothes. But here on this album was more than that. There were gentle synth melodies. There were crooning ballads. There was passionate rapping. And the screeches and the electric guitars too, but no longer a homogeny — they told a story, painted a picture. My mom, in an unexpectedly generous move, gifted me the album CD for my fourteenth birthday. And it was the first time I recognised myself to be falling in love. I still believe it is one of the best put-together albums of all time. Each song transitions into the next one so smoothly, and it traverses the whole spectrum from soft to loud with a finesse unequalled on any of their earlier albums. Binge-listening to it, I naturally discovered Hybrid Theory and Meteora, and loved them in turn. I also explored more of Green Day, and turned the volume up enthusiastically to hits like 21 Guns and American Idiot. And I continued to do so all the way through high school, even as David Guetta started ruling the charts and I started singing along to Katy Perry and Rihanna.
I still wasn’t calling myself a real fan of rock music, though.
That would come later.
Enter college, enter my first co-ed world. Guys and girls treated each other like an exotic animal both fascinating and scary, and a conversation between two members of the opposite sex was bound to become the talk of the town for at least a week. Once that was overcome, however, some wonderful new friendships were forged, in the course of which we exchanged far more than numbers. And for the first time, I was immersed in a world where rock music was de rigueur — and I found myself loving it.
I learned to follow two new bands — Poets Of The Fall and Evanescence. Like most people, my initiation to the cult of the former was through their iconic Carnival of Rust — the brooding melodies and husky vocals instantly appealed to teenagers who had just learnt the “being dark and edgy is cool” maxim, and the accompanying video bringing the carnival to ghostly life was a visual treat. As for Evanescence, Amy Lee’s ethereal voice was enough. I didn’t care what she was singing as long as she was singing — how effortlessly she navigated from whispery to powerful! I recall trying my hardest to sing along with Lithium, and producing a somewhat out-of-tune rendition that was nonetheless vigorously clapped by my friend circle. But I didn’t mind my lack of ability — it was enough just to listen to her and be thankful that such a voice existed.
AC/DC came along soon — that rollicking rock n’ roll behemoth. How could I not love them? Songs like Back In Black, Highway to Hell and For Those About To Rock brought out my inner bad girl, and they remain one of my favourite artists of all time. And who doesn’t love the energy they have on stage! It’s a magic that only ripens over the decades of their career. I recall my father scoffing at their name (“Are they failed electricians or something?” he asked, and I have to admit that the way he said it was pretty funny), but by then I was above 18 and in full rebel mode, so I kept listening anyway. And along with them came a highly different, but superbly talented band — Coldplay. Songs like Speed Of Sound, Trouble and The Scientist showed me that rock could be wistful, tender and romantic — and the dreamy Paradise was equalled only by the stunning Swahili cover done by Alex Boye and The Piano Guys.
I was, finally, on my way to being a real rock fan.
B-school brought with it depression, being alone for the first time and a painful shove into an adulthood I wasn’t yet ready to accept. As I struggled to decide what I really wanted in life, I floated around in a haze of books, angsty poetry and long lonely walks, until I attended a few dorm parties out of curiosity and was introduced to new music — mature, classic rock music — that solidified my admiration for rock.
Parties meant “consumption”, and “consumption” meant zoning out, and zoning out meant Pink Floyd. Here was art of a different kind. Here was intricate composition, dark humour, dream-like voice and poetic lyrics all in one. The drums and guitar were there, but subtly. Each song was a triumph on its own, from the cynical seduction of Have A Cigar to the cosmic sounds of Shine On You Crazy Diamond. As I put each album on loop, I felt proud to have acquired a new word in my meagre musical vocabulary — “psychedelic rock”. I associated it with being high, feeling light-headed and seeing colours swirl madly, and I don’t think I was far wrong. Pink Floyd was the currency of the new breed of “cool” people — those who rolled joints and passed around bottles of Old Monk rum each night, floating between dimensions and believing themselves the unsung heroes of the world. Joints and rum didn’t suit me, but Pink Floyd undoubtedly did.
For darker music, there was Metallica. Sinister strings and grisly growls. Who doesn’t feel a slight shudder on hearing the opening bars of Enter Sandman? Who doesn’t become uneasily aware of the murkier side of devotion when Nothing Else Matters strums out? For sleeker rock that was unmistakably British, there was The Police. Englishman In New York remains one of my favourite tracks to stroll to, and Every Breath You Take is so melancholy you almost forget it’s sung by a stalker. For pure kicks, there was Guns N’ Roses. While I’d heard a song or two of theirs earlier, it was only now that I gave myself into their wild world. Welcome to the Jungle took me to the stratosphere of badness, while November Rain reminded me of the torture of love. And for the softer, subtler and haunting moments, I had Red Hot Chilli Peppers. I’m yet to meet the person who doesn’t feel a twang of despondency after listening to Californication. And how can I leave a list without mentioning Eric Clapton? His stellar strumming was matched only by his soft yet unmistakable voice. Class at its best.
For the most part, over the years of my journey with rock music, there grew a long list of “occasionals” — rock songs I’d enjoy without following the artists much. During my high school and college years there was a fantastic radio channel that played rock music, and I learnt to recognise and like songs such as Shinedown’s Second Chance, Hinder’s Lips Of An Angel, Seether’s Careless Whisper and Breaking Benjamin’s Diary Of Jane. Another hit that never failed to get a crowd up on its feet was Zombie by The Cranberries — a song I later started singing, too. Films like “School Of Rock” and “Rock of Ages” did much to introduce me to classic bands of the 70s and 80s, a world I was largely excluded from owing to the puritan tastes of my family — and while I didn’t like all of them enough to become a confirmed fan, I did experiment with a lot of their songs and ended up liking several, Deep Purple’s Smoke On The Water being one of them. Amidst the slew of hard rock acts, The Eagles and Lynyrd Skynyrd were a refreshing change with their twangy country rock style — Hotel California and Sweet Home Alabama quickly became favourites, and remain so to this day. I never really became a Beatles fan, but something about their music was eminently hummable. I’d find myself snapping along to tunes like Love, Love Me Do or Can’t Buy Me Love that played in my head at odd hours. On the flipside you had the wild sultriness of Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar On Me. I fell madly for the upbeat Alchemy Live performance of Sultans of Swing — to me, it beats the original any day. And like every adolescent-turning-twenties-kid out there, I nodded along to Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’, air-guitared to Joan Jett’s I Love Rock N’ Roll, head-banged to Bon Jovi’s It’s My Life and Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit, and fist-pumped to a collective nostalgia we were a generation too late for but which was still uniquely ours as we played Summer of ’69. These songs were the fillers in my somewhat patchy rock music education — they rounded out my experience and helped me taste all the different types of rock out there, apart from the bands I listened to extensively.
It was a motley crew of songs and artists I loved, from all decades and subgenres — and “real” rock lovers would probably have scoffed. Apart from AC/DC, Pink Floyd and Linkin Park, I couldn’t call myself an actual fan of any other band, because I didn’t listen to their songs that much. I didn’t worship Led Zeppelin, I didn’t worship The Rolling Stones, I didn’t worship the Beatles (!!!), and more than once I met aficionados who’d look at me incredulously and say “How can you love rock and not love THOSE guys!” Initially I’d look abashed and think they were right, maybe I wasn’t really a fan of rock. Later, though, I realised that it wasn’t about which artists you worshipped, it was about how much you loved the music and what it stood for. Rock music was the key that broke me free from my cocoon and showed me the way to happy, artistic rebellion. How could I not love something that had done so much for me?
Fast forward to 2018.
I live alone, earn my own money and write regularly, and am more or less guided by my own tastes. I love rock music as much as ever and hardly a day goes by when I don’t play a few of my favourites. I still have decided views on which artists and songs I like, though I am occasionally introduced to new artists appealing enough to be added to the rotation (the latest being Audioslave). The list of “occasionals” keeps growing, as I discover fab songs by artists whose overall style I’d shelved as not my type — here’s looking at you, Roadhouse Blues! For a bit of unadulterated heart warmth, I’ll play the clip of the “Teacher’s Pet” performance from The School Of Rock and fondly observe how rock music helped these kids break out of their conformist shells and explore their talents — and brought their parents along for the ride, too. I have the odd bout of nostalgia, during which I’ll play the evergreen favourites by the once-idolised, now-somewhat-forgotten artists of my teenage days, and miss the time when having the right songs on your MP3 player was enough to make you “cool”. And when I need a reminder that legends never die, I’ll watch the AC/DC concert at River Plate — something about watching a 60+ old man belting his lungs out as a 40000-strong crowd revels in unison makes my jaded young heart glad to be alive.
I’ll never be a rock aficionado. I’ll never be able to remember the lineups of different bands, and I wouldn’t recognise most of them by face. I’ll never be able to give impassioned arguments on what distinguishes Eric Clapton from Angus Young or Slash — because they all sound damn frickin’ good to me. And search me if I can tell the difference between rock and metal. (Also, what on earth is that thing they call alternative?) In fact, I can’t even say that rock is my favourite genre. I have different kinds of love for different kinds of music, from David Guetta’s EDM to Whitney Houston’s soul to Blake Shelton’s country to the gorgeous homegrown melodies of Coke Studio. Each of them has done something for me that the others have not — choosing, therefore, is unfair.
Why I love rock is chiefly because of how it gave me a new tool to shape my identity with. Before rock, I was afraid to explore anything that wasn’t sanctioned by my family, even while I was uncomfortably aware of how little I could connect with my peers. Rock music — when it first came into my life in the form of the Boulevard craze — was my first step towards coming into my own as a person, a lover of music, an artist. I often wrote poetry and song lyrics after listening to rock music — the raw emotion in each song moved me to the point of needing to express myself. I have often cried along to the screams of rock legends, their fervour reflective of my wild, urgent, anguished need to let out my pain. Rock music has been my consolation when I’ve been left alone, my motivator when I was pushed down, and even — on occasion — helped me start a conversation. It’s been there with me throughout my often troubled post-childhood years — and it’s never failed to make things better.
For me, rock adds a powerful zing to a life where hot trends go bland in a matter of minutes. It’s a reminder that power and passion can combine to create art that only gets better with age. Rock helps me start my day right…and promises me that I too can be a rock star someday.
