shodan scribbles

“Well he’s cute.”
“I tell you money ain’t all he’s got a lot of. He just turned around. Look at da front of him.”
“Oh yeah, look girls. Look, LOOK.”
“That ain’t no banana.”
“Hawhawhawhawhawhaw.”

Not exactly the type of conversation that would evoke fond childhood memories. But that soundtrack is a big part of my twisted wonder years. I didn’t understand the words. For me, it was nothing more than familiar noise. I remember waiting impatiently for the ladies to shut up and music to begin.

You can get a Cerrone sampler at eMusic. But if you must have the 16.20-minute version of Love in C Minor, complete w/ classy cover, go to iTunes. For old times’ sake, I got the full version. Ah, memories! Innocent ones, I assure you.

I still don’t have much patience for the ladies. Cerrone’s signature drums kick in at 1:21 and your limbs begin to twitch involuntarily. At 4:30 mark, your lunch gets reacquainted w/ your back teeth. A few seconds later, it exits through front door. Strangely, the song improves after some unbearable moments of discosity (loooove me).

This was also Bollywood’s go-to soundtrack for introducing khaandaan ki izzat to handful of mud. Picture hero’s Johnnie Walkered brother flashing lecherous grin and chest hair, getting it on w/ wicked city women. Tight white bell bottoms optional.

My wonderful resume has given Mrs. S much heartburn. She still hasn’t forgiven me for Disco Visarjan.

If you saw some fools dancing to Black is Black on Tilak Bridge 30 years ago, you saw me and my friends at Ganpati Visarjan. We had the biggest speakers and the best tunes. Even live bands were no match for our mobile discotheque. Soon other Ganpati Mandals would give up and join our party. One visarjan under a groove.

I still see Boney M stickers on stray Marutis. It warms my heart to see such respect for our traditions. And we are not the only ones. Recently I was at this Irani party. After the obligatory Yalla, the DJ put on Daddy Cool and everyone jumped up. The rabid pack of Irani uncles and aunties burnt the dance floor down. The burning, I must add was of Travolta variety, not Ayatollah one.

Disco must have been the official theme music for global tapori underground. See Kung Fu Fighting at Benny’s farewell party in The City of God. Producer Biddu (longhaired brother in KFF video) has scored a few hits in Brazil. None stranger than the one below.

We all loved this real life Jamila Singer. Even my dad, who only listens to hindustani classical music, liked Disco Deewane. My favourite Nazia Hassan memory is Aap Jaisa koi blocking the sucktacular Sheesha ho ya dil ho from no. 1 spot for 14 weeks. I mean no disrespect to La Mangeshkar, but I hate 80’s LP.

There was predictable bellyaching from predictable corners. “Pakistani singer corrupting nation’s youth.” “Devil’s music.” Even ghazal great Jagjit Singh joined the bakwaas brigade and called her a bathroom singer.

Others tried to copy the successful formula. Higher up on the bizarrometer was desified Boney M by Pakistani singer Musarrat and Mahendra Kapoor. Yes, that Mahendra Kapoor.

I could go on and on. But you know the rest.

The giddy sugar rush is wearing off. I need to go and chew on something more nourishing. Disco S signing off. Peace.

Friday Tunes 12

Shodan — Mon, 17 Dec 2007 03:53:14 +0000

Since I am in nostalgia mode, here’s a blast from the past, ninja style. As Doom said, “We need food”.

DJ Food / Jazz Brakes Volume 5 / Turtle Soap

DJ Food / Jazz Brakes Volume 5 / Tricky

Link

Disco Deewane 1

Shodan — Sun, 09 Dec 2007 04:16:41 +0000

The first English song I heard was Staying Alive. The first English (well, Englishish) album I bought was The Man-Machine. Last week I decided to revisit my shameful past. Some of the songs hold up surprisingly well. I still love Kraftwerk, SNF (as it was known back in the days) and Donna Summer. Rest of my old collection is pure blackmail material.

I Feel Love, Hot Stuff, Sunset People and of course Love to Love You Baby — I am not too proud to admit my fondness for the Disco Queen. The 17 minute porntastic version of LTLYB was a subject of much speculation among older cousins and their friends.
“You can’t fake this, you know? I hear she actually did it in the studio”, solemnly declared one 15-year old.
“NO WAY. ARE YOU SERIOUS?”
I was not allowed to take part in this cultural exchange. What would a scrawny little kid know? One day I walked in on my sister’s friend, doing note perfect rendition of the hair-raising passage. As far as I could tell, she was faking it.

Giorgio Moroder (Commendatore Moroder to you) who produced most of those hits, was also loved by the party people. You had to have From Here to Eternity and E=MC2.

Around this time, a neighbourhood wit started calling me Giorgio. It was quickly ratified by the local tapori committee and I became Giorgio. I would have loved to go Scarface on his ass, but the boy had 12 years and 50 kilos on me. My batting average was destroyed. Wicketkeeper chanting Giorgio, Giorgio and a dancing slip cordon making vocoder noises will do that to anyone. But the Gods of Disco rule with fabulous iron hand. That (Donna’s) summer, my tormentor was caught in flagrante w/ neighbour’s hot wife. The neighbour got emotional. The boy’s mother had to use her chappal to good use. By way of repentance the boy cleaned the safe and ran away to Goa. Few months later, the prodigal son returned home. His parents married him off to an even hotter looking woman. None of which has to do anything with the subject at hand, but I had a story to tell.

Here are couple of Desi versions of the Moroder beat.

And here’s the queen herself. The dude in white is quite special.

(To be continued)