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by Konchok Rangmos, a simple monk
Theme from Darya Ganj
Easy like Sunday early afternoon, listening to the joyous sounds of Sidiki, recorded at NY Noise, the Meatpacking District’s best-kept secret, but for those in the no.
An eventful year, I guess one could say, when one considers a quick two-week mission to India, by Lord Sri Krishna's grace my third of many visits to this magical land of so many contradictions, the Godly and the wretched, side by side. A bit like New York? More than a bit, and altogether different.
Venturing south of Delhi for the first time, I saw the Tourist Triangle in all its glory/hellishness. The early morning train to Jaipur, and I’m feelin’ like a true nature’s child, Reborn, reborn to be wild, but the opportunists were waiting. They were easily frightened, but would soon be back—and in greater numbers.
The preteen prostitutes, multi-tasking on their day job, apparently the taking and carrying away of the city’s litter; the puppeteer and his eleventeen children, parents, wife and brother, in a shack off the filthy thoroughfare. The driver, and his brother, and his cousin, and his guru.
I want to take you to a guru, said Ali, brother of Suresh, who’d found his mark at the train station, the day before. He can read your aura.
Hot damn, I thought, this'll be good. But Ali swung the auto-rickshaw off a highway and through a field littered with the tarp-and-stick tents so common in this place, and straight on to the “mall,” housing a large textile factory/shop, where the stated policy, we were emphatically told, is “no hassle.”
Upstairs, where customers were shown every last item in the shop by the small army of vendors, said policy, like all and everything, was ever changing. Hassle/no hassle. Self/no self. Sale/no sale.
But this was Ali’s scene, and his kickback lay in the balance, and the hard sell had us purchasing some sheets, a shirt, and various items south of Rs 30,000.
Yes, the guru. Visit to the guru next, and next door, a jewelry store. Ali led us through the small shop and straight to the back, through double doors and into the office, where an Indian man in Western clothing sat behind a counter.
This must be the guru, I facetiously whispered to someone. But he really was.
Guru, who proudly noted his striking resemblance to Al Pacino, had a lot to say, and to my delight seemed to indeed have the gift. But the far-out thrill of bearing witness to the cosmic consciousness as harnessed by a diminutive Rajasthani was much tempered when Guru went in for the kill.
My crown chakra is imbalanced, see. My aura, at ninety percent yellow and ten percent black, must be repaired, and only this mineral, in only this setting, after the purification ceremony only I can perform, will balance that chakra. Now how much would you pay? Don’t answer yet, because with your purchase, I’ll throw in this handy set of handkerchiefs. Now how much would you pay?
All of this could have been mine for just twenty seven thousand, seven hundred fifty rupees. Once again, Ali and his conspirators had set the bar very high, and I settled with a pair of earrings for BuddhaBabe, still in sweltering Delhi, soon to move north to Dharamsala and Leh and on to Meat City.
Disappointed but determined, Ali et ali had a plan. The next day, he picked us up at the hotel, and on the way to somewhere announced that Guru had invited us to lunch…
Back in Meat City, things were getting stressful by mid-March. A drive to Montauk and an overnight stay temporarily righted me. Hitting Webster first thing, the beauty that surrounded took me back, took me way way way way back. In another time. In another place. Woo woo woo wee!
Dragonfly/The years ahead will show/How little we really know
I met up with dear friend, drummer Sean Rafferty (of “Greasy” fame) and we had a few glasses of beer and many laughs at ENE, which is so NOW, but perhaps the only nice place open at that time of year. Montauk: The End. Or The Endz?
Did we mention that the "Give Me Some Truth" video, viewed over 1,500 times on YouTube, made its (much-higher-resolution) television debut on Algo Es Algo, a cool music show broadcast from Mar del Plata, Argentina. Many thanks to Guillermo Diaz for spreading the good word!
And a mercifully lingering winter wound down, and spring, at mid-May, was pleasingly cool. Brought up in Montauk, a short walk from the ocean, the Big City is a terrible thing in those awful months until autumn. Please send gin and sympathy!
Mcleod Ganj is working up some fine new rock and/or roll while the EP is merrily disseminated throughout the Universe. Next show: Friday, June 27 at 9 p.m., Ace of Clubs.
Whaddya say, let’s boogie!
Finally, Travis McGee & the Revelers’ new single, If We Did It, has been mixed and mastered. Look for C-Doobie Records’ latest release, coming to a Universe near you, man.
Lucky me, Brian of the Revelers had a Fender Jaguar bass he was willing to part with. I love this instrument! By Lord Sri Krishna's grace I’ll be able to make nice sounds with it, someday soon. Ditto for the swar tanpura acquired at Biba, in Darya Ganj, and the sitar.. This student has yet to heed the lesson kindly given by Sri Amitabh Chatterjee, in the cramped basement of Biba. But six or even four strings surely keep me at turns jubilant and confounded, and the swar’s seventeen.. or is it nineteen…
Happily enough, Mix magazine has seen fit to publish a fine article about the Pleasure Machine. Have a look for yourself!
Do us a solid and add Mcleod Ganj to your record collection, at the iTunes Store, or direct from C-Doobie Records. Pick up New Sounds, No Time at the iTunes Store or CD Baby.
I am your humble servant.
May 26
The Under Assistant East Coast Promotion Man: rain@c-doobie.com
From the archives: January 14, 2008
"The Forbidden Zone was once a paradise! Your breed made a desert of it, ages ago."
--Dr. Zaius