anoushka's rise ??!??

I went to a concert by Anoushka Shankar a few evenings ago. It was a much hyped event, and the tickets, priced unusually high, were sold out within hours of the first day.
I’d like to share my thoughts on it with you.
It was reported as a concert featuring Ms Shankar’s Grammy-nominated album RISE. I hadn’t heard it, nor any of her other work, so didn’t know what to expect. Naively, I thought her work might resonate of her father’s.
Well.
The show started a half-four late. We were told the “star” wanted to start at a particular time. Astrology? Tarot cards? I only know it irritated me as I had taken the trouble to get there (at the far end of Bangalore) well on time, as always.
The musicians trooped onstage. A Japanese tanpura player, a Bengali tabalchi, a flautist. Also a Spaniard who was reported as playing the piano in the traditional flamenco style (not a genre I had ever heard of before), a Tambourine man and a Jazz Bass player from Delhi. That collection of srange bedfellows put me on alert immediately. Wd the result be fish or fowl - or a hybrid of the two?
When Ms Shankar arrived, she was surprisingly thin and very gauche. Her opening comments - as untutored as any amateur local performer - encouraged the impression that no one had trained her in stagecraft. They were as ‘cute’ as any I’ve heard from amateur local performers, and cute is not what one expects of internationally-celebrated stars.
The music? Sweet, but going nowhere. Little direction, easy melodies that were less than a single step removed from standard muzak. One was called “Naked”. I suppose you need all the help you can get, including from the song title, when what you are putting on display is about as meaningful as a Parish Talent Contest. The Spanish piano player was Richard Clayderman without the flowing tresses. Flamenco musicians must be impaling themselves on the nearest bull’s horns all over Spain.
That said, there were a few standout moments. A woman singer trained in the North Indian Classical genre was fantastic. And the Japanese fellow on the Tanpura, easily the prettiest thing onstage, had all the po-faced serenity of a samurai’s mistress.
I had a stifling cold and fever, so wasn’t in the most convivial mood. The operators of the Hall had decided not to use the air-conditioning, so pretty soon I was feeling the effects of the Carbon Dioxide swirling about me. Some people, in the traditional Indian style, arrived 15-30 minutes AFTER the performance started. A few, including an old fart seated behind me, left their mobiles on, so they obligingly rang a few times. A half-hour into the concert, I decided I’d heard enough. On the way out, I suggested to the old boy with the mobile that he might wish to keep it out of reach and hearing in his nethermost orifice. He wasn’t amused but the folk around him applauded.
On the long drive home, I listened on my car CD to a recording of Ravi Shankar in a concert with the London Symphony Orchestra, Andre Previn conducting. The Apple has indeed fallen pretty far away from the Tree.
Perhaps Ms Shankar has some knowledge of the music she performs. But she certainly lacked the Imagination to make magic with it, and, as Albert Einstein said . Imagination is more important than Knowledge.

Stanley Pinto

avril quadros at opus : review

I have heard about this singer called Avril but knew nothing about her music. So when last week Carlton sent me his irresistible message about Avril's performing at Opus, I was among the first to check in.
My impressions:
1. Avril has a terrific stage presence. That halo of auburn hair in its ordered disorderliness had me reaching for my BP pills. Not since I sat in the front row of a Diana Krall performance in Paris has hair affected me so joyfully. Add to that the well-designed clothes and her body language - nothing short of professional. Too many Bangalore performers, including those that are idolised by the young cognoscenti, look like they stepped out of a mud bath six weeks ago. Weak and gauche when it comes to stage presence. What they have to say is too often banal and how they say it too teeny-bopperish.
2. But the music was simply too overindulgent. Original songs without character, lyrics (when they cd be heard above the unfortunate sound mix) that thought rather too well of themselves for reasons that I cd find little justification for. The few covers of international hits on offer were well received - but I didn't know what to make of them. This may be rooted in my own limited knowledge of what passes for Hits these days, but I have often enough enjoyed hit songs that I didn't know when they were delivered attractively, to know that these weren't.
3. Hindi songs??? I guess there is money in them thar Bollywood hills but I didn't respect Usha Uthup or Sharon Prabhakar when they jumped on that unfamiliar bandwagon, and that neither have made any inroads into the million-sellers of that genre tells me you are either what it's about or you're not. Good luck to Avril. And if you actually have to explain, in lurid detail, to an audience that is hysterically applauding every word you sing that in the next song the foetus will be crying out to Mama on the abortion table, well ... either they don't know Hindi or you don't expect to sing it comprehensibly, and what the hell is the point?
4. The biggest downer? ALL the songs were delivered at Loud, Louder, Loudest levels. In fact Scream, Screamier, Screamiest. At a time when every pop singer and her aunty is discovering classic standards and ballads and recording them, it wd have been a relief to discover that Avril knows the value of a beautiful ballad sung gently into the night. If she does, she kept it a closely-guarded secret that evening.
To sum it up, a singer with the potential to be very good, if only she'd tweak her songbook to include songs that wd showcase her talent beyond her lung-power.
Stanley Pinto

PS And wd someone tell the sound-engineers at Opus that the star is the singer, the rest are her accompanists, and the ideal balance between the sonic output of the two shd be 100-70, not 100-100 or, as is often the case, a terrifying 100-120. Hmmmph.