Thursday, January 26, 2006
Listen to the music
The past 2 weeks have been quite musically-involved for me.
Participating in a band competition and watching the competitors, going for other performances and having our own practices took up most of my non-academic life (apart from the brief interlude in camouflage uniform), and I had the opportunity to observe first hand many musical viewpoints.
For someone who entered music through the blues first and then went on to other music forms, I found some of these viewpoints distinctly different from my own, though not necessarily right or wrong. Things such as the expression and arrangement of musical ideas, the interpretation of genres, the dynamics of the whole sound and even the fundamental “why” for wanting to play music in the first place were called into question in my mind.
It’s tempting for me to go into a long analysis here, but since a picture speaks a thousand words, and one second of film contains 24 pictures, a little video here would suffice in expressing my musical philosophy. I’d caution that it’s probably not for everyone though.
The band shown in the video is “Hound Dog” Taylor and the Houserockers. A motley crew of 3 guys, playing pawn-shop guitars through beat-up amps and banging out the beat on a skeletal drum set. For 2 guitars and one drummer, they make an awful lot of noise and kick up a huge racket.
It’s not pretty by any stretch of the imagination, probably doesn’t sound remotely like todays (or even yesterdays) rock. The guitars are in tune “close enough for rock and roll”, the amps sound like a transistor radio being thrown about in a washing machine and the playing is primitive by most standards. From the way they look, I doubt they got the groupies banging (ok, knocking) their doors down either.
What really gets me though is the way they really come together as a cohesive unit and feed off each other’s energy, taking the lead from Hound Dog. Taking the song from sparse and barely-played into a rip-roaring tide of micro-tonally out of tune chords, they’re there right along with each other. Even with their Neolithic equipment and simplistic technicality, they capture a fantastic vibe that most bands couldn’t with a whole rack of equipment and a busload of gear. They are driven only by booze and a simple desire : Just play the damned thing.
This is dynamics at its rawest, tastefully restrained at times yet possessing a reckless abandon that wants to have fun with music minus the spit-and-polish. Maybe just the spit.
And here’s what he said about himself.
“When I die, they'll say 'he couldn't play shit, but he sure made it sound good!”
Participating in a band competition and watching the competitors, going for other performances and having our own practices took up most of my non-academic life (apart from the brief interlude in camouflage uniform), and I had the opportunity to observe first hand many musical viewpoints.
For someone who entered music through the blues first and then went on to other music forms, I found some of these viewpoints distinctly different from my own, though not necessarily right or wrong. Things such as the expression and arrangement of musical ideas, the interpretation of genres, the dynamics of the whole sound and even the fundamental “why” for wanting to play music in the first place were called into question in my mind.
It’s tempting for me to go into a long analysis here, but since a picture speaks a thousand words, and one second of film contains 24 pictures, a little video here would suffice in expressing my musical philosophy. I’d caution that it’s probably not for everyone though.
The band shown in the video is “Hound Dog” Taylor and the Houserockers. A motley crew of 3 guys, playing pawn-shop guitars through beat-up amps and banging out the beat on a skeletal drum set. For 2 guitars and one drummer, they make an awful lot of noise and kick up a huge racket.
It’s not pretty by any stretch of the imagination, probably doesn’t sound remotely like todays (or even yesterdays) rock. The guitars are in tune “close enough for rock and roll”, the amps sound like a transistor radio being thrown about in a washing machine and the playing is primitive by most standards. From the way they look, I doubt they got the groupies banging (ok, knocking) their doors down either.
What really gets me though is the way they really come together as a cohesive unit and feed off each other’s energy, taking the lead from Hound Dog. Taking the song from sparse and barely-played into a rip-roaring tide of micro-tonally out of tune chords, they’re there right along with each other. Even with their Neolithic equipment and simplistic technicality, they capture a fantastic vibe that most bands couldn’t with a whole rack of equipment and a busload of gear. They are driven only by booze and a simple desire : Just play the damned thing.
This is dynamics at its rawest, tastefully restrained at times yet possessing a reckless abandon that wants to have fun with music minus the spit-and-polish. Maybe just the spit.
And here’s what he said about himself.
“When I die, they'll say 'he couldn't play shit, but he sure made it sound good!”
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Green Day
It was such an odd feeling.
Putting on my No. 4 (camouflage uniform) again felt surreal, like I was being transported back in time to my days as an active serviceman. I had to attend to some administrative matters pertaining to my reservist duties in an army camp, which necessitated military dress. Out of necessity, I fought against my body’s overwhelming reluctance to wake up before sunrise and successfully dragged myself out of bed. It would have been de rigeur a few years back, but four years of undergraduate study and hostel living have reconditioned my biological clock to sound the waking alarm only after several hours of exposure to sunlight.
The uniform fabric had the texture of worn-out sandpaper and the indelible smell that every Singaporean male associates with a faded No. 4. It took a while for me to fumble through the procedure for folding up the sleeves, an action not practiced in a long time. Ditto putting on the boots and lacing them up.
As I looked into the mirror, it was as though I were looking at a ghost from years past. The image of myself in No.4 was ingrained so deeply in my psyche, yet remained a very distant memory right at the back of my mind. Now that it was brought to the forefront, it would take a bit of getting used to all over again.
I threaded softly through the corridor, not wanting to wake my neighbours with the clunk and thud of boots.
I made my way to Seletar Camp with another buddy from those days. The guard waved us in, saying, “Just follow those guys in front.” Evidently, a lot of people were being called back for the same thing. We trudged along on a tar road under the dawn sky, pointing out buildings that were somewhat familiar and recalling vague details about what we did involving them. Slowly but surely, our military life was resurfacing from the depths of our memory banks. When we finally found the block we were looking for, we saw a queue of other similarly attired servicemen, all wearing the same uniform but some sporting distinctly “civilian” looks, yours truly included.
To our great surprise, we met 2 other buddies who were there for the same reason. We greeted each other with the mixture of shock and delight that comes from finding a familiar face from long ago. We briefly exchanged notes about how indignant we were but resigned to having to come here early in the morning, before moving on to compare our (slightly) expanding waistlines and happenings in our academic lives.
We spent just a little less than 2 years of our lives together in the same unit, a small battalion where everyone else knew each other, for better or for worse. We watched each other change from bumbling greenhorns during our training phase into jaded lao jiao (old birds) awaiting release, and everything else in between. Even our weekends were inevitably spent together due to operational duties, such was the nature of our lives as full-time servicemen.
When they said Full-Time National Service, I guess they really meant full time.
As is usually the case in the armed forces, the administrative matters turned out to be an incredible waste of time, but that was alright. It turned out to be a perfect excuse for an impromptu reunion of sorts, wearing the same uniform that we saw each other in for the longest time. After being dismissed, we made our way to Jalan Kayu for some late-morning breakfast.
Over prata, roti john and cups of milo, coffee and tea, we rekindled the memories of a time when we were transitioning from students to soldiers. All the thigh-slapping, side-splittingly funny moments, nail-biting close escapes, agonizing frustration and seemingly endless nights were recounted in varying levels of detail, along with reminiscence of the people we worked with/under. Not all of them were fantastic people, but regardless of good or bad it was all a learning and growing experience. Of learning to work under mental/physical/emotional pressure, learning to be resourceful, learning to handle responsibility and deadlines and most of all, learning to take care of yourself.
As we parted, we went our separate ways knowing that 10 years from now, we’d probably still be talking about the same incidents, laughing at the same anecdotes and cursing the same people.
This is the kind of stuff you can’t get even if you paid $3000.
Putting on my No. 4 (camouflage uniform) again felt surreal, like I was being transported back in time to my days as an active serviceman. I had to attend to some administrative matters pertaining to my reservist duties in an army camp, which necessitated military dress. Out of necessity, I fought against my body’s overwhelming reluctance to wake up before sunrise and successfully dragged myself out of bed. It would have been de rigeur a few years back, but four years of undergraduate study and hostel living have reconditioned my biological clock to sound the waking alarm only after several hours of exposure to sunlight.
The uniform fabric had the texture of worn-out sandpaper and the indelible smell that every Singaporean male associates with a faded No. 4. It took a while for me to fumble through the procedure for folding up the sleeves, an action not practiced in a long time. Ditto putting on the boots and lacing them up.
As I looked into the mirror, it was as though I were looking at a ghost from years past. The image of myself in No.4 was ingrained so deeply in my psyche, yet remained a very distant memory right at the back of my mind. Now that it was brought to the forefront, it would take a bit of getting used to all over again.
I threaded softly through the corridor, not wanting to wake my neighbours with the clunk and thud of boots.
I made my way to Seletar Camp with another buddy from those days. The guard waved us in, saying, “Just follow those guys in front.” Evidently, a lot of people were being called back for the same thing. We trudged along on a tar road under the dawn sky, pointing out buildings that were somewhat familiar and recalling vague details about what we did involving them. Slowly but surely, our military life was resurfacing from the depths of our memory banks. When we finally found the block we were looking for, we saw a queue of other similarly attired servicemen, all wearing the same uniform but some sporting distinctly “civilian” looks, yours truly included.
To our great surprise, we met 2 other buddies who were there for the same reason. We greeted each other with the mixture of shock and delight that comes from finding a familiar face from long ago. We briefly exchanged notes about how indignant we were but resigned to having to come here early in the morning, before moving on to compare our (slightly) expanding waistlines and happenings in our academic lives.
We spent just a little less than 2 years of our lives together in the same unit, a small battalion where everyone else knew each other, for better or for worse. We watched each other change from bumbling greenhorns during our training phase into jaded lao jiao (old birds) awaiting release, and everything else in between. Even our weekends were inevitably spent together due to operational duties, such was the nature of our lives as full-time servicemen.
When they said Full-Time National Service, I guess they really meant full time.
As is usually the case in the armed forces, the administrative matters turned out to be an incredible waste of time, but that was alright. It turned out to be a perfect excuse for an impromptu reunion of sorts, wearing the same uniform that we saw each other in for the longest time. After being dismissed, we made our way to Jalan Kayu for some late-morning breakfast.
Over prata, roti john and cups of milo, coffee and tea, we rekindled the memories of a time when we were transitioning from students to soldiers. All the thigh-slapping, side-splittingly funny moments, nail-biting close escapes, agonizing frustration and seemingly endless nights were recounted in varying levels of detail, along with reminiscence of the people we worked with/under. Not all of them were fantastic people, but regardless of good or bad it was all a learning and growing experience. Of learning to work under mental/physical/emotional pressure, learning to be resourceful, learning to handle responsibility and deadlines and most of all, learning to take care of yourself.
As we parted, we went our separate ways knowing that 10 years from now, we’d probably still be talking about the same incidents, laughing at the same anecdotes and cursing the same people.
This is the kind of stuff you can’t get even if you paid $3000.
