There is nothing better than going to a live gig. I like the anticipation; the crowd; the hanging around before the band gets on stage to play. It is always a strange but happy feeling. You could be at a posh, replete with polished acoustics, audi to see a top-notch band for which you paid an unmentionable amount per pop or you could be at a crummy little bar (yes, with little by way of acoustics) in a South Delhi shopping complex where cowdung is one of many ethnic embellishments. It doesn’t matter. A live gig is a live gig. I remember the gigs we used to go to as teenagers in what was a very different Calcutta, at the Hindi High School auditorium on Moira Street, at the Kala Mandir on Theatre Road or even at the Parish Hall in the St. Paul’s Cathedral compound near the Maidan. We’d gather in excited bunches waiting to get in to watch the hot city bands of those times—High, Hellfire and Muff. Or to watch the talented Dylanesque Bertie da Silva or the late Dilip Balakrishnan whose solo work would have, if the world was a global village as it is now, stood out anywhere. Read more

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