They're not good for your sanity

The Kings of Leon have the ability to inspire sadness. If you give their discography a good listen you'll find very few outright happy songs. Caleb Anthony's songwriting remains focused on the demons in his head and what he's going to do about them.

It's amazing how he's been able to do that consistently over four albums. For me, Come Around Sundown is their best so far. Let's go track by track. 

Avoid 'The Face' and 'The End' if you're down in the dumps, they'll take you to depths you didn't imagine possible and mess with your head. But that's what makes them so beautiful, the way they fester melancholy till you're engulfed by it. The degree to which they take the pain will have you bawling, Caleb's singing is relentless, his voice merciless. Listen to them back to back, and you'll go from being glum to distraught faster than a Bugatti Veyron Super Sport goes from 0-100. I still can't wrap my head around the potential these two songs have to meddle with emotions and yet I'm drawn to them even more at the end of a forgettable day.

'Pyro' is a queer song, neither here nor there. After listening to it for the 78888885474747^th time today I still don't know what to make of it. All I know (and care) is that when it's blaring in my ears, I can close my eyes, hum along and feel my feet leave the ground. For its 4 minute 10 second duration, it's just me and the song. Nothing else, nobody else, no matter if I'm in the middle of a crowded bus or navigating Paharganj's Main Bazaar where it's advisable to always watch where you're walking. Let's just call it 'The Zone'. Watch the video, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yhyShipBfuM and you'll know what I'm talking about.

Ordinarily, I'd have to be slightly loopy and a little depressed to be writing this, but it requires exactly the opposite state of mind to think of each song independently. Detachment is difficult once you're hooked.

'Mi Amigo' – the underdog in the pack, it's easy to let it slip by unnoticed, sandwiched as it is between 'Birthday' and 'Pickup Truck'. I can see myself singing this while getting some sun in middle of the island drawn on the album's cover. It's lazy and lulls you into believing friendship is black and white. All those grey areas float past invisibly as you take the song at face value.

 

'Celebration' is a dark dark piece of work. The tone is ironic, I think The Kings meant to tease fans by naming it so. Instead it's 'Radioactive' that takes over those duties. Listen to the Choir Remix - a dozen kids and a professional choir in the chorus turn an ordinary song into a booming anthem.

I don't recommend Closer (presets remix). This version just takes away all the menace that really makes it stand out in 'Only By The Night'. In the remix, they've inexplicably managed to do away with the eerie baseline that is the soundtrack of my darkest nightmares.

Caleb is at his brooding best with 'Pickup Truck'. The title tells you nothing. By the end, I swear you'll hate to be so emotional and never intend to get physical. It's Raw Remorse and you can almost see Caleb writhing on the ground begging forgiveness and punishing himself.

'Mary' is the star of the album, perfect when your throat is in good enough shape for a bit of screaming sing-along. Cheesy as it, you'll never want to make her cry.

I'm not such a big fan of 'The Immortals' and 'Beach Side', either they'll take time to grow on me or they just don't match up to the rest of the album.

The big positives are the following three tracks – 'No Money', 'Birthday' and 'Pony Up'. They're a hip-shaking, head-bobbing threesome and contain lyrical gems such as 'I got no money but I want you so' and 'We're gonna come together, we're gonna celebrate, we're gonna gather round like it's your birthday.' 'Pony Up' makes me want to dance. Never thought I'd say it, but there you go. That's how good it is.

Almost forgot about 'Back Down South', I'll never get enough of it. It's got a homecoming feeling to it. It's the perfect tune to listen to on a rainy day when you're surrounded by steaming food. There's brotherhood, camaraderie and reunion packed into every second. So it's apt for the brothers to perform this song for family and close friends in the video - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBOuqyqmtJk

This isn't meant to be a review, not just because it's way too late, but also because I'm not a music critic. This is a tribute and a recommendation. It's a come-on-and-give-the-Kings-of-Leon a listen. 

It's also a weight off my chest. It's taken this long to step back a bit and write about what makes the Kings such great company for misery. I'm nowhere close to establishing that yet but understanding and breaking down Come Around Sundown was a good way to start. I'll have a go at the next album in a few days. 

Why I don't want to be a Sub and the Airport Diaries

I'm being told I'm good at desk work, that I should consider a career as a sub-editor. I like reporting. But today I'm going to explain what really puts me off working on the desk. I don't want to work a night-shift and it has everything to do with the time I served surveying passengers at Bombay's international airport between July and November 2010 and a few months last year.

My Maa works for the Indian Statistical Institute (ISI for dummies, thrill-seekers and acronym-loving Americans), the government's official stats-keeper. So the Ministry of Tourism tasked them with surveying foreigners, NRIs flying out of India and locals. The idea behind this was to gain valuable feedback from large-hearted travellers who didn't mind nosy surveyors to tell the ministry how it could improve and upgrade existing tourism infrastructure.

Noble idea I thought. And it is.

Lousy execution though. In Bombay at least. So my Maa's office needed kids to spend a few hours at the airport every day and talk to as many people as possible. Easy way to earn a quick buck you'd think. Wrong. I resisted. All summer. It was good money too. And a fairly simple job. You have separate questionnaires for foreigners and Indians. All you had to do was persuade tired fliers to spend 15 minutes answering about 30 questions. The target was about 20 questionnaires a day and Rs. 100 a pop. I don't need to tell you that's some very good money every month-end. only you'd have to put up receiving your earnings some five months late because the nutters heading ISI at Kolkata took that long to move their snail-ish limbs and write out a few cheques.

As far as I was concerned, I wasn't going to spend my summer loping around the airport breathing its artificial air and going round in circles staring at duty-free chocolate and fancy clothing like some cash-rich yuppie. Oh and it was the graveyard shift, 11 pm to 6 am. I'm used to sleeping between those hours, or at least playing fifa. Anything that cuts into those two activities was and remains a strict no-no. Plus, I spent the summer fighting to save SNIFF and the academic year helping out with Aahan. And, it was the final year of college. None of those arguments worked. Mothers have a better victory percentage than Barcelona will ever manage.

So I joined a rag-tag bunch of boys that included Malad's finest and few nobodies who headed to their coaching classes from the airport every morning. If you don't see room for mischief, you're not alone. I didn't either. Not at first. But it wasn't long before they told me how they worked. They checked into the departure terminal at around 10.30 pm, the official in-time and an hour before the rain swept me in. Then they'd roam around a bit, walking from one end of the terminal to the other is quite some exercise for middle-aged and those who seriously consider walking strenuous. Sure, there was a lot of eye-candy. So the first hour was spent checking out the goods at the stores and ones on two legs. I couldn't find a cruder or more sexist way to say this, but I can't think of any other way to describe how they ogled at white women like they could scarcely believe their eyes.

After this tiresome excursion, they would retreat to the comfort of the sleeping lounge at the far end of the terminal to catch up on their forty winks/wanks.

On my second day there, the self-appointed leader of the pack said to me, “Form bhar ley phir thodi der so jaate hain” (Fill up the forms and get some sleep). Fairly simple words. It was an invitation. To be one of them. To join the wolf-pack. To be a part of a scam. No thanks sucker.

I've got a diary of the whole thing because I wrote down most of everything I did there so I could curse my Maa about it one day. But I guess reading about it years from now will probably make it seem a lot better. Unfortunately the notebook is in Bombay and I won't be going anywhere near it till at least August. I've wanted to write about this for a long time but I kept putting it off for a long time. But I promise to publish word-for-word everything I noted down.

I hated the job because it was pointless and screwed up my digestion. That's pretty much why I'll never be a deskie or work a night-shift anywhere. 

Cockroach Number 4

The inevitable has happened. Good-fucking-lord. The matchbox warmly welcomes Cockroach Number 4. It was bound to happen, a matter of when rather than if even though I kept delooding myself. The landlady won't be happy until she stuffs as many cockroaches into the matchbox as she can. Like that ekkssperiment where you stuff cockroaches inside a jar and screw the lid on tight. I think we know how that one ends.

So we introduce ourselves as 'journalists almost'. Me because I'm a few months away from landing a job and him because he's taking a break from the Outlook to re-think his career. What a nutcase. If I were him I wouldn't be too happy to have as a roommate a kiddo scribe when I'm trying to run away from the tribe for a bit.

Scribe or not, for me he's competition. And I hate competition here. For my slot in the bathroom every morning and my spot on the clothesline. We got a problem if his out-time each morning clashes with mine. As for the clothesline, I owe those reeds. In this place, it pays to mark your presence there, not only does it mark your territory but it also indicates that you really prefer your clothes clean.

I don't remember his name. Sandeep or something. See, I don't give a shit. He sings a lot, probably the next Kishore Kumar in his head. But then, show me one Indian who doesn't think the same and I'll show you an Indian with no ambition. Either that, or an Indian who doesn't give a shit about Kishore Kumar. I can live with that. Right now, he's snoring away that cockroach is and he's made himself at home in our matchbox.

Why cockroach? It's because the critter scurries about real fast without giving itself time to acknowledge or get used to its pathetic surroundings. Just as well that it doesn't, add that to the weight of the world and you got yourself a mess in your head. It's a quality I admire right now. I don't mind being a cockroach, only without the feelers. Those creep me out.