The Supersonics – Maby Baking
Apparently, the Supersonics had just reunited. Apparently, that was quite a big deal in the Indian music scene, particularly in Kolkata’s. Don’t think I was ever part of the Indian music scene; I was always insecure about whether I was cool enough, and everyone in the scene just seemed to have their noses pointed upwards. It’s just best, I thought, that we all stay in our lanes. I’m an IIT graduate; I’ll just do what’s expected of IIT graduates, viz. corporate-ladder-climbing. So I went for the odd gig or the odd festival, hung around as long as the music was playing, and bounced the moment it was done. There was work to get to in the day and that first novel to work on at night, and even if there wasn’t, there was always a group of people who were glad to see me elsewhere; it’s important that everyone stay in their lanes, remember?
Apparently, when I had seen the Supersonics play live at NH7 with what was, in my opinion, too small a crowd, they had just gotten back together after one of many hiatuses. I was impressed with their energy, and how much they’d clearly honed their post-punk revival sound. Over the course of a 45-minute performance, a crowd that had initially been evenly split between sitters and standers became, almost entirely, jumpers and dancers. Well into the next day, I was still humming a couple of songs from the show, (away from my friends’ earshot, because in my lane, that sort of activity would’ve been met with a smirk): one that went yeah whatever, and one that involved a chorus of single word chants. Once I got back home from the festival, googling revealed they were both a part of a 2009 album, Maby Baking.
For the next few weeks, I kept listening to the album on my way to work, to pump me up for what was never likely to be an exciting day at the office: the price of staying in one’s lane, I guess. There were those two songs, of course – Yeah Whatever and In Memory Of. But there were also some other ones I really liked – Policeman And Nice Guys, Far From The Human Race, e.g. Last week, I found myself humming a tune I couldn’t immediately recognise. After a few seconds of humming, a memory of an early-morning rickshaw ride through Milan Subway. That song starts to play in my mind – In Memory Of.
It’s been eight years and two-thousand kilometres. I don’t know what my lane is anymore, and I’m ok with that. And why should a guy just have one lane? And why should he just stay in it? After all, we have but one life to live, right? None of this has anything to do with Maby Baking, except to show the power of good music to take us back to a specific time and place.
